Empty

Bit by bit the life seeps out
Despite the lies and marching shouts
My hand is empty, my heart in doubt
Have I laid the cards right or thrown each bout?

Not Much

As an average person, my life and call
is said to be well, not much at all

Not much the pleasure of one's first kiss
Not much small moments of simple bliss
Not much the regret of saying goodbye
Not much a mother's tears
Or a father's sigh.

Not much the goals, big or small
Not much the struggle to achieve them all
Not much the stress in moments of strife
Not much the friends you make through life

Not much the nerves on a wedding day
Not much the secrets we never say
Not much the shouting and bills not paid
Not much the sickness or words last said

An average person, from rise to fall
a life well lived- not much at all

Weary

Of most things, I believe
no strength, inertia is great
Momentum of an endless
lack of movement
Dragging things
on and down with me
through the windows, the doors
the tables and chairs
the tiny cracks in the woodwork
where deep within my conscience
sleeps
weary of world and sin.

----------------------------------------------

I wouldn't call this much of a poem, twas something I mashed together in less than a minute.

More of a (somewhat) literary rant, I suppose.

.ORG.SG

It has
many chambers,
like we do of commerce
of education, health, the rigors of life
through which our people flow.

It is
the smaller organ
yet it feeds the rest;
larger lands with oxygenated aid
through and from our hands.

It draws
both nutrients,
wisdom of the east and west;
pumping fresh blood to stagnant cells
uniting old thoughts anew.

It beats
to the tempo of the globe-
an international hub or rather
international heart of the world.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Submitted for the inter-class poem thing. It didn't show up though, guess there wasn't enough keywords like "unity" "progress" "Singapore" "forefathers" and such.

Passing On

All things like candles fade away in time;
but like candles, and torches,
the Flame passes on-
through Reason,
in Word
by Rhyme.

-------------------------------------------------------

Just a short verse I wrote. Couldn't figure what else to add onto it =/

The Writer's Smile

The Child looks round for toys and light,
But sees only darkness within her sight;
Fearful cries echo through the night,
While the Guardian comes, to set things right.

The Child knows well, that all things Dark
are not mere shadows that leave no mark,
that joys and beauty are but a lark-
sheltered dogs, no bite save bark.

Yet the Guardian and Child do agree
that the Child must live, happily;
thus the Dark, lock and key
for Life to flourish, pure and free.

But as they say, the Truth shall out;
no matter the way, no matter the route.
Thus with this pen I fight my bout
with the World to whom my words do shout.

Seeding Compassion

The cold air greets me like an arctic gale,
hurriedly I pull on my sweater,
smirking at the cyclists outside
sweltering in the tropical heat.
Community service
is hard work;
To think we spent two whole hours
planting nothing but trees.

As I snuggle into the soft bus chairs,
the small black box flickers
importing scenes from overseas:
a news reports, monotone,
about the hundreds of seeds sown via air
in an attempt reforest the jungles-

NEWSFLASH
Disaster strikes!
Sudden flood claims the lives of two hundred people!

Shock.
I pull out my labtop, and in a manner of minutes
type out a post on my blog
lamenting their deaths:
Such a horrible thing
isn't it? We'd send aid of course, seeing as
it didn't happen here;
Perhaps we could plant some trees?

Newsflash over, the screen resumes
the constant complaints of a hundred environmentalists:
"For every hundred trees they chop
a thousand seeds are sown
yet less than ten of those survive..."
Yada, yada, never satisfied.

The stop arrives, and in stepping off-
A sudden stench!
I back away
at the smell from the old woman's rags
as she potters along
her shopping bag filled
with half-eaten discards from the nearby bin.
God, doesn't she ever take a bath?

Once Cracked Vase

Beautiful, beautiful
the once cracked vase, the
once-had perfection, its surface
now a dichotomy of patterns against the other;
Contrast.
Ordered flowers against spider-web chaos,
painfully beautiful, painstakingly precise.

I made it once, back
when I was what I was, still unsure,
painting over cracks
in my own flesh and bone. Small wonder
that it broke
its materials being the same, the bad tool
blames the workman.

A net to catch water, a glass to catch light;
So what if function it does not serve?
Shattered into fragments, yet still I shall
piece it together
with a Creator's love.

Reading

Little seed, amongst the pages
Under the glow of the bed-lamp's light;
Growing, shaping, sending shoots
To the skies and lands
of worlds beyond
And into our minds, enclosing roots
Drinking off the well-spring of imagination
That flows within our souls.
Basked in sunlight, shaded in troubles
of our lives, the highs and lows
nourish the soil between the covers-
soil turned by hands, anticiptation
A pot overflowing;
Still shaping, still growing
Vines and leaves, twist and turn
until a petal, tender inspiration
pink with fragility, what all we learn
Bloom.

The fruit of ideas, pollinated with thought
from a thousand other seeds,
from a thousand other pages,
Grow, blossom-

pop

A gentle breeze scatters
the pages full of lore;
new seeds, like dandelions
sift through my dreams
searching for a blank page,
fresh soil
to take root once more.

-----------------------------------------------

Been a while since I wrote one eh?

The crow

Amongst the flock, a crow
grey feathers tattered - fall
drifting softly, whelmed in woe
within the chirps - a caw;
of a crow rising
from the shadowy flock
Masked by the chatter
from Bird to bird, Their
tails like velvet rainbows,
leaping into the sky.

The Birds dance, soaring
within Their song a pouring
of noise, an endless cawing
its drawling
unheard amongst the calling-

Land once more;
still falling...

Pained it tries to sing
with beak and claw - a tool
to give it flight, a wing
not weighed by strong earth's pull.

Till now it dances
molting-
red against the Blue,
hoping Their feathers
somehow
may stain its own ones too.

Doppelganger

I don't like him much,
Perhaps I never did.
He was an alien to me, a blight
from times as a foolish kid.

Throw the ball, miss -
mistakes we humans make;
I hated him for that, for being
a human for my sake.

Right now I look at a picture,
Framed in smiles and laughs-
A little boy, all glitter
unsoiled by muddy paths.

I miss him now, sometimes;
But that doesn't change a thing.
Perfection's just round the corner,
Demmand has made me King.

Today I look at the window
and see him once again;
like a ghost, transparent
yet looking behind,
I find that no one came.

Sign Post

Some time now, a dusty road
Where footprints trod with lines untoed
And no wind blew - a sign
Did mark its face
upon the world so bold.

Still it was, despite the cracks
And graffiti-signed, rust-worn back
With names all over, hearts intwined
with promises, crosses-
but names? No sign.

"End of the Rainbow", that's what it said
the words are Just
like the cheque we paid
into the pot, which where they laid
at the foot of the arc,
For now we head

Towards our fortunes, so says the sign
But along the way, t'was none to find
Of animals or birds
just twin yellow lines
By the borders, marked the signs

Some time now, a dusty road
Where footprints fade on paths untold
A fresh wind blew - but yet
there was no face
needed to point the flow.

----------------------------------------------

Zee great big cloud of emo has passed, although it still hangs around sometime.

This poem...speaks of some of my views, I guess. On what and on which, Let's just see how clear it is. Feedback is welcome, very welcome indeed.

Bird Spew

And who am i? What shall it be
Well-trained horn or bird set free?
The noose is made
of coils unseen
too late for us,
some may deem
To run-a, fly-a, spirit ourselves
away
From bird-seed; fed
till bloated
each day.

Young sparrows wonder
what the great robin may be
So to check they shoot
with arrows - and flee
Question is, these archers
are they in forts or moats?
Either way the breathing
is difficult without boats
to surf the rotten seed
thrown
without thought or wonder
alone
down the dead robin's
swelled gut.

Ink and Oil

The miners dig and dig they do
Each and every last shard of oil,
that when they strike they throw the spades
and cry out loud "oh, what a spoil!"
"Yet it seems" the workman say,
"they may be more beneath this clay,
More oil to dig, more sights to see
of promises past and what's to be."
And so it seems, these fields of oil
will seep beneath the endless soil,
While we chase after, for fields of gold
or the wonders that lie below;
more oil to mine, more ink to know-
to clay and paper our lives are sold
till we hit the bedrock, a pit so deep
that no more does the oil do seep.
A pit in them and in us as well;
to climb out now? Only time will tell-
if this pit we dig brings gold and oil
or empty pools, once filled with joy.

------------------------------------------

Exams results were bleh, need to work harder in the future

Currently drafted into physics and chem olympiads, question
for self is whether i'm biting off more than I can chew

Always remember what mining does to the fertility
of the land

Reading Glasses

"...And when Hercules was saved
By the intervention of Zeus
the Critics did cry
"'Plot Armor! Plot Armor!'"

In seeking all knowledge
and learning all things;
the scholar shuns the candle
the writer shuns the strings.

No more is it enough
to merely forge for fun,
nor jump-joy, make-merry
see-silly
smile.

Instead all people,
yes, all people of "Wisdom",
of clarity and reason,
of realism and thought.
Must first purchase, before all else
a pair of blackglasses.

Blackglasses; that's all we seek
stained from stains upon the others-
Even the brightest of lights
is throughly absorbed; no smile
shall shine through
the blackglasses tint.

All words of joy
are the Medusa's gaze-
turn our hearts to stone;

Like moths to flame, we gather-
around the fiery innocence
of the neighbour's child,
born yesterday.

In_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Tis the matchstick, the first flame
The Light that God let be;
The catalyst, source-point
Singularity.

The still-sketch, wax-sculptures
Little things we see;
Great speeches, great figures
The Cross on which lay He.

The Symbols, sweet Music
Dreams and not-quite-dreams;

All this
and more--
That turn the locks of life;
Our key.

The Bus Stop

I sat on the benches
and saw beside a man;
an old man, grey
hairs almost gone.

Sitting there, he waits
For something I know not,
In his hand, a bag-
its weight he has borne.

Occasionally a passer
would drop a coin, two;
Sometimes a child, points
Curious enough to say:

"Why is the man there?"
She asks her mum, instead
Silence, the response-
is but a swift tug away.

Certainly the mother
is but a child in age;
yet to her, the man-
is but a child in place.

Another coin drops, clink
into the cup; The bag stays
by his side, heavy filled
with stories, now a waste.

The bus is coming
to take me home;
Eventually to come, even if late-

But the old man who sits,
To where does he go?
On the dry-grass patches
For whom does he wait?

-----------------------------------------

Little thought, completely unrelated:

Trust is like a mountain. To climb it, one must subject oneself to the harshness of the elements, the trials of the road, have the humility to bow against the winds and the perserverance to keep climbing.

And at the top, after all that suffocation and strangulation and seemingly-restricted life, along the restritcted paths.

You reach the top, and behold

The freedom of wonder
The freedom of sight.

------------------------------------------

Reflection

And so the fool shall shun
what the fool not know,
And the fool shall run
from the seeds it sow;
Unknowing, uncaring
apathy at worst-
when the time is ripe,
he misses
the chances each time; a curse

Never looking, never seeking
Always running, the fool
Never wanting, never caring
Forever and ever, a tool.

No dreams, they're gone
No wishes, they're wrong
Afraid of the world, the sky and sea-
Afraid of people
Afraid to be.

Ripples

A single touch some would say
Is all you need to save the day,
to right the wrongs, to blaze the trail
through the snow in heaviest hail;

A single step, a single voice
All we need is make our choice,
to stand up right and make our speech
and force the words we claim to preach
Into the skulls of of the opposed
Until at last I would suppose
By some miracle or hand of God
Our works recieve the world's applaud.

It all made sense, so simple it was;
Just stand up strongly and say your words
No need for reason nor for thought,
Just say your piece and don't get caught.

So I touched the water and watch the skin
surface and ripple towards the rim,
Yet still far off as i watched aside
my ripples were buried; under the tide.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Wrote this very long ago, in response to a blogpost by a friend. Decided not to post it, and it has been lying in my folder since. Strangely appropiate to how I feel right now. Sometimes a poem can say so much more.

What the Farmer Knows

A merchant came to a farmer's field
and asked the farmer what he knew.
"Not much sir," came the reply
"Just how to grow me rice and rye,

Of where to find the sweetest streams
Of where the soil's still fresh and green;
Of when the seasons come and go,
and when the times are ripe to sow.
My seeds and fields are all I need
For my wife and child at home to feed."

"Strange fellow!" laughed the merchant well,
"See what stories I have to tell!

Of heroes travelling to seek their fates
Of the riches behind the palace gates
So what if you know where the water runs,
So what if you work under rain and sun
How does this help me, in my land and time?
Take your rice and give me wine;
I know men far greater than you'll ever be
Who journeyed more lands than all could see,
Who made riches untold, and lived like Kings
their stories are legends which all men sing
Their praise is known throughout the lands
So keep your knowledge to your own hands
A scholar can learn what took you years
From books in class while covering his ears
Of what use is this knowledge, for money or fame?
I've heard far better from the blind and lame."

And so the merchant left, without a word
For to him the farmer lived a life absurd;

But inside the cart, beneath the tomes
lay a barrel of rice
to feed his home.