Sunday, August 24, 2014

glimpse

Today is the final night of the Chinese 7th Month, otherwise known as the Ghost Month. How very appropriate to post this. :)




image by dsnake1, done with Sketchpad




glimpse



will the
dark grey skies
part
turn to a shade
of blood
a shifting wind
bearing anguish
regrets
sins
so cold
so freezing
even though
a
smoking carpet
of burning offerings
glowing embers
ashes
swirling
swirling
at your
bare feet


23/08/2014
**********






When hell is not a myth, the fear is real

*

from “A Glimpse” by Samara Spence


I was inspired by the lines from the above poem (and also an awful dream I once had). This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in bizarre ways.


Shared on Poetry Pantry #125 at Poets United.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

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Saturday, August 09, 2014

never fails

It's National Day again. What does it mean to you? And what do you see (as one of the songs asked)? Just another holiday? Or another wretched working day, for some? Do you fly the flag at your home, or do you just feel it in your heart, a certain pride, a joy? That you will not desert her even if she fails?

Happy National Day, my country!




image by dsnake1



never fails



never fails
the eyes wet
the first strains
of the anthem

not for me
not for the F15s
the apaches,
the fireworks

but
for those
who were here
before

and
were
not here
anymore.


09/08/2011
**********






I wrote this poem a couple of years back. I do not know what's keeping me from publishing it, I just don't feel like doing it then.


“My old man says when it's time to be counted, the important thing is to be man enough to stand up.” 

― Robert A. Heinlein, Between Planets



Shared on Poetry Pantry #213 at Poets United




© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

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Sunday, July 20, 2014

at the end of every summer

When you are a kid, you do not worry about things like work and bosses and bills. How nice.


photo by dsnake1



at the end of every summer...


sometimes at night we hear the sound of metal
against metal and in the morning there will be
blood on the asphalt, the gravel. maybe a parang
on the railroad tracks. and when nights got sweaty
there's the thump of running feet through thin walls
and we know the plainclothes are on a raid. if we mind our
stuff, don't be curious, poke our noses out, we will be okay.

and in the day, we village kids gather together
to play at adults. we play 'police and thieves'
and we bring our own toy guns and bats and knives
so most of the time nobody wants to be the thieves
because if you are caught you wait ages in the sun
for comrades to tag and rescue you, if they come at all
and also the cops love to manhandle you when you're caught.

oh yes and that was police brutality before it became news.


08/07/2014
**********






At the end of every summer you can't
remember the last time you wore pants.

*

from "Amy Check On My Square Inch of Land" by Farrah Field


The title is a line from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in mysterious ways.



Shared on Poetry Pantry #210 at Poets United.





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

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Sunday, July 13, 2014

baggage

This is an attempt to write a Crapsey cinquain.

Adelaide Crapsey (1878 - 1914) is remembered as the inventor of the cinquain. I think she is a very under-rated poet. Most modern anthologies of American poetry omit her. She has been called "a minor poet of great distinction". She died young, at the age of 36, and all of her mature work was published posthumously.

I love her cinquains. Brief as the lines are, there is music in there. Her cinquains are more of concrete images than emotions. But emotions there are, with tints of mystery, even sinister undertones. That the images are usually lovely and haunting, stark and contrasting, is a hallmark of her work. I have been trying to interpret her poem "Triad", and the opinion may be quite unexpected, but this may be the subject of another post. ;)





image from imageafter.com




baggage




Listen...
The ceiling fan
Whirling slowly above.
In the dark, I hear the blades of
Choppers


10.03.2010
**********








Are you afraid of spiders, or snakes and cockroaches? Shadows and the dark? Or is it yourself?
-- dsnake1


Shared on Poetry Pantry #209 at Poets United






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

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Monday, June 23, 2014

should I tell you what wrath you’re capable of?

Is it the weather? Or the freaking past week?



photo by dsnake1




should I tell you what wrath you’re capable of?


but then you may not listen.
you may already know
the shadows lengthen
our bleeding hearts beat
black as a crow's feather
or perhaps
you like the clash
of metal on cold metal
to go on
forever
in any case this is
an acid that has bitten
too deep
too long
i love you i love you all
but this is
going to drag
us all down
pulling us all
to hell together.\\



20/05/2014
**********






Should I tell you what wrath you’re capable of?

*

from “maybe they’re not holy, maybe they’re just your hands" by Danez Smith.


The title is a line from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. If you are hitting a blank wall, give it a visit. The prompt can work in strange ways...






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

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Sunday, June 08, 2014

guns

I have been very busy lately, there isn't much time or energy to write much. I am trying to get some old stuff sitting in my PC online. Wondering why it's sitting there in the first place.

It's military related, and unpublished.






scan by dsnake1




guns


1962

    i wanted to try
    but i have no money
    and the gun was probably
    too heavy
    so i just watched
    as the stall lady
    pulled the lever
    of the air gun
    handed the weapon
    to a shooter
    all the while
    a lit cigarette
    dangling in her mouth
    that inch of ash
    strangely not falling
    and the shooter
    was taking his time
    undecided on his targets
    beer bottles light bulbs
    metal yellow ducks

    up above a full moon
    scattered its light
    on the fairground


1972

    i wanted to get this
    over as soon as possible
    it was too hot
    the steel helmet too heavy
    so i just watched
    the target in front of me
    a wooden board with a picture
    of a soldier
    and as we shooters lay prone
    in the dust
    eyes peering through gun sights
    the detail sergeant
    on the bullhorn growled
    the order to fire
    and as i pulled back
    the charging handle
    of the M16
    heard the bolt clicked
    i was thinking of
    beer bottles light bulbs
    metal yellow ducks


    up above a blazing sun
    fired its rays
    on the rifle range


28/05/2012
**********







When I was a child living in the inner city, my parents or my uncle would take us kids to an amusement park near our home. In the early days before tv or the super malls, these parks were a popular spot of entertainment for the masses. Besides the usual ferris wheels, carousels, and bumper cars were the game stalls and joget dance halls. There were also the gun stalls where shooters with air rifles briefly imagined themselves as Buffalo Bills or snipers. There was always a small crowd watching. Perhaps the sound of splintering glass attracts or they just liked to see a sharpshooter in action.

Shared on Poetry Pantry #205 at Poets United.






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

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Sunday, May 04, 2014

my old sergeant

I am too tired to write anything new this week. So, bear with another old post.

This is about a chance meeting between old comrades.




photo by click, image from morguefile.com






my old sergeant


my old sergeant
calls to me
from a bus stop.
he still remembers me
maybe i am the nerdy one
or
i don't give him trouble.

we talk
and laugh.

we are old men now
how time has aged a soldier,
he walks with a cane today.

was it not long ago
i saw him dismount
from an armoured carrier
carbine slung across
his chest
walking through a haze
of red dust
churned up
by battle vehicles?

we talk
about the old days.
we laugh
cough a bit

and then
go about our
separate ways.


19/10/07
********






“On the way down the hill we walked three abreast in the cobblestone street, drunk and laughing and talking like men who knew they would separate at dawn and travel to the far corners of the earth.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary



Shared on Poetry Pantry #200 at Poets United.






© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

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