Sunday, October 08, 2017

Dear Blog

Dear blog,

How could I have forgotten you? You, the one who has always been on and by my side. The comfort through a cold or rainy night. Your words are the bees that pollinate my flowering heart. Now facing an older self, late nights have slipped between my fingers like water. I like to think I have never stopped my dance with words. Let the moon be my judge. But mostly in the grey mist of my mind.

Poetry, or what I like to call her, my writing. Yes, my old friend, she comes back once in a while. I am not ashamed of neglect. Or maybe she has abandoned me. In either case, it wouldn't be a different story.

Death, I read somewhere, is the most interesting of our lives. How short (and hopefully so), I think, this death, this climax, which we spend so much time waiting. Just waiting. We are the prodigals of time.

I can barely breathe. I only drift in the river of time. Can you feel my heart beat?

Friday, November 04, 2016

Some Poems - Late update

The Singapore Love Story

Another man, plain
As water. Winter lines
Written on face.

In steady hand he tighten
On her, his partner
For all seasons

Up the mall's escalator
Ride a silence deeper
Than winter

Into what the future
Holds, chest puffed
They share steel eyes.

He has decided she
Will not waste another
Of their dime.

P.S. "Time" and "dime" - get it? Haha.

Dear Library

The softness of your world
Not a wind blows
How time loses its meaning

As silent words grow

P.S.: Love the library, always.
Even at Mcdonald's
Rain hits on window,
Like shaker fries, can only
Romp in a small bag
A Professor's Lecture on Space
Firstly, to understand space,
You have to learn about the mystery
Of the black hole,

Of course!
P.S.: These last two poems were written based on what a certain MP said about sex not needing a lot of space.

Sunday, September 11, 2016



night paints a dark picture
even stars refuse
to be part of

still moist it drips into a cup
heart opens with emptiness

I write to fill with words 
that pretend to be big
but they are too heavy
dragged across the brittle
floor of the heart

screeching like chalk
on blackboard that others
mistake for crickets

P.S.: Have not been writing much and never been more unsure about poetry - what is it again?

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Night / Clouds


Did I ever tell you
How I went all crazy?
Not you?
How many nights
I couldn't sleep.
Your face might
Be hidden
In heavy, pillow shadow
A moon lightened,
Handing out all the shy
Beauty of night breathing
In your sleepless sighs.


Women are soft
Clouds of the sky
Holding up stars
As eyes. When they
Cry, the whole world
Cries even in the
Brightest sunshine.
And when they change
No man can perceive
What comes next.
They have learnt
To move on
Slowly at times.

P.S.: Love these two pieces. Of course, my judgment is clouded.

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Saturday's Poetry Fever


In the dark father lights
A cigarette to blow his smoke
Out the bedroom window
Into clouds, but night
Has already fallen
And his thoughts lose
Their way.
How to Make a Lie Beautiful

Say you love her
Again, again, and
For the rest
Of her life.

Then you will
Mean it.

P.S.: Completing two poems in one day is a rarity.

On a Saturday Night
You have no one to blind you
With love. Which is a good thing
I am sure.
Too good to be true: A re-run
Of an old movie you have always wanted
To watch, but never get to
Because you have no one you want
To watch with.
You know Saturday is just the start
Of another weekend, nothing
To throw yourself into wet pillow
About. Except of course, you miss
A pillow fight. The one that
Sparks laughter before
Stealing titbits of soft

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

In the Age Old Game of Love

Just before a work day started, I scribbled something on my note pad, half-poem, half-prose, or whatever you choose to call it, and lost the draft after. It was something about being rejected goods, me, that is, in the age old game of love.

I was never much a high-achiever, being more laidback, the stroller who smells the flowers, instead of reaching for the stars. This is reflected in my income earning, although, I am more than comfortable in my financial state. Perhaps it was all in the moment, but I would never know, when something small happened to trigger the memory of that draft. There was a slight dip in esteem. For not being seen an attractive proposition for the ladies in the age old game of love.

Months later, I was to, out of the blue, come to another point in my life. Or perhaps, it was there all along inside, only to raise up over the grinding of time.

It was through a conversation with a rather close friend, who has made a habit of airing grievances about his wife. True to my philosophy, I've always advised him to compromise in the name of love. "Love is giving unconditionally. Love is sacrifice," I preached, a café my church. My point was since his wife is able to accept all his flaws in her sacrifice, can't he accept hers? It was then that I realised, despite all my flaws - and I have no small amount! -  it is just that I have not meet the one who love me enough, who make that sacrifice. The reason wanes for that instance of low esteem. It is only imperative to remind myself, at this point of writing, to continuously improve myself as a person. On another hand, it is perhaps myself who is not willing to make that sacrifice. I know, it all seems so elemental. But to practice what one preaches is two different matters. So this is food for my thought.  

Saturday, June 04, 2016

These Days


A poem sits me
down, pours a cup
of soul or two.
Now drunk, divided
between two unknowns:
The world outside
and inside.



Going to the market
used to be a breeze.

Of course, there were
the occasional arguments,

how a domestic helper
would come handy,

how your age-battered legs

Now a helper helps me
on my way

to forget how our arguments were
won or lost, how your legs


Stop Running

We can't
stop running.

Our hearts
thud, thud

Our eyes
roll, roll

Until the first
time you
come before



Slow clouds push
me softly off the ground
to ride with the wind.
Horse's mane is my imagination
fluttering in the light
of day unblinking, staring
at my dreams.


P.S.: These are born of productive days, or days I have put aside for writing these craps, or poems, or whatever you may choose to call them.