urban poems

Poets' Rally Week 60 Perfect Poet Award

2012-01-23T00:29:00.002+08:00

This is a post from my other blog, i write too.

I wrote this for an exercise in writing a tanka. For this work, I am sticking to the 5-7-5-7-7 syllables format, though I used to write this form in less syllables. :)

photo by lcmatt

image from morguefile.com

longing

what then do i see?
a field of wavering grass
a blue sky of clouds.

but not your face, nor your smile
not today, not tomorrow.

21/08/2011
**********

Thank you, Ava, for this very lovely Perfect Poet Award for Week 60. This is also the acceptance post for the award.

©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

red

2012-01-14T00:33:00.004+08:00

The Lunar New Year is just around the corner and there's still loads of spring cleaning and shopping to do. I have been very busy at work lately, so I will just post a past effort for this Poets Rally (Week 60)

To the Chinese, red is an auspicious colour. In the New Year, red will be everywhere, in every household, in the clothes we wear, the food, the decorations, flowers, and greeting cards.

To all my readers celebrating the occasion, have a Happy and Prosperous Lunar New Year!

scan by dsnake1

red

Red is the colour of the blood in my veins
is the colour of kinship
is the colour of life.

Red is the colour of the petals of peony
is the colour of luscious lips
is the colour of beauty

Red is the colour of the face of Guan Yu
is the colour of autumn trees
is the colour of loyalty

Red is the colour of memorial tablets on altars
is the colour of candles
is the colour of faith

and red is the colour of my beating heart
is the colour of your blush
when we first held hands
is the colour of our love.

14.02.07
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

for the new year

2011-12-30T00:38:00.015+08:00

I wrote this to welcome the new year in 2008, but I guess it is still relevant today. "Welcome" may not be the correct word to describe this poem, "Cynicism" maybe, but that's me sometimes.

I am posting this for Thursday's Poets Rally Week 59.

photo by YunPing
image enhanced by dsnake1

will the new year

will

the new day
be

like
    water
       from
the rainfall
       that
    runs
with the
dead leaves
into
the culverts,
to be
lost,
knowing
they
cannot fight
the
pull of
gravity,

or

like the
sunrays
of the
    new
       morning,
scattering
       off
    tree leaves,
the eaves
of buildings,
    angular
       and sharp,
    filling
every corner
every crevice,
    curious,
       piercing

and free

?

31/12/07
********

To my dear readers, Best Wishes for a Happy, Healthy and Creative 2012!

geography lessons

2011-12-15T22:39:00.002+08:00

This is something from my school days, and that was eons ago. Although I was in the "Science" class (supposedly to be the better classes) I remembered I did quite well in the exams for geography than the maths and sciences that were the priority. Oh well.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 58.

image by dsnake1

geography lessons

I loved geography lessons
not most of my class.
Our teacher Mr. Newton from Texas
drawled in an accent that's hypnotic
and lured some of the guys to sleep,
not me.
And poor Mr. Newton won't know
what to do with them,
he couldn't throw a chalk at the deadbeats
not like Mr Tan of Physics class.
So I paid attention
and was quite good,
knew that Bikini was a nuked island
and oxbows were not weapons,
while most of them
fidgeted in their chairs, chewed gum
and hoped that Miss Pang
the sexy literature teacher
would walk past,
just some slight distraction.
And we had a guy
we called Chairman Mao
who would debate fervently
with Mr. Newton
the virtues of communism
over the capitalist pigs,
the proletarian will triumph
over the bourgeoisie
and the whole damn class
would groan
and wish for recess.

27/07/06
********

After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say "I want to see the manager".

-- William S. Burroughs

spectator

2011-12-02T09:29:00.002+08:00

This was a poem which I wrote as an entry for the Moving Words poetry competition recently. It did not make it to the trains or the anthology of poems, so here it is.

I quite like this poem, though.. Sigh.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 57.

photo by terranovesca
image from morguefile.com

spectator

silently

the blackbirds hunch
like paper cut-outs
on the edges
of the rooftops
in the smoky haze
drifting in
from the landfills
watching
the last rays
of the sunset
battling the oncoming

night

08/04/10
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011

Update : Moving Words poetry competition

2011-11-26T23:57:00.002+08:00

Remember the Moving Words competition in July where I fired off six poems for the contest? Well, never mind. The short of it is, none of my poems were shortlisted so I don't have the surreal feeling of looking at my name on the advertising panels in the trains or stations while sleepwalking to work.

I thought that was the end of the story, but in mid October, I received an email from the Literary Centre, the organizers of this competition, that some of my poems that were submitted will be published in an anthology that is launching soon.

Okay, excited would be an understatement. After a flurry of emails to confirm the copy and layout of THREE poems that will be long-listed for the anthology, I waited for my complimentary copy of the book to arrive.

MOVING WORDS 2011 : A POETRY ANTHOLOGY

scan by dsnake1

Alright, see the picture above? That is the anthology of poetry that was launched by the publisher on 29th October 2011 at the SMU (Singapore Management University). I have, ahem, three entries in that book. Out of nearly 2000 entries, 150+ poems were selected for the anthology.

My three poems that are published in that book are :
1) cracked
2) Rain Trees, Bedok South
3) going to work.

I have just received the book from the post two days ago, and am enjoying it. I must say that some of the poems are very good (no, I am not saying about my ones). Alvin Pang, the editor of the book and one of Singapore's foremost poets, has made a collection that did not disappoint.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

still

2011-11-17T23:39:00.019+08:00

The pain is supposed to have passed, but sometimes at the most unexpected moments, at work, in the bus, the train, it comes back and the world seems to be a little bit more lonely.

I wrote this poem for NaPoWriMo 2009, and is posting it for this Poets' Rally Week 56

photo by chelle

image from morguefile.com

still

still missing her
after all these years
even though
from the bus windows
the same roads
the sidewalks
have changed
trees grown taller
shop-houses demolished
new monoliths rise
from the ashes
or
the dark walls
of the subway tunnels
rumbling by in a flash
a few feet from my face
and i have tired
counting
the number of stations
that have grown
and still
some things
have not
changed.

25/04/09
17/11/11
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

A Mercenary's Tale

2011-11-10T21:02:00.001+08:00

The theme for Poetry Picnic Week 12 at the Gooseberry Garden is Feathers, Fidelity, Figment and Fables. Umm, not sure if the following poem qualifies, but i think fable is quite close...

I wrote this poem about a soldier telling his love about his adventures. It is an imaginary tale, a fantasy story, but it could have happened in any civilization, any war.

scan by dsnake1

a mercenary's tale

you sat by the steppe's fire
absently stirring the flaming embers
as sparks crackled
in the cold wintry night
you sat listening , intently
to my tales of slaughter
i and my horse-sword
how i rode with the devil's forces
i knew you did not blame me
why i sold my sword for money

the Central Plains i rode
are bleak and barren
vultures & wild hounds picked on
diseased bones
a hundred years of war
the reasons long murky
as the ashes that swirled
between the fiefdoms
kings and dukes and serfs
fell like scythed hay
ragged troops plundered
flaming arrows torched
ravaged villages
the dead left as they fell
amid ruined harvests..

you sat listening intently
the light of the fire bouncing off
your liquid eyes
the glow on your face
more beautiful than dawn's light.

June 1991
revised 08.03.2008
*********

Thank you, Ava, for the Perfect Poet Award for Week 55. This is also the acceptance post for the award. Thanks again!

The Light

2011-11-03T23:50:00.004+08:00

I wrote this last year in response to a prompt.

When I was a child, my family and I lived in a squatter colony where there was no electricity or running water. This prompt brings me back to those times, and to write about something we all take for granted, the electric light. Or rather, the absence of it..

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 55.

photo by singhajaykr25
image from morguefile.com

the light

you know,
the light from the single
pressure lamp in our hut
keeps the night at bay
keeps the barking dogs outside
the night

there is no tv, no radio
to distract my school work
except the light will dim
after a while
and dad will pump the lamp every hour
or so

to keep the kerosene flowing
feeding the flames,
and mum joins me at
the only table
mending a dress with what squares of fabric
she has

while dad reads the day's papers
crumpled and smudged
from passing through
many hands
while outside in the village the dogs
still bark.

written 09/02/10
revised 09/09/10
*****************

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas

jasmine

2011-10-21T23:06:00.002+08:00

This poem was part of a series or theme I submitted for a nation-wide poetry competition a few years back. It was based on actual people and experiences I encountered while living in the Jalan Bukit Merah area, a neighbourhood with a reputation that was not too pleasant at that time.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets Rally Week 54.

image by dsnake1

jasmine

jasmine squatted with her friends
at the stair landing.
spiking her cigarette
with heroin,
pushing the white stuff in
with a ear-pick.

jasmine, not yet eighteen,
was pretty, even
in harsh fluorescent lights
but her eyes
spoke with a fury
darker than this night.

soon after her fix,
she would go down these stairs
and hail a taxi
to the cabaret,
to a world of masks
where she works.

you think i wanted this life,
she would ask me
let those lechers touch me?
no, she's in for the money,
where can she go,
not the factories?

it would not feed her family,
her useless junkie boyfriend.
there were always almost tears
in those mascaraed eyes.
that's why she smokes the smack
trying to forget the pain, the shame.

and carrying the weight
of her world on those
rounded shoulders
she stood up,
straightened her skirt
and walked down those grimy stairs

in her stilettos,
in clothes
that were not meant
for her age.

03/09/06
revised :
15/08/2011,
03/10/2011
**********

Life is the sum of all your choices.

- Albert Camus

to jasmine and serene, and annie and linda, wherever they may be.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Poets' Rally Week 53 Perfect Poet Award

2011-10-11T21:19:00.003+08:00

Hey, it's really a pleasant surprise to be nominated for this Perfect Poet Award. Thank you, Ava, for this gem.

I am posting a poem from my NaPoWriMo exercise this year, in accepting the award. I hope you will enjoy it. :)

coffeeshop, one morning in march 2011

the cleaner
rubs my table
with a greasy rag.

i do not know
where to rest
my cup of tea.

he looks at me
and smiles.
i thank him.

01/04/2011
**********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

ROC '76

2011-10-07T09:06:00.003+08:00

This poem is about a military exercise I was involved in, a long time ago.

I am posting this poem for Thursday Poets Rally Week 53.

photo by Athena

image from morguefile.com

ROC '76

In stony silence,
in fits of exhaustion,
we hunched & huddled
in the blood-red mud
& watched the 81s opened up
punishing the hills beyond the ridge.
Not for us the adage of glory and country
but faraway images of home,
a beer, a shower, & a woman to cuddle.

We hunched together
waiting, in a fine drizzle
that coiled around the blue hills,
the final manoeuvre of the battle,
as a haze of gun-smoke and diesel
washed over our tired bodies.
Somewhere to the east,
defiant GPMGs chattered.

As rivulets of rain
flowed down dented helmets
to sweat stained brows,
we struggled with a last smoke.
(have you tried lighting a wet cigarette ?)
We heaved ourselves up
laden with packs and
weapons and fatigue
and coaxed tired limbs
in mud-caked boots
to trudge a final kilometre to base.

09-04-88
revised 05/10/2011
******************

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Haiku Heights September Challenge

2011-09-30T23:57:00.028+08:00

I took part in Haiku Heights' September Challenge, writing a haiku a day for the whole month. All the poems are posted at my other blog, "i write too". It has been a great experience, and I have come out with some good ones (in my opinion). Also, I have come across some great and talented poets in the course of the challenge.

It's time for a break. If you, dear readers, are interested, click on the drop-down menu to access the poems. Or, you can read the whole lot here, at i write too. Happy reading!

The Height of Haiku Challenge

janice

2011-08-27T13:09:00.002+08:00

Do you still remember the first dance you had? I still do, though it happened eons ago. Probably because it's the first time, the partner is pretty, and the music in the right groove.

Anyway, I wrote this for NaPoWriMo 2009, and I am posting this for Poets' Rally Week 50. I hope this post can bring back memories of your first dance too...:)

pencil drawing by dsnake1

janice

always
that dance
       it plays
       all over
like a jammed vinyl
       when i hear
       that song
in a store
the train the radio
though it has been
almost
       a lifetime
since
we left
and still
like a bridge
across time
       i see
just the two
of us
though there are others
on the dance floor
       my hand
on your slim waist
your warm body
close to mine
a hint
of heady
perfume

and me
trying very hard
not to step
       on your shoes.

14/04/09
revised 23/06/09
****************

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

Carl Sandburg

And this is the song that still thrills me...

to janice, wherever you are.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Toolshed

2011-07-29T15:02:00.003+08:00

When I was younger, while waiting for military service, I followed my father around in his work in the construction industry. This poem is about the few weeks I was working with him.

This poem has appeared in the Jan 2006 issue of QLRS, an on-line literary journal of Singapore. I am re-posting it here for Poets' Rally Week 49.

photo by DuBoix

image from morguefile.com

Toolshed
Construction site, Punggol fields, 1972

It is my job
to fill that soot-blackened kettle
with water,
throw in a handful of tea leaves,
put it over a fire of disused wood
and watch it boil
in the early light blues of Punggol.

My father is in that toolshed
poring over blueprints
of a farm,
briefing his foreman,
as dust and insects floated
in the harsh light
of fluorescent lamps.

Soon my father will amble over,
pour himself a drink from that kettle
into a grimy metal cup.
I will offer him a cigarette
and we will squat there by the wayside
smoking, the sweet wisps of Camels
swirling in the cool morning air.

Then we will go over to the toolshed,
collect our claw hammers, plumb lines,
nails, tape measures,
light up some joss to the earth god,
as Blackie, the mongrel guarding the shed,
darker than Cerebus from Hell,
comes over sniffing our heels.

We haul planks, measure, hammer,
in the uncompromising sun,
sometimes seeking solace
in the shadows of the wooden moulds
jutting out of mud and rock like pruned tree trunks.
The smell of sawn wood clings to us
like a stigma.

When the day is done,
the sun painting streaks of gold and crimson
on the clouds, we dust
ourselves of sawdust and wood shavings,
feed the dog,
and gather at the toolshed,
lingering, for a final smoke in the fading sun,

as did our forebears before us
in America, in Hong Kong
building railroads, harbours,
hunched over camp fires,
drinking tea from grimy cups
swopping stories about home
in Canton half a life away.

Then we pile into
our cars and bikes
for the weary journey home.
The stars are coming out
in that vast bowl of sky,
the cirrus clouds rolling
dark angry strips of floss

in the darkening light
over a plain of wild grass
over

the exact centre of our universe..

20.10.2005
**********

六月初三

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Poets' Rally Week 48 Perfect Poet Award

2011-07-21T19:50:00.002+08:00

I am so happy to be nominated for this Perfect Poet award. Though I am far from perfect, I will strive to be, so I will grab the award anyway. :)

Thanks, Promising Poets' Poetry Cafe, for all this support and encouragement, and thanks, Ravenblack, for nominating me. :)

And to go with the award, here's a haiku I wrote which is one of my personal favourites...

Rust

missing dad.

sandpapering rust
off his old tool box.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

sparrow

2011-07-18T00:21:00.004+08:00

i wrote this for NaPoWriMo 2009, and thought I would tweak it a bit later on, but had not yet got around to doing it yet. Meantime, I am posting this for Poets' Rally Week 48. :)

It has been a hectic week again, and yes, sometimes you need another person to open up your eyes, and heart...

photo by nasirkhan

image from morguefile.com

sparrow

the schoolgirl
hopped onto the bus
like a sparrow,
chirpy, full of energy
her ponytail swinging.
she was maybe
all of six years old
she took the seat
in front of me
smiling
looking at the
blue morning sky
and then she said

it's a beautiful morning

and me
cynical, angry
two days worth of stubble
needed a six year old kid
to make me realised that.

26/04/09
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

Moving Words - a poetry competition

2011-07-14T12:55:00.014+08:00

I thrive on the last-minute, the deadline. Today, I fired off 6 poems for the Moving Words poetry competition.

This competition is open to all Singapore citizens and Permanent Residents. Twelve best entries will be shortlisted by a panel of judges, and the poems displayed in the SMRT trains and stations. (SMRT is a major transport provider)

It hopes, through this project , that the thousands of daily commuters in our city, will come to appreciate local poetry. The poems will be showcased from August to October 2011, the public will vote for their favourite entry, and the votes will decide the winning poem.

Oh yes, the closing date is 15th July 2011. :)

©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

there must be wars being fought out there

2011-07-11T23:36:00.005+08:00

This poem was written and accepted for publication in an on-line poetry magazine, The Sidewalk's End, a few years back. It was about the experiences I had when I was in the army.

I am posting this for Poetry Potluck Week 43 at Jingle Poetry. Be warned, there are a couple of expletives in the poem. :)

photo by mzacha

image from morguefile.com

There must be wars being fought out there

After dinner, we sat on the verandah outside our bunks
smoking, soaking the breeze
watching the day going down over our camp.

The perimeter was just metres away
and through the chain-link fence, the rusted concertina
sometimes we see iguanas, monitors and wild dogs.

Today we saw the snipers on night exercise again
getting down from their unimogs
cradling their night gear & sniping rifles.

We waved at them, they sulked at us,
poor bastards, they are going to feed mosquitoes
and then they were gone, into the jungle, like ghosts.

My buddy leaned off the weathered planks
stretched his limbs like a yoga master
shouted fuck it! & lit another cigarette.

I wasn't sure what pissed him off
maybe the snipers, maybe the insects buzzing around us
or he was just thinking about his run-out date.

As if to offer moral support i said yeah fuck it
leaned back and took another cigarette from him
thinking it will be another humid night again.

The frogs and crickets are up and singing their songs
as the darkness descended over us
like a mailed fist.

I looked past the faint slice of moon
past the constellations, through the light years and
thought surely there must be wars being fought out there.

22.03.06
**********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

for that bowl of rice

2011-07-01T00:13:00.003+08:00

Frustration, boiling over. This is what this poem is about. It is an old poem, the page it was written on is yellowed now. But the hard pencil strokes, the angry scrawl, are still there. One of my favourites.

It has been a hectic two weeks in the office, absolutely crazy, and it seems like there is no let up in the coming days. I am posting this for Thursdays Poets Rally Week 47.

And, yeah, why I still need to work. :)

image from imageafter.com

for that bowl of rice

maybe
it was the sum
of all the little
tiring journeys
adding up
or the
proverbial straw

i do not really
mean to
raise my voice

i smile
but
who knows the lead in my heart
i trudge miles
for that bowl of rice
and
not for me alone.

written 13.09.92
revised 16.06.07
=================

©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

a triolet : i thought i hear your voice in the wind

2011-06-03T22:35:00.002+08:00

I am posting this poem for Thursday Poets' Rally Week 45.

This is an attempt to write a triolet. I am using a refrain from another poem I wrote, and try to weave that into a love story.

Seems to work if read aloud. :)

pencil sketch by dsnake1

i thought i hear your voice in the wind

i thought i hear your voice in the wind
but it was just me whispering your name.
though i have grown old and tired and bitter
i thought i hear your voice in the wind
through all the years, the static, the babble
and battles, without you, are not the same
i thought i hear your voice in the wind
but it was just me whispering your name.

05.09.07
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011

Poets Rally Week 44 Perfect Poet Award

2011-05-25T23:39:00.002+08:00

Thanks, Jingle, for the award!

Before I discovered blogging, I was wondering where I can put my poems on-line. I thought of putting it in a personal website but it was too much work (those were the days of manual coding )Then I found Blogger, and as the old cliche goes...

I am posting this old poem for the award. I wrote this poem, expressing my desire to find a medium to show my works. Before I grow old. :)

BIGO

rust biting on hard joints
some say you don't look
a day over forty
lies are sweeter on the ears
damn, my left knee hurts again
i have, how many, five?
old notebooks of
       poems
in fading pencil
to etch to .htm format
       any luck ?
in how many, five, ten years ?
       online

time is short & the water rises.

15-02-2003
**********

©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

before the next day

2011-05-19T15:52:00.004+08:00

I wrote this poem for a national (Singapore) poetry competition, the Golden Point Awards 2007. It was the concluding work in a series of 8 poems that I sent for the competition. The theme was about the experiences I encountered while living in the Bukit Merah area, at that time, a gritty and rough neighbourhood.

I am posting this for Thursday Poets' Rally Week 44.

In case you are wondering, no, my collection did not win any prizes. :)

photo by alvimann
image from morguefile.com

before the next day

the day is done.

vehicles swept past honking
angrily, red tail lights flaring
in the darkening dusk.

a light rain began to fall,
cold and unfeeling
on lengthening shadows

that glowering street lights
wrung from trees and metal,
smacking them down

on hard concrete
to writhe in jerky throes
in the scattering rain.

we walked in the drizzle
out of the prisons of
the factories, the warehouses,

not really caring,
glad that the day
is over and done,

that it rained in June
that our cigarette tips
still burn red and hot

in the cold rain,
smoke trailing like lost dreams
as the world winded down,

going home to a hot dinner,
to sons and daughters,
to soft moments with lovers,

before the next day catches up again.

22.06.07
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

by the day's light

2011-05-05T22:45:00.003+08:00

This is for Thursdays Poets’ Rally Week 43 and is an attempt to write a quatrain. Is it a story of unceasing love or is it a spooky tale?

Here is a song to go with it. Procol Harum's A Whiter Shade Of Pale

photo by pbrownell16

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
********

Sorry about the font size and formatting. I tried to squeeze the words into 4 lines, and may have messed it up.:)

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011

Poets Rally Week 42 Perfect Poet Award

2011-04-26T23:36:00.002+08:00

Thanks, Jingle and Vinay, for this Perfect Poet Award.

I am posting a poem for this award. Though it's an old one published some time back in this blog, I think it's quite appropriate for the occasion. :)

WRITING

sometimes
i struggle
with blunt pencil
record fleeting thoughts
on torn computer paper

in hope
that these squiggles
would see light
in a book .

30-05-89
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

why i waited in the rain

2011-04-21T17:01:00.002+08:00

This is the first time I am participating in the Thursday Poets' Rally (Week 42) and I am posting this for the event.

Although this poem has appeared in this blog before, in June 2007, it is one of my favourites, and I thought I would like to share it again. :)

photo by chelle

image from morguefile.com

why i waited in the rain

because you came to me
with your umbrella
offering shelter
like a heroine
out of a wuxia novel
and your smile
was dazzling
even on a wet
March morning.

you leaned close to me
warm breath in my face
a scent of soft talc
fresh lilac flowers,
the patter of rain
on stretched fabric
keeping time
racing alongside
our heartbeats.

we laughed
and stamped on puddles
like children
the song of our joy
scattering like beads
of crystal
clearer than the rays
that were
trying to break
through moody clouds.

07.06.07
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

NaPoWriMo 2011

2011-04-07T23:32:00.004+08:00

do not agitate

I am participating in NaPoWriMo 2011. 30 poems in 30 days. It has been a week already, and I am still doing okay.

You can find my efforts at my other blog, i write too.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011

Loss

2011-03-06T23:46:00.001+08:00

I wrote and submitted this haiku for the January Free Format kukai at haikuworld. The subject was "Loss".

The results are out and this ku managed a total of ...two votes. Well, at least two readers like it. :)

photo by heirbornstud

image from morguefile.com

loss

anniversary -

your photograph
greasy with my prints.

11/01/2011
**********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

spring

2011-02-07T15:18:00.002+08:00

I wanted to post this on the first day of the Lunar New Year, and this is the 5th day already...

scan from a greeting card

Spring

spring-

a wind chime
sings

03/02/2011
**********

恭喜發財

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

a river of stones - update

2011-02-02T22:20:00.001+08:00

So, I have completed the a river of stones writing challenge. Not as tough as NaPoWriMo, but still challenging.

Below are the links to some selected stones. Well, almost all of them. :)

aros #1 - new day
aros #2 - sale
aros #3 - aged
aros #5 - storm
aros #6 - a dream
aros #7 - untitled
aros #9 - dogs barking
aros #10 - rain
aros #11 - empty tables
aros #13 - The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells, super-condensed
aros #14 - rush hour
aros #15 - technology
aros #16 - festive shopping
aros #18 - crows feeding
aros #20 - days
aros #21 - waves crash
aros #23 - offerings
aros #25 - chatter
aros #27 - street lights
aros #28 - your smile
aros #30 - stoic
aros #31 - the art of writing

If you want to read the whole lot at one go, click here to go to my other blog, i write too

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2011

a river of stones

2011-01-09T13:19:00.002+08:00

badge from a river of stones

a river of stones

I am participating in this writing challenge called a river of stones. Already I am a week wading into it.

Basically, you are to write a small stone a day during the month of January 2011. Yeah, what's a small stone? According to the website, a small stone is "a polished moment of paying proper attention." It is to pay attention to one thing every day during the month, and to write it down. It may be a haiku, a short verse, an observation, anything. If you are interested, or thinking of participating (it's still not too late), hop over there for more info.

I am posting my small stones at my other blog, i write too.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

what, another year?

2010-12-31T23:03:00.003+08:00

To all the readers of this blog, best wishes for the New Year!

photo by dsnake1

calendar

forgotten days -

black crosses
on a tabletop calendar.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2010

fruits

2010-12-14T22:07:00.005+08:00

This is a response for a writing prompt from AppleHouse Poetry Workshop. I wrote this in a very short span of time, almost no edits. Neat! :)

photo by kumarnm

image from morguefile.com

fruits

once, we picked wild fruits off trees
our adolescent hearts neither fear heights nor ants,
or if it's edible, spitting out pits like bullets,
watching clouds morphing from warriors to bunnies in the blue sky.

today at the supermarket i am undecided,
we have fruits from Malaysia and China and Chile and
but is it cheaper elsewhere, will it mess with my gastritis?
the checkout queue is long, the faces are long, i will come back later.

12/12/10
********

This poem has only 8 line, 4 in each stanza, but the formatting seems to mess it up.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

cenotaph

2010-10-02T23:57:00.004+08:00

This is a response to a writing prompt from One Single Impression.

It is also an exercise in writing a Tetractys poem.

photo by ericpruis

image from morguefile.com

cenotaph

once
it was
and still is
a monument
to the brave fallen of the two great wars.
we used to sit on its cold granite steps
just the night sky
the stars and
only
us.

and
heroes
die, she too.
left me alone
to talk to the dead of the two great wars.

01/Oct/10
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2010

The Light

2010-09-18T23:56:00.001+08:00

This is a response to a writing prompt from AppleHouse Poetry Workshop.

When I was a kid, my family and I lived in a squatter colony where there was no electricity or running water. This prompt brings me back to those times, and to write about something we all take for granted, the electric light. Or rather, the absence of it..

photo by singhajaykr25

image from morguefile.com

the light

you know,
the light from the single
pressure lamp in our hut
keeps the night at bay
keeps the barking dogs outside
the night

there is no tv, no radio
to distract my school work
except the light will dim
after a while
and dad will pump the lamp every hour
or so

to keep the kerosene flowing
feeding the flames,
and mum joins me at
the only table
mending a dress with what squares of fabric
she has

while dad reads the day's papers
crumpled and smudged
from passing through
many hands
while outside in the village the dogs
still bark.

written 09/02/10
revised 09/09/10
*****************

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2010

Toolshed

2010-07-14T23:39:00.013+08:00

When I was very much younger, I helped out with my father in his work for a couple of weeks. He was a sub-contractor in the construction industry, and his job was to build the wooden moulds that concrete will be poured in to form pillars and beams.

I wrote this poem about those weeks I spent at the construction site. It was published in the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore

I wanted to write something for Father's Day, but look at the date now. Work is taking a lot of my energy recently. I hope this re-post will fill the gaps for the time being.

photo from imageafter.com

Toolshed
Construction site, Punggol fields, 1972

It is my job
to fill that soot-blackened kettle
with water,
throw in a handful of tea leaves,
put it over a fire of disused wood
and watch it boil
in the early light blues of Punggol.

My father is in that toolshed
poring over blueprints
of a farm,
briefing his foreman,
as dust and insects floated
in the harsh light
of fluorescent lamps.

Soon my father will amble over,
pour himself a drink from that kettle
into a grimy metal cup.
I will offer him a cigarette
and we will squat there by the wayside
smoking, the sweet wisps of Camels
swirling in the cool morning air.

Then we will go over to the toolshed,
collect our claw hammers, plumb lines,
nails, tape measures,
light up some joss to the earth god,
as Blackie, the mongrel guarding the shed,
darker than Cerebus from Hell,
comes over sniffing our heels.

We haul planks, measure, hammer,
in the uncompromising sun,
sometimes seeking solace
in the shadows of the wooden moulds
jutting out of mud and rock like pruned tree trunks.
The smell of sawn wood clings to us
like a stigma.

When the day is done,
the sun painting streaks of gold and crimson
on the clouds, we dust
ourselves of sawdust and wood shavings,
feed the dog,
and gather at the toolshed,
lingering, for a final smoke in the fading sun,

as did our forebears before us
in America, in Hong Kong
building railroads, harbours,
hunched over camp fires,
drinking tea from grimy cups
swopping stories about home
in Canton half a life away.

Then we pile into
our cars and bikes
for the weary journey home.
The stars are coming out
in that vast bowl of sky,
the cirrus clouds rolling
dark angry strips of floss

in the darkening light
over a plain of wild grass
over

the exact centre of our universe..

20.10.2005
**********

六月初三

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

visit

2010-04-25T23:59:00.002+08:00

Qing Ming is a traditional Chinese festival to remember and honour a family's departed ones. It is a time to tend and clean the tombs and graves, and to offer food, fruits, wine and tea. Joss sticks and candles are lit before the graves, and paper offerings of money, gold and silver are burnt in the hope that the departed ones can have a comfortable afterlife.

This poem is inspired after one such visit.

photo by Carlson
image from morguefile.com

visit

the war is over
a long time ago.
you fought bravely but still
the rampant cells won,
there's little i could do.

but every year i am here,
i wanted to hold your hands,
touch your cheeks,
to stem the tide of tears
down your face.

but this is just
a slab of cold marble,
with your name
and some dates which
i remember well.

you would have love
fresh flowers.
lilies,
peonies,
baby breath.

but i bring cloth
and plastic ones instead.
tacky, you would have said.
but they last longer
in this sun and rain.

and just like old times,
i light a cigarette,
sharing a smoke with you,
as a gentle wind blows
among rain-soaked trees...

05/04/10
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2010

the gods are watching over us in the morning

2010-03-23T23:57:00.003+08:00

This is a poem that I have submitted for a poetry competition a couple of years back. It tries to describe a scene on an early morning in a housing block. The images are culled from the experiences I had living in a rental flat in the Bukit Merah area a long time ago.

This is a re-post, but I think this poem is worth a second read. Personally, I like this work.

photo by Alvimann
image from morguefile.com

the gods are watching over us in the morning

in the half light that is the dawn over
the blocks of flats, when the night wind
gently slaps discarded papers and dead leaves
along the long expanse of corridor of our block,

i leave for work, my cigarette smoke mingling
with the perfumed incense my old neighbour lighted
to the God of Heaven, praying for safe passage
through the day for her and her loved ones.

then i walk past doors protected by talismans,
baguas, even cruxifixes, past homes guarded by waifs
of pomeranians that snarl from behind locked gates,
their barks, shrill and indignant, in the cool air,

go past flowerpots with plants badly in need
of watering, down the stairs through the coffeeshop,
through harsh fluorescent lights and whiffs of toast,
past grizzled old men drinking coffee from saucers,

then meet the hordes of sleepy-eyed children
sleepwalking to schools, the grandmothers
shuffling to the wet market to haggle over
fishes and vegetables.

the same gods are watching over us all.

revised 20.07.07
****************

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2010

spring

2010-03-07T23:55:00.004+08:00

Seems like the year is not too good, yet.

photo by impure_with_memory
image from morguefile.com

spring

still silence
the air
hesitant
to move

the leaves of spring
are not green
not yet
like sighs
sun crisped
they drop
from boughs
to the asphalt
by my feet.

14/02/10
CNY
revised 07/03/2010
******************

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2010

the pub singer

2010-02-07T10:21:00.006+08:00

I tried to write something cheerful, the Lunar New Year is but a week away. But the work in the office is still crazy, plus there's still loads of spring-cleaning to do around the house. There's not much time left to write.

There's always the archives to fall back on though. This is a poem that I have posted in this blog a few years back. I did some editing to it, and here it is.

photo by taliesin
image from morguefile.com

the pub singer
unnamed pub, taipei

in the noisy pub
the babble dropped
to a whisper
as the first strains
of the
plucked strings
drifted through
the smoke
and neon
of the hall

and then that
crystal voice
like a plea
out of a void

the pub singer,
she was there,
in the centre
of the stage,
lit up like a store display
under pools of pink
and orange lights

she sat on a high stool
plucking away on a guitar,
plucking our heartstrings
as she sang of love
and wanderings
and olive trees at home,
her oval face and
bob cut hair haloed in neon,
rounded hips tight in denim jeans

i asked a waitress
what was the singer's name
she said these girls are like
blooms from trees
and i thought
in my country
she would be a star.

06/03/06
revised 23/01/2010
****************

To all my Chinese readers, a Happy and Prosperous Lunar New Year!

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

going home

2010-01-01T23:15:00.020+08:00

I would like to begin the year with a post of hope and sunshine.

Personally, 2009 is a fairly good year, though the work at the office is getting crazier. But hey, in these tough times, it's better to have some work than none.

This is a piece from my 2009 NaPoWriMo archives. I have not done any revisions to it, though I think that it can be improved.

drawing by YunPing

going home

In the train going home, my daughter fell asleep in my lap. Minutes earlier, she was colouring pictures in a book, her face determined, intense. I did not know that Mickey Mouse had a red face, but that's how a six year old girl pictured it. The crayon was still in her hand, and I gently removed it, packed it back in the box of colours and kept it in her bag with the book and bottles. Even in the cool air, her face was warm, and I wiped perspiration off it. Holding her, I settled down in the seat for the journey home.

And that was when I saw the lady in the opposite seat smiled at us.

30/04/09
********

About the drawing. It is from the cover of a card, done in color markers, by my daughter when she was about six years of age. It is a bit yellowed now, but I am still keeping it. :)

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

coming back from the coffee shop

2009-12-09T23:36:00.005+08:00

This is a post from my NaPoWriMo archives.

We eat out a lot. Maybe it's the busy lifestyle, or we are just plain lazy to cook. More likely, we think (or imagine) it's a big hassle to prepare meals at home after a day's work. So the eateries made a lot of dough from us...

drawing by dsnake1

coming back from the coffee shop

coming back from the coffee shop
i am all hot and sweaty
the shirt smells
like a wok
the hair
fried garlic.

in the elevator
my neighbour smiles at me.
her little black dress
impeccably pressed
a whiff
of chanel

12/04/09
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

the last man

2009-10-21T23:12:00.002+08:00

Are you feeling chilly, do you jump at the slightest movement of shadows? Here's a story from my NS days during basic military training.

Though the Chinese 7th Month, also known as the "Ghost Month", is over, I think it's still okay to post this.

I will try to get back to some serious writing after this. The work in the office is really getting crazy. :)

photo by Miyabi
image from morguefile.com

the last man
stop looking back.

The night over Tekong was unforgiving. Starless, tar black, bloated clouds threatening rain. Our patrol was trying to make its back to camp. In that tube of darkness that was the jungle trail, we could not see our palms if we had held them in front of our faces. No torchlights, no cigarettes, no zippos, our drill sergeant had warned. We had to trust the point man and his topographic skills. Walking in a single file, holding on to the webbing of the man in front, we inched forward like a wounded caterpillar.

Somehow we made it back, and as we straggled into the lights of the camp, my buddy came up to me, his voice highly agitated, and demanded to know why back there on the trail, i kept pulling his SBO and calling his name. Bemused, I told him I was at the front of the file, and did not do those things he said. I also reminded him that he had volunteered to be the last man in the patrol. And then his face turned a ghostly shade of white..

moonless night
white moth flies in
and rests on his bed.

23.08.08
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

evening bus home

2009-08-18T23:55:00.006+08:00

This piece kicked off my NaPoWriMo month of madness.

It was already evening and I was telling myself, hey, there's less than 6 hours before the deadline and there's still no poem yet, and no idea what to write. I work best under pressure, or the muse took pity on me. In less than half an hour, I have this.:)

For this post, there are some slight revisions done to the original.

photo by kevin connors
image from morguefile.com

evening bus home

in the bus
we look like
soldiers back
from battle

fatigued
indifferent
some guy massaging
his head

a cough here
a cellphone rings
amidst the drone
of travel

a shuffle of feet
the beeps
of electronic cards
on readers

i try
not to be
distracted
by all these

as the sky
turns
a nasty shade
of grey

i have only
15 stops
or so
before home.

01/04/2009
revised 28/06/2009
**********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2009

janice

2009-07-28T23:36:00.002+08:00

Alright, I am still up to the nose with work, and I have survived a week (or two) of the flu, so I have to dig another one from the NaPoWriMo archives. This one is from the 14th day. Some slight revision done. I even throw in a drawing I have done. :)

This is the first dance I ever had, that's why it sort of stays in the mind. :)

image by dsnake1

janice

always
that dance
      it plays
      all over
like a jammed vinyl
      when i hear
      that song
in a store
the train the radio
though it has been
almost
     a lifetime
since
we left
and still
like a bridge
across time
      i see
just the two
of us
though there are others
on the dance floor
      my hand
on your slim waist
your warm body
close to mine
a hint
of heady
perfume

and me
trying very hard
not to step
      on your shoes.

14/04/09
revised 23/06/09

If you want to compare the original poem, it's here

The picture is a scan of a pencil drawing on paper which was done a long time ago.

words and image © cheong lee san, 2009

interrupted dream

2009-06-13T22:55:00.002+08:00

I am up to my nose with work so I am digging out some stuff from my NaPoWriMo 2009 archives.

I am leaving it unedited. I went through it but the mind wasn't working too hard and I decided to leave it as it is.

photo by DTL
image from morguefile.com

interrupted dream

at 3 a.m.
i woke up
to raindrops
scattering
into the room
chased by a
wolfhound wind
a sky
red with anger

and
an interrupted dream.

23/04/09

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2009

umbrella

2009-05-28T23:32:00.001+08:00

This was an entry for haikuworld's May kukai in the Free Format category. The theme was "Umbrella".

It managed to get a total of...one ( 1 ) point. :)

photo by impure-with-memory
image from morguefile.com

umbrella

summer rain
dancing on umbrellas-

our heartbeats

May 2009
========

© cheong lee san, 2009

NaPoWriMo 2009 (final part, sort of)

2009-05-02T23:20:00.003+08:00

If you ask me in early March, I would say that it's crazy, I won't do NaPoWriMo. 30 poems in 30 days? Hey, sometimes I struggle to post one in two weeks.

And here I am, at the finishing line, 30 pieces in 30 days. I am not sure what pushed me at the end of March (madness perhaps) to take part, but I decided to see how far I can run. And boy, it sure was pretty far.

And looking back, I quite enjoyed the run too. Some of the poems, in my opinion, are not too bad either. Best of all, I have a ready library that, when I run out of stuff to post, I can dig one out to use. :)

photo by ppdigital
image from morguefile.com

So here's the rest to complete the list :

NaPoWriMo #30 - going home

NaPoWriMo #29 - gangster movie

NaPoWriMo #28 - movie

NaPoWriMo #27 - owl

NaPoWriMo #26 - sparrow

And for those masochists who want to read the whole lot, click here!. :)

© cheong lee san, 2009

NaPoWriMo 2009 (part 2, sort of)

2009-04-26T14:17:00.004+08:00

I am surprised that I have come so far. 25 poems in 25 days.

photo by jeltovski
image from morguefile.com

NaPoWriMo #25 : still

NaPoWriMo #24 : stray

NaPoWriMo #23 : interrupted dream

NaPoWriMo #22 : wire

NaPoWriMo #21 : after the rain

NaPoWriMo #20 : clouds

NaPoWriMo #19 : pigeons

NaPoWriMo #18 : cooking a poem

NaPoWriMo #17 : roadkill

NaPoWriMo #16 : R&R

NaPoWriMo #15 : meals

NaPoWriMo #14 : janice

NaPoWriMo #13 : heat

NaPoWriMo #12 : coming back from the coffee shop

Or, if you want to read all the daily NaPoWriMo poems that I have written, click HERE.

And for the readers who wanted to leave comments previously but can't, I apologise. The problem is sorted out and you should be able to do so now. :)

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ), 2009

NaPoWriMo 2009

2009-04-12T19:54:00.003+08:00

photo by DHester
image from pixelperfectdigital.com

NaPoWriMo

I am playing NaPoWriMo for the first time this year. Every year before that, I chickened out, or didn't even think about it. I am afraid of doing 30 poems in 30 days.

It surprises me. I am still going on, eleven days straight. I thought I would have given up after two or three days.

If you like to have a look, below are the links to my works in another blog. Some are pretty rough, some are okay.

NaPoWriMo #11

NaPoWriMo #10

NaPoWriMo #9

NaPoWriMo #8

NaPoWriMo #7

NaPoWriMo #6

NaPoWriMo #5

NaPoWriMo #4

NaPoWriMo #3

NaPoWriMo #2

NaPoWriMo #1

If you want to have a look at the whole blog, here it is

Hot Night

2009-03-31T23:56:00.001+08:00

I have been missing for some time, the past few weeks were pretty hectic. I couldn't come out with something new, so here's a piece from my old days. The style is quite different from what I am writing now. (I guess that's called evolution) :)

I am posting it anyway, warts and pimples and all.

photo © bhailu7
image from morguefile.com

Hot Night!

Blank thoughts on a blank sheet
Yes, I had lots to write.
I stumbled, I grumbled, but again I will try.
My luck, it seems, had run dry.
Just lost a bundle yesterday night.
Things seem pretty bad these few days.
Might break my heart, make me die.

As I am sitting at this dining table
Trying to write the story of my life
This damn mosquito darted across my eyes
I dug my nose, maybe the darn insect has got inside.
The freaking weather got humid and warm again,
The breeze had stopped, as sudden as it came.
The temperature had got around playing games

Guess i would better switch on the fan.
(now, where's that damn knob)
Lie down and get some sleep.
(Hey! What's that wailing across the block?)

11:50 p.m.
06.03.1983
**********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

Did you hear chalk screeching on the blackboard?
I will try to post some new stuff soon. :)

colours

2009-02-03T23:55:00.001+08:00

I wanted to enter haikuworld's Special January 2009 "Toku" kukai in honour of William J. Higginson. The theme was "Colours" or the name of a colour. I missed the deadline by a couple of days.

I wondered how my works would have fared if I had sent them in. :)

photo by DHester
image from pixelperfectdigital.com

colours

rainbow

rainbow.
a child plays
with a box of crayons

lips

first kiss -
her lips
red as flames

shrapnel

a truck backfires.
blackbirds scattered
like shrapnel

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) ¥

Red

2009-01-23T00:21:00.007+08:00

Chinese New Year is just around the corner, and as in usual practice, everything is left to the last minute. So expect the crazy rush to spring clean the house, pay the debts, buy new cloths, foodstuff, the little things that made up the Lunar New Year.

I wouldn't be on-line for a short while, so in the meantime, try to enjoy this repost...

image by dsnake1
from a photo of a card

Red

Red is the colour of the blood in my veins
is the colour of kinship
is the colour of life.

Red is the colour of the petals of peony
is the colour of luscious lips
is the colour of beauty

Red is the colour of the face of Guan Yu
is the colour of autumn trees
is the colour of loyalty

Red is the colour of memorial tablets on altars
is the colour of candles
is the colour of faith

and red is the colour of my beating heart
is the colour of your blush
when we first held hands
is the colour of our love.

14.02.07
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

new year

2009-01-01T01:33:00.003+08:00

At times, we can't wait for 2008 to be over. It's like a bad trip. We are still reeling from the global financial meltdown. Natural disasters rolled on one after another. The terrorists attacks at Mumbai hit so much closer to home when one of our citizens perished. There isn't much sunshine around.

Let's hope 2009 will be a much better year, though most soothsayers are not too optimistic. (for us Chinese, our Lunar New year will be less than a month away)

Cheers!

photo by expressivedan0724
image from morguefile.com

how fast time moves

how fast time moves
when you are older
but not much wiser

so tonight i will
just raise a beer
or two

have some time to
myself when the new
greets the old

dances and songs
and fireworks are
for the younger

i had my time
in the streets
in the early hours

so maybe i will
just quietly sing
an auld lang syne

switch on the lights
in the house
so that this new year

will be a one
fill with light...

31/12/08
*********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

To all my friends and readers, have a Wonderful and Happy 2009!

Angel

2008-12-21T23:33:00.008+08:00

I wrote, and posted this story in this blog two years ago. One of the few times I attempted a short story.

It was inspired by Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and in the spirit of the season, I am re-posting it.

I have been cynical and grouchy and bad-tempered this year. So I hope that this little Christmas story, a tale about hope and redemption, will light up all those dark pages I have written. ( Will try to post a new poem soon, when the work in the office has return to sane levels)

photo by Bosela
image from morguefile.com

Angel

1.

He stood on the train platform, waiting for the train to arrive. The large TV monitor above him flashed 10.00 p.m and that the train will reach the station in another two minutes. Two hours to Christmas and in two minutes his sufferings will end. All around him were people talking, laughing, giggling, lugging last minute Christmas shopping, all absorbed in the festive spirit.

He looked down at the shopping mall and the shops around the train station, where he had wandered, like a dazed man, for the last two hours. It was a tough decision to make. But the world was just too unfair to him. Why did his company laid him off while less deserving ones stayed? He was unemployed for nearly a year, not that he did not try to get employment. It was either they had someone for the job, or that he was too old. He watched as his savings dwindled, until it was gone. His wife had to go out to work at a fast food joint to help out, and he felt sorry for his daughter, for he could not afford a proper meal for her each day, let alone the computer she had so wanted.

Two months back, a man in his same situation had jumped onto a rail track, in the path of an approaching train, killing himself. The case was given wide coverage in the media, after the dead man’s plight was made known. Donations from a sympathetic public were made to the man’s family. Large donations. He hoped this will repeat with him. If his death will result in a better life for his family, it was a trade-off he would gladly make.

As he inched himself nearer to the edge of the platform, he felt a gentle tug at his hand. A little girl, maybe not yet ten, smiled at him, holding up a tin can. “Hello sir, donation to the poor?” For a child so young, her voice rang with a clarity he had never heard before, like a choral hymn he had heard once when he was young.

The little girl had jet black hair, pulled back in a neat ponytail and fastened with a floral band. She had on a pure white frock laced with gold trimmings. It was a rare outfit to see on a girl these days, what with their denims, shorts and camo prints. Her clear brown eyes shone with such an intense innocence and compassion he had not seen before. He dug in his pocket for his last five dollar note, folded it, and put it in the can. He squatted down and took a closer look at the girl.

She so reminded him of his daughter, they were about the same age. He noted that his daughter was leagues away from this one, but he loved his daughter all his life. There were almost tears in his eyes, as he pointed at the plain-looking tin can and asked her what charity was that. Salvation Army? Spastic Children?

The little girl smiled and pointed at the TV monitor above him. He looked up and instead of the usual ads for movies and train arrival times, a tableau of a person’s life unfolded before him. He recognized the person as himself. There he was at his wedding, laughing and holding his bride. The happy day when his daughter arrived. And then the scene changed, he was walking towards the edge of the platform, as if a few moments ago, the train screaming into the station. And finally, he saw his wife, gaunt, eyes swollen from tears, calling his name, and his daughter, hands reaching out for her father.

He wanted to say, no, stop this! He stood transfixed, as if a fossil frozen in time, a million thoughts tumbling through his brain. Suddenly, he remembered the girl, and turned his head to look for her. But she was gone; he was standing alone in a deserted train station.

When he looked up at the TV monitor again, it was flashing 10.00 pm and that the train will reach the station in another two minutes. All around him were people talking, laughing, giggling, lugging last minute Christmas shopping, all absorbed in the festive spirit. And then he felt a calm he had not known for a long time, covering him like a warm blanket, coursing all inside him. He knew exactly what he had to do. As the train curved into the station, he ran.

( to be continued...)

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

Angel 2

2008-12-21T23:31:00.002+08:00

woodblock print by Tanigami Konan
image from visipix.com

Angel (part 2)

2.

He ran down the stairs of the train station, walked briskly across the hall, through the turnstiles, and out of the station. The night crowd was still thick. There were the families going home, the hungry diners at the delis and McDonalds, the all-night revelers going to the nightspots in the city.

When he found a coin-phone at a shop, he fumbled in his pockets for the last few coins that were his entire fortune. He called home and almost immediately, his wife picked up the phone. She sounded relieved. “Oh, we were so worried about you, are you coming home soon?”
“I love you, honey”, he said. He had wanted to say that from the time he came out of the station. He could not remembered when was the last time he had said those words to her. There was a short pause and he thought he heard her sobbed,
“I love you too,” she said, and added “I bought some food from the KFC. It’s not much, but I thought on the night before Christmas, we will have something better…”
He was trying hard to fight back his tears.
“I will be back soon,” he said. “Tell Ah Girl daddy loves her too.”
“I will. And another thing, a HR person from the logistics company that you apply for a job called this evening. He said they would like to talk to you again, two days after Christmas.”

The night was cool. December nights in the tropics usually are. A breeze was blowing, and he thought he heard carols drifting with the wind. Overhead, the sky was a canvas of navy blue, strips of cirrus clouds floating like wisps of candy floss. The street lights shone like welcome beacons, casting warm, golden glows on the crowds hurrying under them. From where he was, it would be another few minutes to reach his home, if he walk briskly. Trying to fight back his tears, he told his wife that he would be back home soon.

He hurried along the corridor of his apartment block, hoping to reach home as soon as possible. His daughter was already at the gate, waiting for him. He squatted down and hugged her, something he had not done for some time. His wife, beaming, walked across the tiny hall to greet him. Behind her, on the dining table, was a red and white paper box. No turkey, no ham, and the fried chicken were getting cold, but he knew that it will be the most delicious chicken he will eat in his life.

As he prepared to walk into his house, he turned his head to take a brief look at the sky. A tiny point of light sparkled, and seemed to wink at him. He smiled, his tears of joy now flowing freely. He knew somewhere up there, there was a little girl who had watched over him.

15.12.06

-------------------------------------
End

I wonder if this can be made into a short film. :)

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, everyone!

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

haiku : autumn

2008-12-06T00:09:00.003+08:00

This was my entry for haikuworld's November kukai. The theme for the Free Format kukai was "Everyday People".

Okay, the haiku didn't do too well, nobody voted for it. :) But I am posting it anyway, since I am running out of words.

photo by Kettu
image from morguefile.com

autumn

falling autumn leaves.
an old man dozes
on a park bench.

And another one I didn't send in..

a mother kisses her baby
in the bus.
love in the city.

08/11/2008
**********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

birthday

2008-11-27T20:08:00.007+08:00

Today is just another day, but I told myself I gonna goof off and do nothing. Okay, maybe just open a couple of beers.

image by dsnake1

birthday

again

i look up
from my cup
of noodles,
different time
same space.
outside the house
the city
is awakening
the sun
long-throwing
its beams
through
dusty panes,
light scattering
on the few
extra lines
on my face,
as blackbirds
flutter
their wings
in the dawn.
be thankful
then
that it will
be just
another

day.

27/11/08
********

The picture is a scan of a key chain my daughter gave to me many years ago on my birthday. :)

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

instant poetry

2008-11-19T22:07:00.001+08:00

This poem was inspired by an idea by DeadPoet, one of my forum friends. He calls his off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment short works "instant poems".

Opening a cup of instant noodles and waiting for it to cook, I was going through the newspapers when the idea of an "instant poem" came to my mind, and so here is this slightly unappetizing serving. The news items came from the actual headlines of a newspaper that day.

It's pretty old news, I know. I promise to write something better when my muse returns. :)

montage by dsnake1

in between, the news

open packet, pour in hot water, wait 3 minutes.

in the meantime, there was the usual bleak news from Iraq, female hostage pleads for her life, Feb 1 2006, damn, dropped cigarette ash on floor, splattered like a dead moth, cowboy gay love story won 8 Oscar nominations. dad beats up mum what can a child do? homeless man living under flyover bridge for past six months.

ah, excuse me, my noodle's ready.

01/02/2006
**********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

mirror

2008-10-29T00:31:00.003+08:00

I submitted this poem to The Guardian Poetry Workshop for September 2008, hosted by poet Michael Symmons Roberts. He asked participants to write "a self-portrait from unusual angles".

My submission wasn't short-listed or appraised, but in the spirit of the month, here's my effort. :)

image from imageafter.com

mirror

they said
if you bite
an apple
at exactly
midnight
in a darkened room
lighted up
by just
a candle
and stare
into a mirror
you will see
your future wife

but

i do not
have the guts
to do that
i fear
what else
i may see
in the glass
and even if
somehow i have
the courage plucked
all i see
will be
a frightened man...

0121 hrs 05/10/08
*****************

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

urban snapshots in monochrome : rain

2008-10-07T00:01:00.002+08:00

Imagine, a miserable wait at a bus shelter on one rainy night can inspire this. The muse is working overtime. :)

photo by mconnors
image from morguefile.com

needles

waiting at a bus shelter
for the rain to stop,
hungry and going nowhere,
and the rain stabs
like tiny needles
in the harsh haloes
of street lamps.

cold rain on my face
and soon the night will be colder
without you.

15-08-08
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

tombstone

2008-09-23T23:03:00.000+08:00

The theme or phrase in Haikuworld's September 2008 kukai in the Free Format section was "any type of Rock or Stone".

This was the entry I submitted. It attracted a total of ... 2 votes. Oh well, better luck next try. :)

photo by DHester
image from pixelperfect

tombstone

fading gold paint
on her name carved in marble.
September day.

13.09.08
********

This one, I didn't send in.

wild flower peeps
from crevice in concrete.
good morning.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

what's left

2008-09-07T01:15:00.002+08:00

This poem was published in the e-zine Concelebratory Shoehorn Review

I wrote this poem on one wet evening, after a bad day in the office. It's understandable why the mood is dark. :)

photo by gamerzero
image from morguefile.com

what's left

what's left
of the sunlight
on this bleak
wet evening
dances on
the gleaming
skins of
puddles on
bare pavements

as shadows chase
the day
up the
stone piers
of train viaducts
and the
damp trunks
of rain trees.

what are the
chances of
the silvery slice
of cold moon
cutting through
grey nimbus
like a scimitar?

until then
the last rays
dip and play
and dart
over the city

over the trains
pulling into
the stations

and

the tired
hungry masses
trudging home.

06/12/2007
**********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

rick mobbs' image prompt (3)

2008-08-31T00:56:00.002+08:00

The workload at the office is getting crazy, so the posts are a bit far in between.

But I still managed to write something, thanks to Rick Mobbs' image prompt. And why am I seeing doom and gloom again? :)

painting by Rick Mobbs

i see a raven in the sky

the choppers
     break out
         from rusty clouds

         like birds
     of prey
eyes keen

blood hungry
targets locked

puff
quietly as
smoke rings

above the paddies
     the rain trees

then just below
a rain of
hot metal

ploughs the fields
     the mud huts

a demon hand
sweeping tearing

fear-filled eyes
tired bodies

the lotus leaves
shattered
     torn
from the ponds

07/08/09
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

Celebratory Shoehorn Review

2008-08-03T23:01:00.001+08:00

Some of my poems that I submitted to the online journal Celebratory Shoehorn Review are showcased in the August issue of the online journal.

image from freeimages.co.uk

The poems that are published are:

1) my old sergeant

2) Couple

3) the gods are watching over us in the morning

4) Heavy Metal

5) what's left

Poems 1 to 4 have been published in this blog before, on various dates. Poem 5 is an unpublished work

You can check out the e-zine here

rick mobbs' image prompt (2)

2008-07-27T00:03:00.004+08:00

Another poem inspired by a Rick Mobbs' painting.

I am a bit tardy with the prompt (blame it on the office work) but still managed one. Better late than never, no?

painting by Rick Mobbs

the lights of my heart

without you
watching these harbour lights
is not the same.
they don't dance
      and skip
like flames
on shimmering skin.
      and
i hear no more
the sounds
of our laughter
skimming across the waters
mingling with the splash
of waves on stone piers,
the boom of foghorns.
now the lights
they just shuffle
as on tired feet,
even the moon
detest to show
its face.

and i could not
point out to you anymore
like an old salty dog,
the coast guard cutter
that's coming home
from a night watch,
the container ship
bringing oil and grain
to feed our city,
those moving lights
are a cruise liner
like a castle on water
brighter than a thousand
christmas trees.

and so

on some
summer nights
like these
when even the breeze
seems cold
and heartbroken

when it was just me
      and the sea

as i look across the waters
on those harbour lights
sometimes i wonder

are you watching
      watching
from the other side.

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

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

1908

2008-07-12T00:25:00.001+08:00

This was supposed to be an entry for haikuworld's June Kukai in the Free Format category. The theme was "SECRETS". Before I knew it, it was past the deadline. So I will just post it here. Wonder how many points it can get. :)

On second thought, maybe it's a good idea not to send it in.

image from wikipedia

1908

nightfall in Tunguska
the wind whispers
to the trees

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

image prompt by rick mobbs

2008-06-26T21:38:00.001+08:00

I want to do this image prompt. It's an awesome painting by Rick Mobbs. So I will just let my imagination run a bit wild.

What Mr. Mobbs has on his masthead there are 4 in this poetic attempt. "poetry, love, death, war.". :)

painting by Rick Mobbs

on Icarus' wings

i know that
when the wings
of this fighter
are shattered

this airplane
this metal carcass
trailing
smoke flame debris

carrying
munitions, a life
and a forsaken
love

i know
i will have
to love you again
in another life

as i turn
the nose
of the plane
towards the sun

for a final

kiss.

21.06.08
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

T Rex

2008-06-15T00:15:00.004+08:00

The first part of this poem was written many years ago. It was fading away in my old journals when I dusted it out and added it to something I wrote recently. I thought the two parts complement each other nicely.

So is it an inspiration or a disaster?

photo from imageafter.com
image enhanced by dsnake1

T Rex

1.)

a pale sun
      straining
to cleave
a ghostly fog
      of chill and grit.

T Rex looks up
      and rears
its truck-like head

snarls
and out
of portcullis teeth

drips
blood and

leftover meat.

65,000,000.)

a tropic sun
      straining
to scatter
a dusty fog
      of pulverised rock

boom of crane swings
sure as battle axe

wrecking ball
      crushes
old shop houses

in two years
new shopping mall

3.09.1989 (part 1)
3.06.2008 (part 65 millionth)
*********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

a weekend at Batam

2008-05-31T23:28:00.004+08:00

I spent the last weekend on the Indonesian island of Batam. The island is just slightly larger than Singapore, and only about 20 plus kilometers away.

With just such a short distance away, and an hour's ride on a high-speed ferry, it's like visiting your backyard. Just maybe a decade back, it is quite a backwaters place. But times are changing.

Batam is an island riding on the wave of development. Though there are still huge tracts of forests and vegetation around, you cannot miss the power pylons and transmission lines that are everywhere. And the base stations for cell phone communications, and antennae and satellite dishes sprouting from every roof like metallic head-wear.

photo and image by dsnake1

It was a trip back in time when I visited the lazy, laid-back village at Bagam on Sunday. The corrugated zinc roofs, the un-plastered walls of cinder blocks, some with paint jobs that are like afterthoughts. The scruffy children playing in the dust under the hot sun, begging you for another camera shot.

It was just like stepping back into the village in Singapore where I grew up as a child. The only reminders that you are back in the modern world are the TV antennae, poking out from every roof, a couple of SUVs in the backyards, cloth-lines of jeans, skirts, pajamas and some g-strings strung out to dry in the sun.

hello, world!

catching the breeze
trees and antennae.
winds of change

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

too bad about the poor quality of the photo, it's either the camera or the photographer. had to photoshop it a bit. :)

NightSky and Stars

2008-05-11T23:56:00.001+08:00

Here's something I wrote some time ago, and posted here before. It's one of my personal favourites.

I know, another re-post.

photo by Daniele Musella
image from morguefile.com

NightSky and Stars

      What myriad secrets you hold up there
      we can only boldly guess
      Your mysteries, time locked
      & unwilling yet to share.

What light i saw
could have been born a billion years before

you are ancient legends, retold over glowing fires
domains of the gods, we are told.
In time, as we grew wiser,
we dared, we probed your dark canvas.

Your depth, i could not fathom
the immense distance you span.
If i could live a million reincarnations,
i guess i could not traverse you from end to end.

Tonight, on such a cold night,
in a miniscule niche on a blue planet,
as i lift my eyes to the vastness above,
the stars, they spoke to me in lights of life.

On this planet, spinning, are we.
Solar Planetary System, #3

      ashes to earth to life to earth to ashes
      trilobites in shale, archaeopteryx in amber
      Beatles on wax, memories in silicon brains
      man chasing gold chasing dreams chasing fame

now what light i saw
could have been me a billion years before.

*** DEC 1987 ***

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

Rust

2008-05-04T00:10:00.003+08:00

The theme or phrase in Haikuworld's April 2008 kukai in the Free Format Section was "Rust". Again, I thought it was easy stuff...

Well, 4 points for the effort, and also a comment from a reader : "I really liked the combination of looking back _and_ moving on." Thank you for the comment. :)

Personally, I quite like the haiku too.

image from imageafter.com

Rust

missing dad.
sandpapering rust
off his old tool box.

and here is one that was not submitted :

rusted hulk of bike
abandoned at side of road.
journey's end.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

Re-post : i sat on the bunk bed and...

2008-04-20T23:52:00.002+08:00

Ran out of ideas, ran out of steam. I am feeling drained, so I will just post another re-post. Something I went through some time back, in the late 70s'.

I quite like this piece, though.

photo by Mark Miller
image from morguefile.com

i sat on the bunk bed and started thinking about home

After dinner I sat on the bunk bed and started thinking about home.
Not yet a week in a foreign land
and I missed my mother's soups,
the sooty air of our street,
the angry vehicles outside our flat fighting for space,
and the sparrows building nests on the eaves of our house.

This was a sorry excuse of an army camp,
wretched wooden huts
laid out in neat rows like gravestones
ringed by concertina, as pretty as Auschwitz,
Perhaps they had used these to store rice or horses.
We had mattresses so thin
they offered no comfort to aching bodies,
blankets so filthy I wondered at times
these were used to wrap corpses with.

The air in the bunk hung thick with indifference,
laced with stale cigarette smoke, sweaty fatigues,
cheap cologne, antiseptic soap.
The boys were treating this place like a motel,
just passing through, five weeks,
they had no time for niceties,
clean floors, flowers on tables,
just a place to sleep, drink, chat and gamble.

The boys were at it again, a hot game of blackjack,
maybe a dozen of them.
They were throwing money around like so much wastepaper;
greenbacks, Sing dollars, NT notes,
that mound of dreams multiplying, subtracting
at every turn of a card,
you think they were haggling over the price of fish
or meat or whores,
the conversation heavy with money and expletives.

I was thinking of my girl friend back home, her smile,
her curvy body, long legs, short skirts
when my buddy came over from the game and bummed me a cigarette.
His luck was going downhill
and like a good soldier he knows when to retreat.
Looking out of the window at the empty Taiwanese sky, he asked if
I was thinking of home, and I wondered how the hell he knew.

20. Nov 2005
*************

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

One of the few times I use capitals in a poem. :)

The Stairs

2008-04-06T22:12:00.001+08:00

This is one of the poems that I wrote for the Golden Point Award competition, but which I did not select for submission. One of the "rejects". :)

photo by Basela, enhanced by dsnake1
image from morguefile.com

The Stairs

just maybe 40 steps
of stained concrete
and a rusted rib
of a handrail
to reach my flat
on the 3rd floor,

but have to keep
those eyes wide open
not just for
the silly love poems
or death threats
on the walls,

but that pool
of rancid vomit
from some heroin junkie,
or the shards of
smashed bottles
from a gang fight.

sometimes slumped
in a corner
of two greasy walls, a kid
not more than twelve,
who thinks nirvana
is a can of glue,

eyes hollow, the brain
all slushed
by the fumes
the air, sour and putrid
from the turpentine
hangs like a heavy cloak.

you think this is a war zone?
these people with the wary eyes
the thin mean lips
taut muscles
ready to spring
as i go past these
this city in pain
telling myself
i am just passing through
i am just passing through

13.07.07
********

This piece is a little bleak, don't you think? And I am not too sure the last strophe fits with the rest of the poem.

February kukai : Night Life

2008-03-23T00:15:00.002+08:00

The theme or phrase in Haikuworld's February 2008 kukai in the Free Format Section was "Night Life". I sent in an entry and I managed a total of... 1 point.

I thought writing about night life was a piece of cake... :)

image by dsnake1

Night Life

neon lit pavement
click of stiletto heels
on hard concrete

And here's another three that I wrote but didn't submit.

i.

early morning rain.
traffic lights flickered
at empty road junction.

ii.

moon veiled by clouds
bats fluttered down from viaducts
looking for fruits.

iii.

last night bus
pulls out of terminus.
i try to catch some sleep.

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

Award

2008-03-23T00:02:00.002+08:00

This blog has been awarded an "E for Excellent" badge from Snake's Poetry.

Thank you, Deborah Vatcher, for this honour.

mood of the day

a mercenary's tale

2008-03-10T00:38:00.002+08:00

It has been another busy week, and I have to dig up some old stuff again. I have posted this piece before, very early on in this blog. I must have read too many fantasy stories when I wrote this.

I wrote this poem about a soldier telling his love about his adventures. It is an imaginary tale but it could have happened in any civilization, any war.

I will try to get back to my normal rants soon. :)

you sat by the steppe's fire
absently stirring the flaming embers
as sparks crackled
in the cold wintry night
you sat listening , intently
to my tales of slaughter
i and my horse-sword
how i rode with the devil's forces
i knew you did not blame me
why i sold my sword for money

the Central Plains i rode
are bleak and barren
vultures & wild hounds picked on
diseased bones
a hundred years of war
the reasons long murky
as the ashes that swirled
between the fiefdoms
kings and dukes and serfs
fell like scythed hay
ragged troops plundered
flaming arrows torched
ravaged villages
the dead left as they fell
amid ruined harvests..

you sat listening intently
the light of the fire bouncing off
your liquid eyes
the glow on your face
more beautiful than dawn's light.

June 1991
revised 08.03.2008
*********

images and poem © cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

that you left me

2008-02-25T02:11:00.002+08:00

Sometimes, in moments of quiet solitude,the past catches up with you and holds your hand...

painting by Albrecht Duerer (1471 - 1528)
image from visipix.com

that you left me

i was afraid
time will erase
your memories

your smiles

and i am
getting old

so today
i will just
write

some words

i cannot
send you
a card
like before

or take your
hands in mine

and point to
the stars
in the sky

take this as
a poem

for you

and if you
have read it
you will smile

and would
have cried.

28.01.08
********

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1)

for the new year

2008-02-17T23:20:00.001+08:00

Here's some thoughts for the new year...(okay, I know this is Febraury, but I have been very busy, and I plan to go slow this year )

After the last sparks of fireworks extinguished from the skies of the cities, and auld lang synes were sung, and ships tooted their foghorns, beer and wines were drunk and confetti flung in the air, after the songs and handshakes, did we resolve to make this world a better place than last year's? Will the guns that fire in anger stay silent longer, will prejudice be tempered with reason?

For last year's words belong to last year's language and next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning. -- T. S. Eliot

photo by Apple
image enhanced by dsnake1

will the new year

will

the new day
be

like
    water
       from
the rainfall
       that
    runs
with the
dead leaves
into
the culverts,
to be
lost,
knowing
they
cannot fight
the
pull of
gravity,

or

like the
sunrays
of the
    new
       morning,
scattering
       off
    tree leaves,
the eaves
of buildings,
    angular
       and sharp,
    filling
every corner
every crevice,
    curious,
       piercing

and free

?

31/12/07
********
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

tagged !

2008-02-13T22:30:00.004+08:00

I have been tagged by Gautami again. :)

This time, it's called a 10 for 10 and I am required to say 10 things about myself in verse. So here it is, in no particular order..

10 for 10

i)

it's strange, i can take any whisky,
beer, fruit juice, the bitterest of tea,
but a tiny drop of coffee
is like the deadliest poison to me.

ii)

people keep as pets, dogs, cats, canaries.
me, i once had a baby python.
no, that's not how i got this nick.
that will be another long story.

iii)

when i said i lived in singapore,
they said, ah, that's china?
and i said it's 1 degree 18 minutes north,
and 103 degrees 50 minutes east.
which tends to make things worse.

iv)

rock blasting from hi-fi.
irate neighbour
pounds on front door.

v)

i love to go a-cycling
on my mountain bike
but lately i couldn't do it
as much as i like.
(it's the damn work, baby)

vi)

i like them all, Owen,
Blake, Levine, Komunyakaa,
finest vintage,
but the flavour of the moment
is old Bukowski.

vii)

i wanted to be a journalist,
visit the hot spots,
travel the world for free.
ended up in technology.
dreams sometimes
don't end up as you wished.

viii)

"no candles no cakes no golden key
just a lighted cigarette passed around
comrades
a gulp of contraband beer
the impatient fingering of weapons"

excerpts from [ 21 ]

ix)

oh, school was a bore and a slog.
played the fool.
thought it was cool.
oh, life now is a bore and a slog

x)

thinking hard about the tenth
but the mind's a hazy blank.
right in front's a brick wall,
so folks, i guess that's all.

12.02.08
*********

End of bad verses. Normal transmission will resume in a few days...

Taking a break..

2008-02-01T23:06:00.000+08:00

image by dsnake1
scanned from a greeting card

I am taking a break (seems i have a habit of taking breaks recently) for the Chinese New Year.

It's just around the corner, on February 7th, and I have loads of things to do. There's the little matter of cleaning the house. Throwing away some junk. There are new clothes to get ( a must!). Food. Sweets. Candies. Oranges. Oh yes, beer. Lots of trips to the malls.

Without the last minute, there won't be any work done. I thrive on that. So I will be missing for a while, but knowing the junkie in me, I will sneak onto the Net when there is an opportunity.

Gong Xi Fa Cai to all my friends and readers!

That's it.

2008-01-27T23:02:00.000+08:00

photo by Aidairi
image from morguefile.com

That's it, folks. The 8 poems I sent for the Golden Point Award competition.

I wrote about a dozen for the competition, but I chose these 8. I thought these were the meanest and strongest of the bunch. Well, maybe it was not mean enough (or it was too loud for the judges' liking).

Another 3 or 4 that didn't make the cut are languishing somewhere in my thumb drive. Maybe one day, I will post those rejects too, if I should run out of ideas or steam. :)

before the next day

2008-01-20T23:25:00.000+08:00

This is the 8th and final poem from my Golden Point Award entry.

I ended with this poem in the collection because, well, I am describing the end of a working day in Bukit Merah.

photo by kevin rosseel
image from morguefile.com

before the next day

the day is done.

vehicles swept past honking
angrily, red tail lights flaring
in the darkening dusk.

a light rain began to fall,
cold and unfeeling
on lengthening shadows

that glowering street lights
wrung from trees and metal,
smacking them down

on hard concrete
to writher in jerky throes
in the scattering rain.

we walked in the drizzle
out of the prisons of
the factories, the warehouses,

not really caring,
glad that the day
is over and done,

that it rained in June
that our cigarette tips
still burn red and hot

in the cold rain,
smoke trailing like lost dreams
as the world winded down,

going home to a hot dinner,
to sons and daughters,
to soft moments with lovers,

before the next day catches up again.

22.06.07
********
© cheong lee san (dsnake1)

the gods are watching over us in the morning

2008-01-13T23:52:00.000+08:00

This is the 7th poem in the collection that I submitted to the GPA 2007 competition.

This poem tries to capture the sights and sounds of a morning in Bukit Merah.

photo by Jason Webber
image from morguefile.com

the gods are watching over us in the morning

in the half light that is the dawn over
the blocks of flats, when the night wind
gently slaps discarded papers and dead leaves
along the long expanse of corridor of our block,

i leave for work, my cigarette smoke mingling
with the perfumed incense my old neighbour lighted
to the God of Heaven, praying for safe passage
through the day for her and her loved ones.

then i walked past doors protected by talismans,
baguas, even cruxifixes, past homes guarded by waifs
of pomeranians that snarled from behind locked gates,
their barks, shrill and indignant, in the cool air,

go past flowerpots with plants badly in need
of watering, down the stairs through the coffeeshop,
through harsh fluorescent lights and whiffs of toast,
past grizzled old men drinking coffee from saucers,

then meet the hordes of sleepy-eyed children
sleepwalking to schools, the grandmothers
shuffling to the wet market to haggle over
fishes and vegetables.

the same gods are watching over us all.

revised 20.07.07
****************
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

and a time for love

2008-01-06T22:18:00.000+08:00

This is the 6th poem in my collection I sent for the GPA competition.

This is actually part of a longer poem that I have but I took out some parts and use it as part of this series, as it was in Bukit Merah that I found my love.

It is not always gloom and doom in that housing estate, far from it. There's chivalry,compassion, love, honesty among the folks. Sure, it's a tough neighbourhood, sometimes blood was spilled, and it's always these sensational stuff that got noticed, not the ones about neighbours looking after the disabled kids, the smiles and greetings of a close-knit community.

photo by Hannes Keller
image from visipix.com

and a time for love

the scimitar of a moon
hung delicately in a cobalt dome
of dancing stars

as the rain trees
spread their arms their leaves
rustled in a chorus of joy

they see love blossoming

her hands in mine
warm as morning's light, quiet
there was no need for words

we looked up laughing

through the chatter of
the crickets, the cicada bands
tried to catch Sirius in our hands

31/07/2007
**********
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

jasmine

2007-12-30T23:35:00.000+08:00

This is the 4th poem in my collection I sent for the GPA 2007 poetry competition.

It is said that if you dropped out of school, the males turn to the gangs, and the females turn to the nightclubs and cabarets, for the only assets they have are their good looks and bodies. Such is the tragedy of the lost and under-privileged.

Sorry about something this bleak to end the year.

drawing by dsnake1
image scanned and enhanced by dsnake1

jasmine

jasmine squatted with her friends
at the stair landing.
she was spiking her cigarette
with heroin,
pushing the white stuff in
with a earpick, then wetting
the paper before lighting it.
jasmine, not yet eighteen,
was pretty, but her eyes
spoke with suicidal fury.
tonight she was wearing
a tight spaghetti strap top
accentuating her firm breasts
and a short mini-skirt
showing off those silky legs.

soon after her fix,
she will go down these stairs
and hail a taxi
to the cabaret where she works.
you think i want this life,
she would ask me
let those lechers touch me?
no, she's in for the money,
everyone's bleeding her for the money
her parents, her siblings
her useless junkie boyfriend.
there were always almost tears
in those mascaraed eyes.
that's why she smokes the smack
trying to forget the pain, the shame.
carrying the weight of many
parasites on those rounded shoulders
she stood up,
straightened her skirt
and went down those grimy stairs
in her stilettos,
in clothes
that were not meant
for her age.

03/09/06
********
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

to jasmine, and peg and annie and linda, wherever they are now.

tagged!

2007-12-28T23:57:00.000+08:00

I have been tagged by Gautami to do a hoopla.

the rules of this hoopla?

List 12 random things about yourself that have to do with Christmas.

Pass this hoopla along to your blog friends.

Okay, I will list some random things, but I won't be passing this hoopla along.:)

1. I am a Buddhist but observe Christmas, not as a religious, but more of a social occasion. My sisters are Christians.

2. I used to exchange gifts at Christmas with my parents and siblings, but this practice has stopped since my mother passed away.

3. Nowadays, I just buy gifts for my nephews and nieces.

4. When I was younger and just had my own flat, I used to set up a Christmas tree in the hall and decorate it with all sorts of ornaments and lights.

5. I always have some liquor on Christmas.

6. I bought a PlayStation Portable (game console) for my daughter this Christmas. (Ouch, that hurts the pocket)

7. I think Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" is the best Christmas story of all.

8. I only learned about the poinsettia being associated with Christmas only in adult life, from an article about the flower in The Reader's Digest.

Another beer

2007-12-23T22:08:00.000+08:00

This is the 3rd poem in the collection of my GPA 2007 poetry submission.

When I was younger I loved to drink. For the blue-collar slobs like us at that time, the poison of choice was beer. There's nothing like a few friends emptying beer bottles at a table. Cheers. :)

photo by clarita
image from morguefile.com

Another beer

the table top was a map
of battle sites or
was it the rings
of an old tree?
anyway
the empty bottles
were lined up
like stacks of
brown chimneys.
my friend stubbed
out his cigarette
on the said formica top
chain smoked another
and
tried to jab a slice
of century egg into
his mouth
all at the same time
and i was thinking i
had had enough
of this shit.
i was leaning back
on the chair
trying very hard
not to fall
when the beer girl
with the tight t-shirt
came over trying to
convince us
to buy another beer.

21.07.07
********
© dsnake1

hell notes

2007-12-18T23:06:00.000+08:00

This is the 5th poem from my collection for the GPA 2007 competition.

This poem was written in a short span of time, almost no editing on it. And I think I quite like it, despite the morbid subject. I chopped it up in certain parts, like the snatches of conversations, or the outpourings of grief we witness at a Taoist funeral wake, which this poem is all about.

I am skipping the sequence and posting this piece first, because a good friend had recently passed away.

painting by Kawanabe Kyosai (1831 - 1889)
image from visipix.com

hell notes

they said
one moment
he was living
then a slight twitch
of muscles
fingers grasping

air

a page, a name
then when the ink dried
the book gently closed
the death god
dragged its chains
and sighed

and what is left
a face a name
a string
of memories
a portrait
in front
of a coffin

paper gold
to bribe

and a light
from an
oil lamp

to guide

the way

08.02.07
********
© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 )

nights on a thin mattress

2007-12-15T22:32:00.000+08:00

This is the 2nd poem of my collection I submitted to the GPA poetry competition.

This poem is about the time I was staying at a rented flat in Bukit Merah. It was crowded, but it was fun, and we were never short of arguments.

photo by Dyet
image from morguefile.com

nights on a thin mattress

there are, how many?
eight, nine people in the flat,
packed, but what to do,
at least got roof over head.
we don't have many places to go,
besides it's troublesome outside,
cops call you over
because they don't like your face.
so we just talk, bum cigarettes
turn on the half gone tv,
if nothing in the box then
roll out our thin mattresses
try to catch some sleep.

sometimes maybe 2 am,
there are sounds of breaking glass,
shouts, taunts, bad language.
some stupid drunks downstairs
at the coffeeshop
are playing muay thai.
we come out to the corridor,
shirtless in the hot night,
see if blood is spilt.
then some hothead from upstairs
would lean over the parapet screaming,
nabeh, shut the fuck up
i am coming down with a knife.

and the night is all peaceful again.

written 24.06.06
revised 17.07.07
****************
© dsnake1

Letters from Bukit Merah

2007-12-15T22:12:00.000+08:00

This is the first poem in the collection of English poetry that I submitted for the Golden Point Award competition.

It does not even look like a poem, and on hindsight, maybe I should not have submitted it. But the damage has been done. First impression counts. The idea is, by using this, it serves as an introduction, to the subject and theme that is to follow.

So, here's the hors d'oeuvre.

image by dsnake1

Letters from Bukit Merah

Because the rent is cheap,
and i do not have much money,

and it is only a ten minutes
walk to my workplace,
what would you have done in my shoes?

17.05.07
********
© dsnake1

Note : Bukit Merah is one of the earliest public housing estates in Singapore.

not

2007-12-08T10:02:00.000+08:00

Received a polite snail mail from The Arts House a few days ago :

Dear Mr Cheong,

GOLDEN POINT AWARD 2007

Thank you for your participation and interest in the Golden Point Award 2007

I regret to inform you that your entry/entries has/have not been successful.

Thank you for your interest in the competition. We hope that blah blah...

image by dsnake1

The "not" is both in bold and underlined. Hmm, there goes the 15 bucks. Back to the drawing board. Or writing pad or keyboard. No regrets taking part though.

And all this means I can start posting my entries here. If I can just shake off this lethargy from this blogging break.

And by the way, the winners have been announced. Just a tiny report on the 6th December issue of The Straits Times. Wasn't sure if it was reported in the other language papers.

Congratulations to Mr. Ma Huaqi, a literature undergraduate from the University of Queensland, Australia, who won the English poetry prize. Oh, yes, congrats to the other winners too in the other language sections and categories.

You can read about it here though there's no excerpts from the winning entries.

Repost : Rain&Night

2007-11-25T00:09:00.000+08:00

Tied down by work this week, so I will make do with a repost. And I will be taking a short break from blogging again. :)

photo by ronnieb
image from morguefile.com

Rain&Night

lightning roll lazily across the night sky
     like bad fluorescence,
the sky, blushing palely then,
meets this sudden outburst of light
like startled lovers
     & blushes again.

the rain, beating its sleep song on apartment blocks,
     lashes on plastic awnings,
grime caked walls, as
a bamboo of clothes fluttered on one high floor
forlorn, defeated.

down below on the playground
     devoid of children,
no sounds of taunts, laughter
but the drum roll of thunder.
the metal slides, the ladders, the rusted monkey rails,
like exposed fossilized bones of beasts long gone,
     thrusting out of rock.

a wet mongrel , growling
     lurches across this wastescape
its howl, a puny protest
against the thunder
     that rocked across the sullen night sky...

9.10 pm, 15-Nov-1977
revised 28-Sep-2005
© dsnake1
*******************

another day

2007-11-11T22:32:00.000+08:00

There comes a time when you have no good words for anything. Working through the weekends makes it worse. :)

photo by kevin rosseel
image from morguefile

another day

you silence the alarm clock,
looking at the still
dark dawn outside,
wondering
if you will make it
through another day
and why not, as you sit
by the edge of the bed
answering
your own questions,
how many years
have gone by like this?

you drag yourself stiffly
to the bathroom
the lights alien and harsh,
go through the rituals,
staring at the face in the mirror
mulling
how the lines have deepened,
comb what little hair
there is left
on the head, stringy & mad.

you shower, dress and pick
your combat gear
take a gulp of last night's coke,
open the door and
walk out to the colosseum,
fumbling
for a nicotine fix
to do battle with the lions
and beasts of the day,
hoping that it will be kind.

08/11/52
********

mood of the day

trying to write a poem

2007-11-04T19:37:00.000+08:00

It's getting harder to write something that makes sense these past days. The pencil hovers over the paper, the fingers rest on the keyboard. That's about all.

Try to enjoy the following piece. :)

photo from morguefile.com

trying to write a poem

it took me
a full hour
to write these
few words
maybe
there was more
but i thought
i deleted
them away
it was
so simple
anyway
i am not
too sure
it's 1 a.m.
plus
and i can't sleep
i am trying
hard not to
notice
that last
cigarette
in the box
as i try to
write
the Greatest Poem

in the world
but it won't
happen now

work has a
nasty way
of emptying
your brain

29/10/07
********

mood of the day

2007-11-03T23:38:00.000+08:00

Singapore Writers Festival
1 Dec to 9 Dec 2007

( that's when i know the results of my Golden Point Award poetry submissions )

after work

2007-10-28T19:29:00.000+08:00

I work shifts, so sometimes when i knocked off work, it's way past 8 p.m. It's a lousy time, because the rest of the night is usually ruined. I told myself that's not so bad, hey, there are some that's just starting work at this hour...

Have to put food on the table...

I think the following poem could be better, but I am too tired to edit anymore. :)

image enhanced by dsnake1
photo from imageafter.com

after work

the night smothered me
in a sweaty embrace,
i wiped the condensation
off my glasses,
waved to the guards
as i walked out of
the compound,
the chain-link
fence.

across the road
a whiff of
cooked spices
from the restaurants
piqued my hunger,
as cars and buses
thundered past
red tail lights
flaring
angry and red.

i walked,
boots cruching on
dead leaves, twigs,
taking my time,
my fitness is
not what it used to be,
the heart aches
in more reasons
than one.

tonight i was lucky,
the damn bus
was not late,
nor was it packed
to the rafters,
but the driver
was still sullen.
and that

i can understand.

12/10/07
********

mood of the day

my old sergeant

2007-10-21T15:01:00.000+08:00

Hi folks, back from my break!

I met a person from my old days, and the following poem is the result of that meeting. Hope it's good. ( I kind of like it, but maybe I am biased.) :)

photo by clarita
more images from morguefile

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
********

mood of the day

Taking a break..

2007-10-14T22:16:00.000+08:00

Taking a break from blogging and poetry. Hope to be back in a week. :)

image from freeimages.com

Haibun : Rush Hour

2007-10-07T21:06:00.000+08:00

Trying my hand at a haibun. Hope it works.

I have been working throughout the weekend, didn't have much time to clean up this one. :)

image enhanced by dsnake1
from a photo from freefoto.com

Rush Hour

It is morning rush hour, and an earlier thunderstorm does not help matters. The roads and pavements are wet and slick. The school kids with their heavy haversacks pace themselves like condemned prisoners. They are already weary and the day has only just started. The adults waiting at the bus stop are just as gloomy. It is a lousy day to be out in the streets. The cars and buses are lined up bumper to bumper, waiting for the traffic lights to change. Somewhere an angry horn sounds, someone is getting very very impatient.

green man turns red
old uncle with cane
starts to cross road

01/10/07
********

mood of the day