Poems 2014

I've run out of creativity for the year.

At Sea.

For I

The sun streams through the window,

warming my face, as I stare out at the aerial sea,

at the sunbaked, mechanical wings flapping,

taking this ship higher, higher.

Fifty-thousand feet up at sea,

Above the lush coral-fields of clouds,

Traveling through these crystal clear hues,

Of never-ending blues.

The sky-turtles float about aimlessly,

Dancing amidst the majestic mantas,

Who soar, wings open, effortlessly.

I cannot help but think of you.

Back before this ship took flight,

In those sunny, sunny, summer days,

When we took a sail out to sea at first light,

Adventures— up and down the waves,

Navigating through the nimbus and flocus,

Spying fish, and swimming down deep.

I close my eyes and I can still see your face;

Wishing you’d stay, as I feel the warm sun weep

Luminescent rays through the window,

Shining on sunbaked, mechanical wings flapping,

Taking this ship further, further away.

Through the white fields,

                                        fortress of clouds.

A pod of orcas fly by.

Time Flies.

My life in a trunk,

Packed in a flying metal box,

Across the seas and back again,

Soaring over the forest of clouds,

Thirty-five thousand feet above again.

Across snowy mountains and sunny seas

To green, green island,

    To learn of trypsin, 

and murmurs,

And back again,

Time flies they say,

Three more years.

Houseman.

The work day has started,

‘Doctor, doctor!’ I hear some nurse shriek.

I hope she didn’t mean me.

Oh no, here she comes.

‘Put in a line’, she says.

I fumble, once, no, twice,

mumbling apologies, mumble, mumble.

‘Thank you, doctor’

Doctor, it seems so surreal,

I don’t deserve it.

Is that really me?

It seems last yesterday I was still a student,

Just a baby, protected, babied, taught.

Now, I am writing prescriptions.

Hoping not to get caught,

And scolded.

I have grown old,

The work day has started.

The Consultant.

The sun breaks across the wards,

Illuminating the volleys of pills and needles.

Officers running around with boards,

Checking plans, and scripts, and vitals.

Amidst the morning battle,

He calmly strolls across the ward,

Like a colonel, silver eagle on his chest,

stethoscope in hand,

Combat-ready, he summons the men,

His officers, in fear, fall in around the bed,

While Sargeant Majoress keeps order.

‘So, tell me how is Mr Tan today.’

The captain goes first, telling his report,

Then, the lieutenants are questioned,

belittled, humbled, drawn, and taught.

Silently, the cadet moves out of harm’s way.

They move from bed to bed,

At every turn, he demonstrates his prowess,

reminding them of the gulf until they are dismissed.

Off to war again, better equipped,

                                                      learning, day by day.

Ascent.

For J

White veil of snow a top her head,

Unscalable mountain with the broken feet.

Little holes where miners drilled for gold.

They'd missed the mark, aimed far too low,

For her heart was the most expensive,

A furnace in this blistering cold.

Hands wrapped around hot chocolate,

Half mad from fighting hypothermia.

Often, the wind seemed to whisper.

That giggle, teasing, sweet sounds

Now forgotten, buried deep in snow.

An eye, a smile, sweet dimples

Warms the heart some winters ago.

The tundra is a frozen white wasteland

Of bellowing winds, all shoveling snow

Across the blades of grass

these dreams from long, 

long ago.

I Had One Once.

I had one once, once upon an age ago,
When my world still held some colours,
And little dreams and hopes dashed about,
Giggling in gaggles and schools amidst the flowers.

But, I am blind now, and the world is
All white, and black, and gray.
Age has left me with little, little reason
And thinking in syllogisms helps pass the time

As I wait for the drip to go
Drip, drip, drip,
Sliding little drops of narcotiacs into
Empty, empty spaces.

I had one once,

But I left it in a box, in a far away place.
On a hill, amidst the bright and pretty flowers,
Broken, and shattered, and still working,
Albeit all the missing pieces.

The oxygenated grass is gleaming.

栀

梔
(zhī)

When I climbed atop a mountain one day,
Caught in blanket fog and thicket deep,
As you danced on clouds. O what bliss, they say.

Under shrouds of clouds, kept away, away,
In the midst of winter, the Sun did keep.
When I climbed atop a mountain one day.

But She saw you and bathed you in golden ray,
And your pale white petals glowed in the heat,
As you danced on clouds. O what bliss, they say.

Yet, I spied you listless and a ‘lil grey.
A despondent sight to made my heart weep,
When I climbed atop a mountain one day.

I wished to draw a smile on you that day,
And nurse your heart in mine, to once more leap
As you danced on clouds, O what bliss, they say.

And from afar, I watched you spritely play.
O little flower, a joy that abounds so deep
When I climbed atop a mountain one day,
As you danced on clouds, O what bliss, they say!

Imaginings

Twilight at five thousand feet,
soaring above the clouds in darkness,
the lonely swan, lost, without his fleet.

The roar of the engines silenced
by a baby's sweet short cry,
ignored by the passengers, busy in dreams.

I wished you were here with me,
laughing at the darkness in the window.
The sound of your voice trailing in my ear,

I listen intently through the echoing rumble,
trying to remember each word, each sound, each smile.
Then I look back and see the empty seat.

Rom com on the small screen,
flanked by emptiness.
Long flights are forever.

White Queen (revised)

White Queen
Everywhere I walk, you seem to build castle walls in my face.
High, looming towers across the black and white plains.
You hide there too, beautiful, up in the highest place

While your horses gallop past with their knighted lords,
seeking out many an enemy or some spritely foe,
with which to slay with their mighty swords,

Or perhaps, with cold stare and silent conversation.

So, I hide away here in the black tall grass
and watch you from so very far away.
Your smiles, and sorrows I long to share and grasp,

But your bishops say, 'no', with an excommunicating stare.
I have never understood those prelates of yours,
With their slanted thinking in black and white, of ill-gotten cause.

Their reach was frightening and they travelled very far,
so, I hid from them too, and stared out at you from castle walls.
It would seem that every step I take shall require much thought.

How strange, for I had only one quest:
to deliver you a flower with my heart on it's petalled breast.
O, how the crescent moon reminds me of you.

But I am a trained soldier, and so continue to seek,
through the monotone grasslands with my tarnished crown,
that my quest and Triumph shall soon meet.

(It seems such a foolish play on my part,
but alas, a stubborn fool I was born.
So, now in mud and forest I shall have to creep.)
I shall take my time to cross each square,
one
by
one.

Ship Shape

We are but prisoners of this insipid race,
on fetid boats that scour the seven seas,
sailing across tepid waters for a taste
of what is, what was, of what will never be.

Hard at the oars, row,row, row, row,
'faster!' screams the sordid midshipman,
driving whip into bone, much pain to sow.
there is no sight for hope, no island.

Here, out at water, moon pushes tide,
so seize the sails, all hands on deck,
a little bee flies around the side,
staring out at empty sea to check

for a ray of turbulent hope,
amidst endless hollow water,
we should be sailing proud, yet
sipping secretly, demoralised by the spirit.

So push on me hearties and fly the Jolly Roger!

New Poems.

They all sound horrid, really.

White Queen
Everywhere I walk, you seem to build castle walls in my face.
High, looming towers across the black and white plains.
You hide there too, beautiful, up in the highest place

While your horses gallop past with their knighted lords,
seeking out many an enemy or some spritely foe,
with which to slay with their mighty swords,

Or perhaps, with cold stare and silent conversation.

So, I hide away here in the black tall grass
and watch you from so very far away.
Your smiles, and sorrows I long to share and grasp,

But your bishops say 'no' with an excommunicating stare.
I have never understood these prelates of yours,
With their slanted thinking in black and white, of ill-gotten cause.

Their reach was frightening and they travelled very far,
so, I hid from them too and stared out at you from castle walls.
It would seem that every step I take shall require much thought.

How strange, for I had only one quest:
to deliver you a flower with my heart on it's petalled breast.
O, how the crescent moon reminds me of you.

But I am a trained soldier, and so continue to seek,
through the monotone grasslands with my tarnished crown,
that my quest and Triumph shall soon meet.

(It seems such a foolish play on my part,
but alas, a stubborn fool I am.
So, now in mud and forest I shall have to creep.)

I shall take my time to cross each square, one by one.

The Finch

Fly, fly little finch,
away from Mister Darwin's reach.
He intends to sack you with other birds
and hold you in his keep.

You shall be the loam with which
he will thunderously preach;
the cornerstone of your Creator's fatal sleep.

How, a century more, and stuffed
upon a shelf you'll see, out of jewelled eyes, one
Mister Dawkins exaggerating beyond your finder's speech.

And your Creator shall look down
upon the Society, and
sigh and weep.

I Hate That You Are Still My Greatest Muse

I hate that you are still my greatest muse.

The long forgotten laughter now pervades the air,
drifting up into the clouds like a balloon.
Your sweet smile beams like sunshine rare;
out of breath, I gasped for it all afternoon.

Drowning in this desert drought of hopelessness,
like a salvage diver seeking great treasure --
uninspired and mouldy sunken ships sit timeless.
These very words are a water burial assured.

Together forever in these depths of deep,
Chased constantly by seductive angler fish
only to put on that ugly mask you keep
to avoid being someone else's side dish.

(There is no reprise for the wicked, no chance for sleep.)

I hate that you are still my greatest muse.

Poems as of late.

Glorified Butcher

Hold it like a pencil.
(index finger there.)
Be sure and steady,
(have confidence lad!)
Make the cut, follow the lines.
(that's a boy!)
Retract the layer.
(now cut through all the meat.)
Skrt! Skrt! Skrt!
(watch the nerve!)
Insert the plate,
(almost done.)
Stitch her up.
(now mop up the blood.)

Emo Nemo

Emo Nemo sat by the beach and he died.
The cops ruled it plausible suicide.
No fish, they'd reckoned could have tried
To pass their day without water passing through their sides.
If you don't get this, I might have sighed,
Though, I'd much rather commit your homicide.

Bees

Bees are annoying creatures. They molest plants and steal sweet nectar and facilitate plant copulation. YES, they make PLANT SEX happen. Disgusting creatures. I had one come bother me yesterday. I was busy, minding my own business, sharing with some young ones why communion in the hand was an evil creation, when one decided to come investigate my distal appendages for nectar. Rather uncomfortable experience with the honey making creature caressing one's digits in search for some non-existent sweet viscous liquid. I must have early-onset diabetes or something. Obviously, this rather petulant behaviour on my part is due to the yellow and black jacketed creature's unwitting reminder of another sort of homophone.

A year ago, another sort of Bea fluttered around me, and that was a rather great day. I didn't really want to remember that day, though I do. I don't know what happened to the Bea, perhaps she flew overseas. I don't know.

365 days ago.

Happy Feast of St Jean-Baptiste de La Salle

Lost At Sea

I thought I caught a glimpse of you today,
locked away in the corner of my eye,
that pretty face that used to haunt the bay,
and watch the sunset from her window.

I can't remember when, or where or why.
distracted by the clouds, sand and seabeds.
I thought I heard you heave a sigh or cry,
to ponder at my sudden coming by.

Was it at the park that I saw such weary eyes?
They gleamed despite their tired shine.
Or maybe the back of a room, on a bench
in the park, in the corridor, hospital or church,

I can't decide. Oh Doctor! Doctor!
would you please, if you please,
could you, maybe, cauterise my heart?
Then, I wouldn't think of you so much.

moon.

The sweet crescent moon

reminds me of your eyes,

upon whose lunar beds

they both lie.

Those clear dark gems so

sharp, they pierce the sky.

Beautiful and round,

deep portals of your soul,

against their pale and flawless

canvas do they glow.

Ever so radiant,

so gentle and so kind,

Eyes belonging to one

who will ne'er be mine.

The Black Widower

Eight legged freak, bottom dwelling creepy crawlie,
along the forest floor it goes, casting nets,
invisible threads, twines of silky deceitful webs,
between branches. Hovers at the middle,
appears deceitfully suspended in mid-air.

The cunning creature moves in heartless rapture
to the fly upon its wiley string, slowly, slowly,
twisting the miscreant to its every whim, closer, closer
great fangs of venom rear, dripping, dripping,
not to kill but paralyse and petrify with fear.

Tangled fly, food for another day.

All around its nest the beetle bugs go play,
in its home of decomposing dreams,
eight dead eyes peer up at the faraway sky
watching majestic eagles soar
and hardworking honey bees fly to new heights.

Down here, amongst the muck, mud and grime,
it crawls on its belly, each twisted mangled leg paws
through the garbage. It will look
for a new home, a new hole, dark and dire,
for new prey to drink precious life's fire.

Unsatisfied,
the black widower, crawls back into the black abyss.

A Drink.

Cynical yearnings, a near ill-gotten dream enervates
strongly with almonds in my goblet.
oh what sweet slumber shall soon come.

In each small sip I take, bitting back bitterness,
of temporal gestures and uneventful memories,
to have grown so old and yet fraught with

naught but regrets, the least of which lessens
with every small sip. My eyelids become burdens.
just maybe, maybe...

A bullet and a method of delivery,
is a simple efficacious manner,
devoid of grace and benefits, so I sip, I sip.

To hope to sleep, and in that sleep, of the dreams to come.

Balloons

Balloons

We're all balloons, filled full with helium, tied tight with string.
Floating up high with the clouds in the sky,
flying freely with the cumulonimbus and avoiding
the pointy tips of skyscrapers.
Companions of the stars and the moon,
gossipers with the Sun.
                                         We think we know it all.
At least we probably do.
Age cannot catch us, she is too slow,
and invincible we float on,
so full of hot air,
                            and dreams.

And then one by one, my friends start falling
one by one, falling out of heaven,
their strings entangled in tiny knots, weighing
them down. They spin and dance and stall,
then plummet.
                          First Juliet, then George, then Wilson and Greg,
Peter fell, Scott fell, then Annie and Ted.

One by one, until you and I were all that were left,
but there many a cloud between us
and you drifted down south,
the wind blew you away,
tied to a string of books, scales and a stethoscope.

Then one by one, 'til I'm the only one alone up there,
but I didn't care.
                             I'm still free
though now old with less air,
to roam about the Earth, being blown, being blown
so aimlessly. Spectator to the passings and joinings,
to the mortarboards and gowns and the exchange of rings.
But, I don't care,
I'm not tied down. I am free.
The world is my cage,
                                      and I shall float around
her aimlessly.

Aftermath

Aftermath

It's been a while since that wistful day,
when the planes flew high overhead
And dropped off that message on fifty-five A.
The playground still stands shellshocked and quite dead.

For two days all stood still, all calm and neat,
the virus slept well in Spring's warm blanket,
incubating, spawnin a great toxic treat,
and in Summer's heat, she did spring quite free,

a startling neurological agent,
invading, invading heart, soul and brain.
Work distracted from the pain. The surgeon
could not operate. Metastasising,

spreading, attacking poor amygdala.
Someday, I'll recover from this trauma...

Stuck

Stuck

It would appear that I'm stuck in quagmire deep,
I've run this marathon before, thrice actually,
they all began so differently, at
different places, with different
routes and at different paces.
Yet, across the same marsh they passed. I thought
it quite shallow.
                           Not so I fear,
and now I'm stuck in the muck right here.

And I wonder what I was chasing? To run
so quick and blind, landing in such thicket deep,
or was I running away from something
like the sun? Rays of thought invading ev'ry
nook and cranny. It seemed so weird when
the sun lit up the world and darkened
my thoughts.
                       Lot was wise to run away,
should I flee this destruction or stay?

Standing there in mire slowly cooking,
I guess I'll turn around and face whatever's coming,
And maybe that will drown out the swarm's buzzing.

I need to talk to you.

Starry night, disquiet'd skies,
Hearts beating, walking towards the other,
While silence on the cold street lies.
A midnight meeting.

Little notes echo and fly,
(Disturbing the chaos of my mind),
From the little music box,
(Deflecting the silence in my mind.)

Nervous looks, uneasy smiles
Hiding hidden frowns.
An inkling.

Look in to her eyes,
Mutter mumbled words,
The wordsmith's brush is dry.

'I like you.'

And it's over. Silence pursues.
The quest now lost, yet some peace found.
Retreat to a safe place, mend the wounds.

I shall miss you.

Bee

Bee

The warm airless morning brought you out.
Tottering around the foliage,
Carrying out your worker duties,
Little bee, little bee,
Buzz, buzz, buzzing out and about,
And all around me,
So busy, landing on my green sleeve.
What do you hope to find Little Miss Bee?
I am no tree,
I am not full of sweet nectar,
Nor have I any flowers to
Attract thee.

Music Box

Music Box

Emptiness, herein lies,
Despondent heart, withers away.
Little notes tinkle and fly,
a music box somewhere plays.

Little stone ballerina
Round and round she goes,
beating heart, stony Estella,
ever silent, she already knows.

In her little box she stays,
Hidden from cruel world,
dancing like little bees play
save for the notes, unreachable.

Somewhat failed attempts at poetry.

Notes about Oli II

Sweet, sweet Oli, where have you been? Hidden
away for many a month out of sight.
Reunited, I can again hold you tight,
Caressing your evil black curves, laden
with your sweet scent, feeling your black innards,
fingers in your orifice, squ'shing out light.
Inserting darkness, so so very tight.
You are pregnant with death, he shall hasten.

Taking my breath away, teasing your button,
squeezing gently, sends you screaming. you bite,
exploding. the night crackles with your might.
this birth shall fell your enemies, then
our affair is ov'r. o wicked demoness
'til again we meet, fade to nothingness.

New Year's Eve

A picture taken on a quiet night.
Long exposure a few friends and a pier,
darkened silhouettes,
sunbursts of night.
New year's eve.
Friends forever, auld lang syne,
a few beers and hugs
and forget me nots,
as time sprinkles sand.
A few years --
A photo in a frame.

Conscript.

A year in green.
A year more, still unseen.
Sit in the lot,
Where live the four wheeled monsters,
for me to guard and command
endlessly.
Whats the point?