our old home

The prompt at Poets and Storytellers United asks us what conjures up "Home". There are perhaps many images that do that, and I would like to share this old poem (written and published here about a decade ago) about an old place I grew up in.

pencil sketch by dsnake1



our old home


looking out of the taxi from the viaducts
of the expressway

i saw the lights in the huge yards bathing the port
like day

the containers stacked as neatly as colourful
lego bricks

the cranes over them like metal brachiosauruses
breathing steam


once upon a time my cousin and i
catch catfishes

where the giant ships at the wharves
now berthed

not caring about the stings
or drowning


today as the last evening lights
scattered off

offices and warehouses ringed by a
chain-link fence

casting shadows and memories on a
concrete strip

there used to stand a house where I
called home.



15/11/2013
**********

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"Tomorrow, we will be flying over the South China Sea
& home"

dsnake1 - lonely when away from home

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2023

happening at a riot near you

Rosemary at Poets & Storytellers United would like us to be inspired by the phrase, ‘broken glass crunching under the boot steps', and write a poem or story about it.

digital montage by dsnake1 with GIMP



happening at a riot near you


             Juan get back into the house!

but Juan watch the sergeant raise his baton
a row of riot guns raise like palisades
the arcs of the smoke actually graceful
the cartridges snaking, rolling
between cars
                sneakers
                 trash bins
       barricades
and
    run ning feet
and courage is not a word to say
when the air wants to tear out your eyes
your lungs.

the soldiers raise their shields and batons
their boots in step
                 in step
the phalanx rolls on
metal teeth of a meat grinder

swish cruch crunch bish craack

Juan wants to be a man
but Juan is still a boy

I am a boy! I AM A BOY!

even the blackbirds rise like shrapnel and flee

broken glass crunching under the boot steps
blood faithfully follows the cracks in the asphalt.



06/07/2023
**********

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Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - Ohio

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2023

Lavender Street, early 60's

The name is a misnomer.

pencil sketch by dsnake1



Lavender Street
early 60's


i have no idea where the bus
ends its jouney this side of town
but i know the other end because
it leads me to my school
but every morning in the pre dawn
my father would accompany me
cross the road and wait at the bus stop
for the number 11 bus to arrive.

this is not a reputable piece of town
known for its knife fights and such
so my dad tags along for he is stocky
and muscular so no one would want
to mess with me or the tank,
but he lets me carry my heavy school bag.
i suppose he keeps his hands free,
you know, just in case.

we wait in the semi darkness of the bus shelter
sometimes he lights a cigarette
maybe it is the long wait,
or the wind was right that morning
blowing the smell of decaying logs
from the sawmills and clogged rivers
just behind the rust-eaten metal bus stop.

i would not be thinking of school

i would be thinking about the temple just down the road
a temple with an idol of a wooden horse, life size,
black with soot from the daily incense
its body and neck plastered thick with gold paper
i wonder what the devotees were praying for.

and the bus would come, clunking, wheezing.
my dad would bundle me up the thing
leave without a word or a wave
as he prepares for his work day
and the first sun rays of the day
bursting over the tanks of the gasworks
lights the town with fingers of gold.


written 06/01/2015
revised 27/05/2019
***************

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U2 - Where The Streets Have No Name

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

guns

When I was a child living in the inner city, my parents or my uncle would take us kids to an amusement park near our home. In the early days before tv or the super malls, these parks were the go-to spots of entertainment for the masses. Besides the usual ferris wheels, carousels, and bumper cars were the game stalls and joget dance halls. There were also the gun stalls where there was always a small crowd watching. Perhaps the sound of splintering glass attracts or they just liked to see a shooter fails.

image by dsnake1



guns


1962

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

      up above a full moon
      scattered its light
      on the fairground


1972

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

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


written on 28/05/2012
minor edit 25/02/2021
******************


This poem was published here on this blog before. Little eyeballs. Here we go again.

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Daryl Hall & John Oates - Screaming Through December

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

old stamps of america

I used to collect stamps. Maybe the first presents I received when I was a kid was a stamp album and some stamps. Later on, I narrowed my focus and collected only American stamps. The good old U.S.A. Don't ask me why. Perhaps the stamps are of a uniform size, making it easy to display in an album. I no longer collect stamps now, but the old albums are still with me.

photo by dsnake1


old stamps of america


i used to chase them down
like a bounty hunter
in decrepit old malls
dimly lit shops

from the elderly man
spreading out his wares
on a plastic sheet at Thieves' Market.

tracked them down
like a bloodhound
then locked them up
in made-in-china albums.

i have them all, the flags,
the battles, the presidents,
air mails, space missions, native arts.

amerika! amerika!
i know more about you
than my own country.
it is a strange hobby.

i could go chase skirts
write poetry, get into trouble
but gone crazy over stamp collecting!


written : early 1990's
revised : dec 2013
****************

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Simon & Garfunkel - America

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

The New World

There was no internet then and the bright lights beckon..

photo by 272447 at pixabay



The New World
1960's


The old Sikh gatekeeper looked at our tickets with suspicion, he knew we were always trying to sneak in, but after that he gave us a toothy smile and waved us on.

We were wondering why the lady at the shooting gallery did not cut her fingers on all that broken glass but the little yellow metal ducks were all in a really bad shape.

Mick smuggled a stick into the Haunted Train Ride and afterwards told us that ghosts could scream in pain and swear bad words after he whacked one with the said stick.

Shan wanted an ice-cream, the seller was waving his bell like a magic wand, but there was really not enough cash amongst us, and i passed her my half bottle of soda.

At the bumper car rides, we watched the older boys and girls flirting with each other, their hands all over the place except the steering wheels and i held Shan's hand tighter.

In the dance hall, the women in their tight kerbayas were bored, waiting for the men to press a ticket to their hands, all the while the band was playing joget and cha-cha.

A light rain was falling on us, the night hastily gathering its clouds, the people shuffling to the exits, and the carousels and teacup rides stood empty in the dimming lights.


07/06/2020
**********

---

When I was a kid, my uncle brought me to this huge amusement park, full of lights and rides. "This is called the New World", he said, "Just what Columbus called when he discovered the Americas".

Of course Columbus didn't discover the Americas. But this New World near our home certainly had many interesting sights to explore. So me and my pals had spent many fun days and nights there.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

the stories are a bit grim

It's tough when you have almost nothing. No water. No electricity. Just a hut. And your wits.

colour pencil sketch by dsnake1
(a copy of Mondrian's Composition C)



the stories are a bit grim



In the morning the sun brushes our squatter huts
           with loving fingers of gold.

The politicians thump chests and assure us
      that our squatter village is safe.

An old man lives in an abandoned pill box
      and sells candy by day.

Aunt goes early to the market to pick
           discarded vegetables to make achar.

Little Brother is playing with the mothballs again,
           oh please not the mouth!

Some out-of-towners lost their way
           but we do not speak English well.

Me and cousins raid the pill box for candy,
           find only old books and blades.

The kind fisherman gives me and sister
           a big catch of wrasses, all for 30 cents.

Dad comes back from work and says
           someone is shipping missiles to Cuba.

Some nights, the groans and noises from
           the neighbours' thin walls are too loud

We get very paranoid when the police comes visiting,
           it has to be something big.

Surely, we are not having pigeon soup
           with wolfberries again, it's awful!

Mother says go back to sleep but the neighbours
           are fighting like wild cats.

Little Sister is out in the yard playing
           with the chicks, squeezing them.

Some shore-leave sailors lost their way
           and pretend to take pictures of us.

Uncle asks how does a man flies three times
           around the world, folding his paper.

For a week the cops come, plain-clothes,
           shoving mugshots into our faces.

We are expecting something better
           for dinner tonight other than missiles.

Government officials come and tell us
           that our huts have to make way for a port.

Dad says we are moving to the city core
           but the stories there are a bit grim.



10/09/2019
**********

A variant of a ghazal. Doesn't look like one? I think this is a better option for that damn poetry competition.

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Procol Harum - A Salty Dog

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

Fighting Kites

Kids living in a time when there were no game consoles and smartphones...

artwork by ractapopulous at pixabay



Fighting Kites
early 60's, South Quay


The spines we make from the stalks of attap leaves.
That's easy, we just pulled some
From the roofs of neighbours' houses.

The body we fashion from paper used for baking.
It is tough and light and free,
Yes we snuck from aunty's kitchen too.

Sometimes if in the mood we paint a fearsome
Pair of demon's eyes on the kite,
Big and wild, black pupils and thick brows.

And the string, it is an art. We pound broken glass
Until they are tiny shards of terror,
Mix it with a paste of starch and rice.

And coat this on a roll of twine that is strung
Between two stakes on the ground.
When it is dried we have our No.1 fighting string.

Then we wait impatiently for the wind.

We let it up, a little paper devil, a dragon
Riding the air, rising to the clouds
Roaming free, looking for prey, for some blood.

We, my cousins and i, seldom lose, our deadly strings
Killing the competition like knives.
Such is our reputation most pull down their kites.

Then this bunch of boys heads home when dark.

Faces dirty, shirts stained (sometimes shirtless)
Fingers and palms bloodied and scarred
And our mothers yelling to us for dinner.



written 10/05/2006
revised 01/08/2018
****************

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As we huddle for the next evil scheme : Playing For Change - Stand By Me

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

The Hands of My Father

This is another poem written, but not submitted, for the 2015 Golden Point Award competition. It was inspired by my father, a carpenter and construction worker .

photo by StockSnap at pixabay




The Hands of My Father



And I see my father
When he brings his hands
Down
From lighting a cigarette
I see his calloused hands
That had hammered nails
And sawn wood in the noon sun
His eyes
Like the eyes of a beast
Staring deeply into the dark.
Today, under the light
Of a pressure lamp
He reads the day’s news
The paper all greasy and crumpled
From passing through many hands

And his hands
Like the hands of his ancestors
Who only knew the rough feel of wood
How the grain runs and cracks
How to fashion them to beams, struts,
Pillars, tables and stools
The companionship of measures and
Saws, hammers, planes and chalk lines
Took that cigarette to his lips
Holding it between index and middle
Fingers
And in that brief moment
In that brief glow of light
I see what love and pride is


And even today after so many years
That he had left us
To join his ancestors,
When someone lights
A cigarette,
Cupping the flame in the palms
I see those leathery hands again.



Written 09/05/2015
Revised 19/11/2016

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"as did my forebears before me
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."

-- dsnake1, Toolshed

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

lessons

To all the teachers that had bear with me, stood by me, thank you!

photo by geralt at pixabay



lessons


When the form teacher announced that morning that one of our classmates had left us we were not sure of the message, what it really meant. You see, what do primary one kids know about accidents and death? He fell into a well at home last night and that's that. He was a quiet kid, well-mannered, and we may miss him.

Miss Wee went out of the classroom, in between English lessons, a few times, I think, to dry her tears. The mood was somewhat sombre, we were quite well behaved for the rest of the day, even the class bully did not try to lift the skirts of the girls.

Then came the end of school day, and as Miss Wee dismissed us, we came running out to the patch of forest near the school, took out our empty match boxes, threw down our bags and plunged into the tall grasses to catch fighting spiders.

school bell rings -
chalk dust
on the teacher's hair



written 05/10/2016
revised 22/03/2018
******************

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"We break rules. We break their hearts. Yet we may not break their spirits." - dsnake1


And if you are thinking of them : Lulu - To Sir With Love

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

when the air flames

I was a eleven year old kid when I witnessed my first racial riot. Or rather the aftermath of it. My mother braved all that violence to fetch me from school, travelling a considerable distance by bus and foot.

This was also written for the Golden Point Awards 2015 competition.

ink/pencil sketch by dsnake1



when the air flames over the colour of skin


From my window I watched the flames from the torches lighting up the night air and the Chinese gangsters waving their parangs and staffs, shouting to march to Kampong Glam and the Gasworks, and in that moment, the thrusting, waving blades held more terror than all the spirits of the netherworld.

They would gather and talk later the next day, in the shop houses, the temples, over coffee and cigarettes, of last night’s battles, comparing scars, deep as the schisms of the colour of skin. How many Malays did you slashed last night, or were you chopped at instead? Did you run when the police raised their guns?

Of course I do not understand all these then, the burning cars in the streets, the acrid smoke drifting into our homes, and the eyes of the neighbours, all seething with anger and loathing. Neither my parents could tell me, didn’t great aunt treat her Malay driver like family, do we not miss their kueh when we moved to the city?

The nights have been dark
And our heroes are dead.


10/05/2015
**********

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"Do not give them a reason!"
-- A Baltimore man, during the 2015 riots, standing between a line of police and angry protesters, trying to quell the aggression.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

old graffiti

This is from my 2009 NaPoWriMo archives.

When I was younger, I used to write down my thoughts on paper with a pencil, in bound journals and ring notebooks. Most were just rants and doggerel. Much was thrown away. Maybe I shouldn't have. There were some decent and very good poetry (i think), like those in the period just after my military service, that were lost when I moved from place to place. My heart still aches when I think about it. :(

photo by dsnake1




old graffiti




it was just
rows of
faded pencil marks
on a yellowed page

scratched in a naive hand
brash but unsure
small steps
like a baby's

searching
for words
for that
great poem

even the strokes
were angry
the mood
probably too

but the elusive
creatures,the words
stayed hidden
buried

and that was why
that poem
never met
the light

of day


09/04/2009
**********

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“Sometimes things become possible if we want them bad enough.”

― T.S. Eliot


Shared on Poetry Pantry #314 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

bernadette

Some time in the not-too-distant past, there was this little skill and past-time called letter writing. Words were not a string of zeroes and ones, but were ink on paper, and arrived in envelopes with postmarks. Sometimes, it takes weeks to reach you, which is unthinkable of now. But the joy of it, when you see the letter in the mailbox (a real physical box of metal nailed to a wall)

I had a pen-pal from a neighbouring country. We exchanged letters and first day covers regularly. And then, like all good things, it came to an end. The letters became less and less, a trickle, and finally ceased. I guessed we each had our own needs and priorities to attend to. But it was a great experience while it lasted.

pencil sketch by dsnake1





bernadette




but it was not to be

i could have taken
a train
to meet you.
we could even have
met halfway
at Kluang
have a coffee
shake hands

but we just write
our letters

and then
other things
          came
and took over our
time

and the letters
became less

and
less

and then

it was not to be.




nov 2011
********


to bernadette, wherever you may be.

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"Thus having spoke she turned away and though I found no words to say
I stood and watched until I saw her black cloak disappear."

-- Uriah Heep, Lady in Black


Shared on Poetry Pantry #313 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

Open-air Cinema, South Quay, 1960's

Here's something I remembered from my childhood. Ah, those simple days.

I have posted this sometime back, as a response to a 'photo challenge'. I think it is not too well written, as a poem. It feels too casual and conversational. I have thought of revising it, but well, it's nearly ten years already.

photo by DMedina, image from morguefile.com




Open-air Cinema, South Quay, 1960's



You lucky people today would have laughed and knocked
it down as a dilapidated caricature of a movie house,
the rust-bitten zinc sheets carving a rectangle perimeter
like a stalag wall, no roof, and weeds sprouting all around.

Back then in the village, it was the happening place,
the gossip exchange, the pub, the children's playground,
the lovers' night out, a respite from a hard day.

For 30 cents you may have a blockbuster, but bring your own chair
or stool, or better still lug a sofa, sure there are benches
but they are all filled up if you arrive late and they are not
comfortable to begin with and rumoured to be bug infested.

By sundown the projectionist is testing his equipment
shooting a beam of light onto the screen.

Excuse the kids, they are young and bored
and have great imaginations and this is the signal
for them to jump up on their seats and wave their hands around
in the path of the light throwing shadows of birds, rabbits, dogs
onto the screen, they are such artists.

Excuse the ah pek beside you, he is here for the show, not shadow play,
he will soon be swearing profusely in hokkien
nabeh nabeh nabeh

Excuse also the local louts, cracking melon seeds
puffing away like smoke-stacks, and wolf-whistling
at every skirt that passes their way.

Sure, sometimes there are fist fights in the stands
even before the slaughter begins on the screen
but what's a little side entertainment, no problem.

When the sky above your head is dark, the show starts,
the operator dims the lights, the projectionist
cranks up the volume to sadistic heights,
the giant bullhorn speakers shuddering every wall.

other than that it's your typical wholesome family cinema,
sit back and relax, enjoy Hollywood and Hong Kong in your backyard.

Sometimes it rains, the show goes on, you make tough decisions,
take a chance with the lightning or go home, there are no refunds.

Just as you learn later in life.


01/06/2006
**********



pardon the formatting, playing havoc with the lines. :)

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It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?”

― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2015

you are a starfish on a beach

When I was a kid, my mother told me a story about the cops coming for a relative. He had two guns with him. I did not know what he had the guns for. And I did not ask. I did not see him much, perhaps on a few occasions when, after he was out of the slammer, visited my maternal grandfather.

Somehow this little incident inspired the following poem. I have being thinking about the past again. :(

photo by mettem
image from morguefile.com





you are a starfish on a beach


you flick the cigarette butt
the glow arc in the dark
the wet asphalt reflects
the nights's cold lights

you are afraid of the dark
and its wild crouching shadows
and the demons that tears
and tears your heart.

you are glad that it's day
but there are lions waiting
but even the birds sing
but fear does not go away

you are at the end of the alley
the metal in your hand heavy and cold
the sirens wail and wail
the hounds close in on the quarry


---+---+---+---+---+---
----+----+----+----+----

you are a starfish on a beach
the sun beating down hard
the quiet creeping of sand
the crush of stepping feet.


15/10/2014
**********

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You are afraid of everyone. Your nickname is hermit crab.
Come out of you shell, they say.

*

from "Starfish" by Leah Horlick



I was inspired by the lines from the above poem (and some pretty wild thoughts). This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in criminal ways.


Shared on Poetry Pantry #223 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014