He waits by the table like a
disciple,
keeping watch for signs of her
arrival-
her feet shuffling, her shadow
sliding
underneath the wooden door
until a knock ruptures his
silence--
she calling out his name.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Loiter
Your skin is still tight
as the lamp's shade,
the fullness of your breasts
firm as bed pillows,
and your hair smooth
as the bed's varnish finish.
While your thighs
flex against mine,
let age
loiter
outside
our locked door.
as the lamp's shade,
the fullness of your breasts
firm as bed pillows,
and your hair smooth
as the bed's varnish finish.
While your thighs
flex against mine,
let age
loiter
outside
our locked door.
We, Again
Every year, the week going to this day,
before the vernal equinox, we begin
a transformation, to be broken up into you and I.
Our orientations change, shifting our North poles
to repel each other, shaking the certainty
of our resolve.
We become fierce animals marking our space,
howling at our loudest, exposing our fangs,
the spoils before us.
Tomorrow, our lacerated self-respect
will awaken us, vowing again
to rebuild ourselves, to become we.
before the vernal equinox, we begin
a transformation, to be broken up into you and I.
Our orientations change, shifting our North poles
to repel each other, shaking the certainty
of our resolve.
We become fierce animals marking our space,
howling at our loudest, exposing our fangs,
the spoils before us.
Tomorrow, our lacerated self-respect
will awaken us, vowing again
to rebuild ourselves, to become we.
Body Count
The color of the rice fields is changing
with typhoon winds inducing stillbirth of anger.
The clouds expel the downpour like their protests,
the wind-pushed flood pushing away their pain.
Gunshots break the rank of farmers-
one, two, four bodies collapsing to the asphalt,
their blood spotting, splattering
on slippers left in haste.
With rifles aimed, soldiers eye militants
like dark clouds lingering. The sky clears,
as farmers hold silence in their fists
like washed-away grain.
The soldiers commence body count
of those desecrated by their bullets.
with typhoon winds inducing stillbirth of anger.
The clouds expel the downpour like their protests,
the wind-pushed flood pushing away their pain.
Gunshots break the rank of farmers-
one, two, four bodies collapsing to the asphalt,
their blood spotting, splattering
on slippers left in haste.
With rifles aimed, soldiers eye militants
like dark clouds lingering. The sky clears,
as farmers hold silence in their fists
like washed-away grain.
The soldiers commence body count
of those desecrated by their bullets.
Home
He has never done this-
trust her memory
that when her wings get tired
from wandering and looking down
she sees the houses
and recognize this nest,
she will choose to land.
The distinct sound of her wings,
whistling, confirms her reprise.
Coffee Cup
You came and sat at the breakfast table
like the sun pretending to break away
from thick clouds.
Closing the window to keep the chill out,
I finished my coffee until your eyes
came out of hiding.
like the sun pretending to break away
from thick clouds.
Closing the window to keep the chill out,
I finished my coffee until your eyes
came out of hiding.
A Different Morning
The space by the open window remains vacant,
where he daily peered through its glass,
his head between the opening.
It’s 5 am, but the corridor is empty.
He is not there to brush his hairy body
between my legs.
I have breakfast, his remains untouched.
He enjoyed ambling first in the cool breeze
before the sun colors the sky.
I tackle the day’s tasks but his absence
keeps popping up like the sun's light disrupted
by the window's metal frames.
By 9 am, as I inspect the van's wheels,
I recall finding him here lying dead,
like a forgotten stuffed toy,
eyes wide open like mine.
where he daily peered through its glass,
his head between the opening.
It’s 5 am, but the corridor is empty.
He is not there to brush his hairy body
between my legs.
I have breakfast, his remains untouched.
He enjoyed ambling first in the cool breeze
before the sun colors the sky.
I tackle the day’s tasks but his absence
keeps popping up like the sun's light disrupted
by the window's metal frames.
By 9 am, as I inspect the van's wheels,
I recall finding him here lying dead,
like a forgotten stuffed toy,
eyes wide open like mine.
This Summer
Do not look
in the direction of my desk,
why the cold has filled the gap.
You will not find traces
of the chill
descending on my skin
only an empty table-
phone, pad, and pen
removed;
the rest I stowed
inside a metal cabinet,
away from this shivering air.
May the summer wind
breathe on the windows,
dispel this air
the things our cold weather
let remain.
This man
These punctures on the head, with blood dried, masked his face,
were pierced by mockery and thousand insults weaved
like spikes in thorn branches, his crown for his head.
This skin, these lesions, sank death closer to the bones.
These bruises came from lies so wicked enveloped in fists
whose blows spared neither body nor limbs.
This back was disfigured, lacerated, and torn open
by sheep bones of hate, each clawed itself into skin,
into flesh, with every flagellum's whip.
These ribs, this open fissure, jabbed deep by a spear,
poured forth water of forgiveness, streaming
to cleanse an earth, blood-soaked.
His time of death-
3 pm, Friday.
were pierced by mockery and thousand insults weaved
like spikes in thorn branches, his crown for his head.
This skin, these lesions, sank death closer to the bones.
These bruises came from lies so wicked enveloped in fists
whose blows spared neither body nor limbs.
This back was disfigured, lacerated, and torn open
by sheep bones of hate, each clawed itself into skin,
into flesh, with every flagellum's whip.
These ribs, this open fissure, jabbed deep by a spear,
poured forth water of forgiveness, streaming
to cleanse an earth, blood-soaked.
His time of death-
3 pm, Friday.
Summer Heat
I bear sunlight like a weight, forcing sweat
from forehead, brows and armpits, drenching the shirt
just as I see your hair unfurl like a flag
in the wind, your face unflinching in the heat,
and you heading my way, boosting up the heat
to a melting point nearly vaporizing me off the concrete.
from forehead, brows and armpits, drenching the shirt
just as I see your hair unfurl like a flag
in the wind, your face unflinching in the heat,
and you heading my way, boosting up the heat
to a melting point nearly vaporizing me off the concrete.
April Fool's
I laughed when you said good-bye
on April Fool's day,
as sunlight broke through the trees
dotting the expressway.
I replied that I myself was leaving
just biding my time
expecting a screenfull of smileys
from your reply
but all I got was you
insistent like the sunlight
flashing against my eyes
on not being there
when I get home
tonight.
on April Fool's day,
as sunlight broke through the trees
dotting the expressway.
I replied that I myself was leaving
just biding my time
expecting a screenfull of smileys
from your reply
but all I got was you
insistent like the sunlight
flashing against my eyes
on not being there
when I get home
tonight.
Raining on Orchard Road
Though an alien to Singapore
weather,
I went ahead like other tourists
to Orchard Road, pretending to rush
to dinner and meet a friend,
while everyone else hurried to MRT
or a bus terminal as the rain
poured.
I crossed Orchard Road in the rain
without my rain coat, left behind
like someone I wished
should have been here.
Silence
____ surrounds
me,
irritating
your inability
to fill in
between
the sound
from lips
that wish to open
up,
to send v i br a t ion s,
and jar
the shield
of
yellow
light
where I
am,
a coffee-table
book,
closed.
me,
irritating
your inability
to fill in
between
the sound
from lips
that wish to open
up,
to send v i br a t ion s,
and jar
the shield
of
yellow
light
where I
am,
a coffee-table
book,
closed.
Sketch
The sea water stumbles,
falls on your thighs,
the linen clinging tightly
on your skin,
sketching the shape
of your flesh
like fruits, dew-washed,
in a glossy spread.
The waves keep pounding
your thighs,
glazed
in this early light.
falls on your thighs,
the linen clinging tightly
on your skin,
sketching the shape
of your flesh
like fruits, dew-washed,
in a glossy spread.
The waves keep pounding
your thighs,
glazed
in this early light.
Pieces
There is no bridge____________ nor causeway between
your absence ____________and my desire. It is
a heavy log to carry ____________whose weight will plunge it
down my mental chasm, ____________to undefined depths of insanity,
from where anguish ____________does not rise to be heard,
but muted by ____________a thick air of uncertainty
where love like a flame ____________ can only glow faintly.
There is no reminder, ____________nor signal, nor smoke
that can rise ____________to advertise my longing
or traces of it in ____________burnt ashes or embers
for you to look upon, ____________the monsoon rains drenched them,
pushing them onto our gap, ____________crashing down on sharp surfaces
to break up _________________________like pieces of myself.
your absence ____________and my desire. It is
a heavy log to carry ____________whose weight will plunge it
down my mental chasm, ____________to undefined depths of insanity,
from where anguish ____________does not rise to be heard,
but muted by ____________a thick air of uncertainty
where love like a flame ____________ can only glow faintly.
There is no reminder, ____________nor signal, nor smoke
that can rise ____________to advertise my longing
or traces of it in ____________burnt ashes or embers
for you to look upon, ____________the monsoon rains drenched them,
pushing them onto our gap, ____________crashing down on sharp surfaces
to break up _________________________like pieces of myself.
Good Morning
City birds chirp from electric wires,
diesel engines in small trucks whir,
drivers slam their doors,
the goods they hurl on the pavement,
shaking it, fracturing my dreams,
while the lamp light is still yellow
against the pale white morning sky-
as if everything around me conspires
to push me away from slumber,
from the same pavement,
from the cardboard mat where I lie,
away from the sight of traderes
who want this to be another
good morning.
diesel engines in small trucks whir,
drivers slam their doors,
the goods they hurl on the pavement,
shaking it, fracturing my dreams,
while the lamp light is still yellow
against the pale white morning sky-
as if everything around me conspires
to push me away from slumber,
from the same pavement,
from the cardboard mat where I lie,
away from the sight of traderes
who want this to be another
good morning.
Epilogue
She will let him go like a book,
whose cover once attracted her,
its pages once held down her gaze.
She had moved on past his breadth,
their time together flipping over
like scanned pages towards the end.
With her reading done, his laughters consumed,
will she miss nights of him laying on her breasts,
exhausted, under a lamp's glow?
She takes note of what's left
of his borrowed time.
whose cover once attracted her,
its pages once held down her gaze.
She had moved on past his breadth,
their time together flipping over
like scanned pages towards the end.
With her reading done, his laughters consumed,
will she miss nights of him laying on her breasts,
exhausted, under a lamp's glow?
She takes note of what's left
of his borrowed time.
A New Home for my Writing
After going around the Net for blog home, I realized this place offers the better experience in reading and writing poetry blogs. I will keep Multiply as photo blog, Spaces as ordinary thought blog, Facebook as the other blog, Friendster for a set of friends.
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