Neglected

A small flower in full bloom,
A set of well-used chairs;
A shadow hidden in the gloom,
A strand of long black hair.

A gravestone belonging to another,
A story never told;
A young boy crying for his mother,
A treasured bat, now old.

Speak we do, and cry we must;
Yet who will hear our words at last?
The passing walker to which we tell,
Or the stone-cracked wall whom we know well?

A Walk and Some Thoughts

No poem today. Just some thoughts

About 2 weeks ago, I was walking home down the street when I saw a tree. Or rather, a tree with one of its branches broken off.

What really got me then was that from that broken limb a fresh branch was growing, all green and tender, flush with life.

I just had to take a picture and post it up. I thought it was really...deep. Meaningful. At that time, at least.

A few days after I posted it up, a friend visited me. He said that he recently went through my gallery, and couldn't understand the significance of the picture. To quote: "Its something you see everyday. You act like it has some great big meaning behind it." He went on about my gallery and such, and how I should start cleaning it up.

I went home and deleted the pict.

I thought I left that incident far behind. It really was a blow somewhat, to my views. I began to doubt whether anything I did was worthy, whether other people appreciated my efforts and work.

It made me rather depressed for a week.

Not that it was that guy's fault. This was just one of many incidents that I saw. This one just metaphorically "pushed me over the edge" so to speak.

Today I went out for a walk after our reunion dinner. Very good one it was (the dinner and the walk). Along the way, I contemplated revisiting the tree. Somehow the image kept coming to me. But it wasn't meaningful or interesting at all. Right?

But it wasn't.

Somehow, then, I realised it didn't really matter. People appreciated different things, and like different objects. What mattered was not that others like it. It was whether it meant anything to me.

If it did, it was meaningful.

After all, while my friend had probably seen hundreds of regrowing trees, this was the first I seen. And while he might not think much of it, somehow the sight of a regrowing limb sparked a...sense of hope in me. It made me think of phoenixes. And ashes.

Like, you know, ups and downs of life?

I might not be much of an artist or writer. But I really like the world. Life and such. Despite what a lot of people say, I still find it beautiful. And while I might not have experienced suffering or pain on the same level as the imporvished, sick, or handicapped, I still like to try to think on the positive side. To see the beauty in everything, and the respect it deserves.

I'll never be as poor as the homeless men, as weak as the old (at least, for now). I'll never be as rich as the wealth or as strong as the atheletes.

But neither can they see the world as I do.

My view may or may not be special. For all I know, everyone sees the world the same way. Everyone looks and sighs at the beauty. In which that case, everyone would agree with this statement, and all would be well.

If no one likes it, then I can take comfort in the few who do, and that I, at least, like the world.

Call me naive, but I can't help feeling life was meant to be enjoyed.

So i'll take pain, I'll take suffering. But that doesn't mean I'm gonna shun Joy and Love. Nay, I'm gonna try for that too, to savor life to its fullest, bitter gourds and all.

They say you can't have the best of both worlds. I say you just need bigger hands.

Happy Chinese New Year guys.

Nite.

Little Things

A silent nod of approval,
A quick word of praise;
A soft hand on your shoulder,
A smile upon your face.

These are the acts
that guide our hearts.
The insignificant acts
that play their parts:

When we feel desperate
beaten
and down;

When we feel unwanted
struggling
to drown;

An unseen act, a little call,
a careful word
or two;

Can make our efforts
seem all the more known,
when appreciated
by you.

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

Its the little Things that make things great,
The little Things that see us through;
The little Things that tip the scales
When we're trodden, weary and blue.

Its not the words
but just the act;

Not the actions
but just the fact--

That you are trying,
oh so hard;
to stop me crying,
to help me flee

The despair I feel, yet at that point,
You're there, And that
Alone
makes all the difference
for me.

Hope

Does the tiger Think to catch his prey?
Or the tortise Wish to fly?
Does the jungle ape Dream great dreams?
Do the panthers climb to look and Sigh?

Do Shadows come
without a Light?
Will there be Day
without a Night?

For with gifts and blessings comes also a curse,
Like age or knowledge, like a brand new purse.

Do young cows Cry when the grass is gone?
Do the bluebirds Weep when their nest is torn?
Does the beetle Worry about its young?
Do dogs even Care when they leave their dung?

For where there's Joy,
there's also Pain;
Where there's Sun,
Shall there be Rain.

To Wonder, to Dream;
To Worry, to Weep.
With Hope comes Despair,
With Waking comes Sleep.

Independence

There was a boy who left his home,
and set out to face the world alone;
From five in morn to five at night,
Sleeping by the full moon's light.

Depend on none, thats what he thought;
And so alone the young boy fought
Weathers cold and pavements rough;
Life was harsh, times were tough.

It seemed like he was truely great,
For food or shelter he need not wait.
Seek them out through work and know
Independence, that was the goal.

From bins would come the morning's bread,
and bushes the berries, sweet and red.
Dinner was fish caught from the lake,
While supper whatever he could take.

Then winter came, the cool lake froze,
And while each morn the sun still rose;
The bushes were bare and old bins empty,
Hollow were places which once held plenty.

It was then that the boy did find,
Independence is never kind
nor ever there, as we depend
on one another, in order to fend
for ourselves, our lives, our empty souls
ringed with rebellion, riddled with holes.

For we could run
from the hand that gives;
we could fly
from way we live,

Abandon that
which gives us Hope;
forget the future
and hang the Rope,

But we can never truely
be on our own,
Never truely
be Alone;

for the World is with us
Everyday;
as we walk, together--
all the way.

I'm mostly fine now, but some part of me still feels empty

I'm not really comfortable with typing my thoughts on the net, so pardon me if this
short rants are REALLY short.

I kinda prefer poems to express the way I think or feel at the moment.

Currently, I feel much better compared to the previous week, but theres still quite a bit of pressure from homework.

I feel that I should be helping people instead of asking people to help me

Perhaps I should do that too.

Why am I posting this for people to read? Maybe its cause I want people to know it.
That I'm actually trying to help.

I think.

I hope.

In the Waters

In the waters the old man sings
upon the boat asailing;
above him seagulls spread their wings
to drift the skies unfailing.

The crash of waves upon the seas,
the creaking joints in old bent knees;
Trousers blue and washed with age;
clothes forever ridden with fleas.

In the waters the old man sleeps
alone yet so, but happy still;
on a rusted box of things he keeps,
pictures of friends, a damp torn will;

Rings from wives of years past gone,
A trumpet, a flute? Nay; a horn.
Papers of words he once held high,
their passing to age shall not be mourned.

In the waters the old man spies
the world awaking before his eyes.
The sun arising, the moon asleep;
and the dolphins in their morning leap.

He left all behind, all away;
to seek to world. Didn't they say
that he'll regret it; he never did.
Forever here till death he'll stay.

In the waters the old man walks,
away, away, from his troubles past;
in silent nights and quiet talks
with the sea. He has found
Peace at last.

PS: Thanks to everyone who helped me this week. You know who and why :)