tired

Ah, another frantic week again.

I wrote this for the recently concluded NaPoWriMo at my other blog. After an awful day, of course.





image from imageafter.com




tired



the leaves of spring fall
because they are too sad
they are too tired to cling on
anymore
for darkness has fallen
even in the mid-day
even the crows
keep their distance
in the bare branches
and shadows hide
in the skins of walls
frozen stiff.


27/04/2013
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"Let me walk a while alone
Among the sacred rocks and stones
Let me look in vain belief
Upon the beauty of each leaf."

-- Uriah Heep, "The Park"


Shared on Poetry Pantry #150 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

my mother and the moon

Over at The Poetry Pantry, the call was to write a work about mothers. I wanted to post this on Mother's Day, but I was totally zonked out after a day's work. (yes, I do work on Sundays).

Initially, I wrote something gritty and grim. Perhaps it was not too appropriate for the occasion. Then I wrote this. But I am really not too satisfied with it, it's kind of long and naggy. Maybe I will do some editing to it one day. :)




photo by semiross
image from morguefile



my mother and the moon


Mother, whenever I see a full moon, I would be reminded of you. You see, you were like the light on a dark night that guided me. You were the Weaver and Dad, the Cowherd, as you so lovingly told us, your children, those folk tales, about the moon and humans and gods and deities. But what I remembered most was, you prayed to the moon. Yes, mother, you prayed to the moon! On every Mid-Autumn's night, you filled a tray with fruits, three cups of tea, bowls of jelly, moon cakes, areca nuts and betel leaves, a box of rouge and a bottle of florida water. These you offered to the Moon Goddess, after you have lighted the candles and joss sticks, to pray for health and safety for the family.

"But mother, the Americans have landed on the moon!", I would say, and she would silence me and beg forgiveness from the goddess for this ignorant son. It has been years since I last eaten those jellies, mother, how I wish I could eat those jellies that you made on Mid-Autumn's day again. They were delicious and sweet. But now, you are up there with the moon too, among the stars, and as I gaze up at the night skies, I missed you, your wisdom, though you did not attend school, your compassion, your faith in us, and I thank you, knowing you will guide us on in the darkest nights.


12/05/2013
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Shared on Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

birds of prey

Science Fiction and Poetry do not usually cohabit amicably. I am trying to prove that wrong with this poem.

I wrote this for this year's edition of NaPoWriMo. Is it working?




photo by Schick
image from morguefile


birds of prey



we wait
for the dusk
to scatter
the last of the
light

on cliff edges
that was once
the bastions
of mighty
citadels

and as the
last shards
of light splinter
and fall like
broken glass

we stretch
our wings the leather
taut with muscles
leap off
the precipice

soar over
the smoke and ruins
of a world
torched by
atomic fire.


29/04/2013
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"This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.” 

― T.S. Eliot


Shared on Poetry Pantry #149 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

^

This is from my NaPoWriMo effort, Day 23.

Sometimes, while working late at nights, your imagination can run...dark.






image by dsnake1




^



i think it sits
in a dark corner
of the office,
a lone grey shadow
quietly shifting,
perhaps it was the lights
perhaps i have watched
one too many
japanese horror movies,
they have the effect
of making you afraid

of

bathrooms
mirrors
baseball bats

and i can't wait
to walk off
into the warm night.


23/04/2013
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"Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.”

― Edgar Allan Poe



Shared on Poetry Pantry #148 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

mt. vernon, qingming 2013

It has been a busy week again, plus I am still in with NapoWriMo. This effort is from Day 3.




Photo by dsnake1




mt. vernon, qingming 2013




every year i am here
with the flowers and incense
to clean your grave
to clean that portrait
in the marble
that had smiled at me
all these years


i do not cry now
perhaps time has helped
but as always
i call your name
sometimes i bring a beer
light a cigarette
do the things we did


the sky today
is a shade of battle grey
yet a sun peeks out
its rays bathing your face
it is time to go then
i hesitate, i touch
that marble again



03/04/2013
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Notes: During the Qingming Festival, the Chinese people visit the graves and burial grounds of their ancestors, sweep and clean the tombs, and make offerings of food, tea, joss sticks and paper.




Shared on Poetry Pantry #147 at Poets United

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

by the day's light

This poem was published a couple of years back on this blog, one of the few times I wrote a quatrain. The response back then was quite good.

It can be a story of unceasing love or it can be just a spooky tale. You decide. :)






photo by veggiegretz
image from morguefile.com




by the day's light




we watch from the breakwater the passing of the night
her hands, her cheeks, pale as alabaster, are deathly cold
soon, through those grey clouds, will pass dawn's crimson light
and like so many nights before, reluctantly, i have to let her go.



20/11/10
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Notes : Partly inspired by the film, "A Chinese Ghost Story".

Shared on Poetry Pantry #146 at Poets United.

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©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

a point in your life

This was written for yesterday's NaPoWriMo, at my other blog, i write too.

I wrote this during a lunch break in the office, did some minor reworkings at home, in time for NaPoWriMo. And I wasn't sure why my mood was so dark that day.





photo by YunPing, ©



a point in your life



so you come to a point in your life,
you feel cold, you feel old, booze
no longer excites, instead it plays punk
with your sphincters, the doctor sees you
and no longer asks what is bugging you
but tells you to keep off the oily stuff.

you watch weeds grow and wonder who
or which is more unwanted, the streets
growl at you and fumes and dust gets into
your eyes and coffee, children look at you
in fright and not merely because of your stubble,
and you don't rage anymore.

and so the best exercise you had in days
is to turn your head to watch that woman
in the short shorts walks by in the sidewalk
her full hips moving with a beat that stops
your heart.

you watch the sun sets over the highrises
at the quay, someone mentions a drunk had
walked into the river and drowned a couple of days back,
just a few paces where you sat, the day gets more
unsettling as a crow caws and tugs at a roadkill and
you fear your number may be up.



06/04/2013
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I have always paid income tax. I object only when it reaches a stage when I am threatened with having nothing left for my old age - which is due to start next Tuesday or Wednesday.

-- Noel Coward


Shared on Poetry Pantry #145 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013