names

For GloPoWriMo 2025.

No prompt needed. Just wrote this in the middle of the night.

AI generated image by dsnake1 at Fotor



names


what is the pub's name again?
the one in the east coast?
a live band of Filipinos
with a lovely lady singer.
remember, you always walk up
to that singer with a slip of paper,
your neat handwriting,
for a song request.
there are always wolf whistles
because your skirt is so short,
and your legs so long.
we drink our brandy,
the band plays your songs,
at times we sing along.
sometimes we leave early
to catch the last bus home,
other nights we don't,
we walk under the stars,
the street lights glaring jealously,
the old rain trees sigh,
but now
after a lifetime,
i cannot remember that pub's name
but i remember yours clearly,
because
it is carved
in gilded letters
on a marble slab.



04/04/2025
**********
qingming

---

Fleetwood Mac - You Make Loving Fun

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2025

September

She used to wear an anchor pendant on her necklace. Perhaps this is the one thing that is weighing me down.

There was once a prompt at Poets and Storytellers United to write about October. Sorry, my poem is about September.

photo by dsnake1



September


September seems like a meteor dropping from the sky,
once bright, then gone.

Like you too.

Remember we stand at the parapets of our block,
smoking cigarettes, bitching
about money and our jobs,
you a seamstress, me an odd-job labourer?

Life gets better.

But then you are gone, those memories hang
like van Goghs on my dusty wall.
Starry nights, irises, sunflowers,
cafes, tears and labour.
But I am too afraid
to follow you and so I linger
and I sit in dark corners
and wait for

September.



written 26/09/2023
revised 28/09/2023
****************

---

"what matters is that I still have
after all that has preceded
poems left
me left
and these walls that I have always
loved
in all the cities and in all the
places I have lived, these walls are still here and
my radio plays,..."

Charles Bukowski, luck from a kitchen

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2024

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
**********

---

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - Ohio

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2023

on this day

fairy tales have sad endings too.

photo by Nikita Tikhomirov at Unsplash


on this day


on this day
we would be drinking
of course
her cocktails
my cheap beer
maybe even pub crawl
throw some darts
bath in bright sexy neon
sing the birthday song again
and later
grab a burger
at MacDonald's
light our cigarettes
blowing smoke rings
into the frosty night
then to a 7-11
for more beer
my hands on her
slim waist
whispering into her ears
and she would giggle
her girlish giggle
the street lights
shine a little brighter
and we would wish
the night would not end.

but city tales
have a way
of turning nasty
and so
her birthdays ended
too soon.


undated probably early 2000's
revised 06/07/2021
***************

Rosemary at Poets & Storytellers United would like us to write about "darkness and light". Perhaps this piece can qualify?

---

Versailles - DESTINY -THE LOVERS-

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

poetry lesson #13

Life is about choices, and sometimes we slip into a hole...

photo by BSD at Unsplash


poetry lesson #13


you begin by thinking that nothing
can kill you.
you forgot that you can be brittle
like a glass bottle
that you sometimes pick up in fights.

you look like someone's good brother
kind and polite.
but one day the cops come, SWAT and all
in your bag they find
an axe and loot from the goldsmith's heist.

you end up in an cold, empty apartment
on the run.
edgy, one sweaty hand on the kukri,
an outside cough
makes you run behind the locked door.

does it sounds like someone you know?
write a poem on that.


27/04/2022
**********

---

“Until a man is twenty-five, he still thinks, every so often, that under the right circumstances he could be the baddest motherfucker in the world. If I moved to a martial-arts monastery in China and studied real hard for ten years. If my family was wiped out by Colombian drug dealers and I swore myself to revenge. If I got a fatal disease, had one year to live, and devoted it to wiping out street crime. If I just dropped out and devoted my life to being bad.”

― Neal Stephenson

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

the problem is money

it always is, isn't it?

photo of a wall mural by dsnake1



the problem is money


you think sleeping on it
it will go away?
what are the chances of
one striking the lottery?
and then losing it
the next day.
or shall we wait
like withered flowers
in a vase?
that's very unlike you
bringing it up
a couple of parang hacks
will do the trick?
come on, let's get a beer
while we are still breathing
how long can you live
staying in cheap dorms?
the problem is money
yeah
and that freighter to taiwan
too
one day a lady in red
will sell you out
for some coins
when you are having
your morning coffee.


12/05/2021
**********



Does this looks like a character out of a TV show? No, it is partly based on some real life gunmen and gangsters.

---

The problem is no one plays the difficulty.

*
from “Three Problems” by Noah Eli Gordon

I was inspired by the lines from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in criminal ways.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

longing

Losing someone you loved dearly will break your heart, but they will live always in that broken heart.

pencil sketch by dsnake1


longing


We were night owls. We worked hard, partied hard after dark. We pub crawled, we drank. We loved the booming bass lines of live bands, the husky, sultry serenades of sexy songbirds. We loved bright shirts, loud colours, and sometimes we weren't sure which smell was stronger on our polyester, the cologne or the alcohol.

But above all, above us, we loved watching the stars. I tried to tell her that stars are just balls of fire, tried to explain to her about light years and the doppler effect and such. It's not very romantic. And she just smiled. To her, the stars are just jewels in the sky, mysteries not to be solved. So I just tried to point out to her, the Dog Star, the Big Dipper, and the stories behind the names, with what limited knowledge of the stars that I had. We would sit at the breakwaters, the piers, at the esplanade, the beaches, or the benches of city parks, looking up, sometimes her head on my shoulders.

But no more. She passed on, you see, a star herself, snuffed out. Is there a star less then? I can't tell, there are too many. Maybe the stars mirror us. A star extinguishes, someone loses a loved one. Maybe there are other star-crossed lovers like us, over the dark expanses, looking up at their night skies. Maybe there are wars being fought out there. Maybe the light I saw, was us a lifetime before.

if i could pluck the stars
put them in a jar
will you come back to me?


11/04/2013
**********

---

Drop's - 月光 [moonlight]

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

love songs

she sat on a high stool
plucking away on a guitar,
plucking our heartstrings
as she sang of love
and wanderings

dsnake1 - the pub singer

pencil sketch by dsnake1



love songs


We woke up late on a Sunday morning and while everyone else is going to church or the supermarket, or to trade gossip at a coffeeshop, the first thing she do was to go to the kitchen in her teddies, boil some water, fry some eggs and bacon, make some tea and coffee, the stirring spoon on glass like a wind chime, bring all that greasy stuff before the TV while I was warming up the karaoke machine.

After breakfast, we put our feet up on the coffee table, smoking our cigarettes, debating on which laserdisc to put into the player, she insisting on her Mandarin love songs, me my rock ballads and finally we agree on Andy Lau, slot in the heavy disc, and as the images flicker on on screen, we clutch our microphones, wave to the air audience in front, and wait for the tune to blast out of the speakers.



21/01/2022
**********

---

蘇芮 - (sorry, link broken) / Su Rui -- Whether or Not

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

quarrel

now I just want to hear her voice...

ink and water colour sketch by dsnake1



quarrel


like a rush
of arctic wind
that scutters over
a winter pond
dusting hoarfrost on reeds,
we sat, stiff, cold
as strangers

no words, no words pass between us today.
no words, no words she said.


revised 07/12/2008
****************

Shared at Friday Writings #9.

---

BAND-MAID - start over

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

if time could stand still

Time is a ruthless herder.

photo by Dariusz Sankowski at pixabay



if time could stand still



if time could stand still
just for a while, for us
in a fine restaurant
sipping champagne
a name we could not
pronounce
and later
hand in hand
at the esplanade
the waves gently
slapping breakwaters
we are
looking for falling stars
hidden in the
warm glow of moonlight

but time
is a ruthless herder
it makes no compromises
heeds no pleas

and so
it is not to be.



28/09/2013
07/11/2013
**********

---

“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”

― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

a poem with no last vowel

I have written a poem with no 'E's. That was a tough one. Now I have written one with no 'U's. This was an easy one.

photo by Harsh Solanki at Unsplash



a poem with no last vowel



i told her i wanted to write a poem with no last vowel.
what's a last vowel? she asked.
i pointed a finger at her.
she pointed at her chest, eyebrows knitted.

took a swig of bacardi from a whisky glass.
loved the sharp clink of crystal, so melodic.

she in her lingerie, prone on the bed was so distracting.
finished the poem?, she asked.
what was she hinting?
i pointed a finger at her, shook my head.

took another long hit from the whisky glass.
perhaps this was not a good time to write poetry.


26/08/2020
**********

---

Band-Maid - Daydreaming

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

agnes

Sometimes the road is rocky, and you fall. You try to pick yourself up...

pencil sketch by dsnake1


agnes



you told me you feel
                  trapped
like a bird in a cage
but the door is open
yet you choose
not to fly out.
you are afraid
of the dark clouds
              forming
and the horizon is far
and your wings are tired.
even
the fires of hell
seem to hold less terror.
there was always the murmur
about going home
about flying free
and the bold steps
you try to take
always end at the edge.
at the edge.


18/08/2014
**********


To agnes, wherever you may be.

---

There was always the murmur,you remember, about going home.

*

from "Extreme Wisteria" by Lucie Brock-Broido

I was inspired by the lines from the above poem. This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in agonising ways.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

my father's clothes

there is always a strange silence at wakes.

photo by kytalpa at pixabay



my father's clothes



and i wonder if his work clothes
his heavy cotton jackets
                        slacks
                        boots
will ever miss his hammers
                        saws
                        and nails
and the sawdust lodged in the hems.

and there at his funeral, his wake
laid out on a wooden chair
in front of his coffin
         a white long-sleeve shirt
         a blue tie with stripes
         a grey pair of slacks, slightly frayed
         and a pair of black dress shoes, polished
a combination he seldom wear in his life.

how do you explain death to the clothes?
how to tell them how much we loved him?
that he is not going to come back to us anymore?
and as we, his children
sat around a table folding
paper gold and silver ingots
to ease his passage to the afterlife

his cloths sat still and silent
under the fluorescent lights
and the flicker of candles.


31/03/2019
**********

Written for the Golden Point Awards 2019 poetry competition. Never got around to submit it.

---

"and a light
from an
oil lamp

to guide

the way"

-- dsnake1, hell notes

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

nights on a thin mattress, redux

when you don't have much and need to live...

photo by Sarah_Loetscher at pixabay



nights on a thin mattress, redux


do not tempt fate with us, our tempers are thin
when 8, 9 people are crammed into a tiny flat.
sometimes the cops call, it is the neighbours.
they do not like our ugly faces, or something.
then they see some guys lounging, smoking
a little stand fan turning, oily fumes in the air,
a stale smell of dried sweat, dirty clothes on walls.
oft times we turn on the old telly, max the volume
watch what's in the box, like everyone else
argue about why Saturday Night Fever is so big
or we will just roll out our thin mattresses
trying to grab some sleep, thinking of money
loads of it, and the hot girls we had missed.

sometimes maybe around 2 a.m., deep sleep
there are sounds of breaking glass, taunts
mentions of human anatomy, crude language
some fearless drunks down at the coffee shop
they are playing at muay thai and jeet kun do.
we come out to the corridor, to the parapet,
lean out, kaypoh, shirtless in the hot night
see if blood is spilt, money or pride is lost.
then a hothead from upstairs, sleep interrupted,
would lean over the parapet,no malice lost,
nabeh, who the fuck is making noise,
i am coming down with a fucking knife!
and the night is suddenly all quiet again,
until the day takes over, the sun rising
over the bleak factories, the muddy sites,
and compounds we will all be going to
after we have rolled up our thin mattresses,
the dust motes, clear in the morning light.


19/06/2019
**********


this is one of the poems that i wanted to submit for a poetry competition. This is actually a rework of an older poem. Kind of a bit gritty and ugly for a competition. Maybe not.

---

"You sigh too much," she said. "Sighing is a sign of defeat". We were sitting on a park bench, trying to decipher the stars in the dark blue night sky. I repeated her words again. I held her closer in the warm, sweaty night, hoping the world will not fail us both.

-- dsnake1

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

jasmine

This poem was part of a series or theme I submitted for a nation-wide poetry competition many years back. It was based on actual people and experiences I encountered while living in a part of the city core area in the late 70's, a neighbourhood with a reputation that was not too pleasant at that time.

pencil sketch 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.



written : 03/09/2006
revised : 15/08/2011
revised : 03/10/2011
*****************


to jasmine, wherever she may be.

---

"And far from flying high in clear blue skies
I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide. "

-- Pink Floyd, The Final Cut

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

sparrow

Another one from the NaPoWriMo archives. I think this one is worth sharing again.

photo by bluekdesign at 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 see
the sunlight.



written : 26/04/2009
revised : 26/03/2016

---

"There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.”

― Leonard Cohen, Selected Poems, 1956-1968

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

bell bottoms & hotpants

“It takes a very long time to become young.”

― Pablo Picasso

colour pencil drawing by dsnake1





bell bottoms & hotpants



the fading polaroids
peel back the years
smile back at me
big hair
big girls

and i hear the mermaids making promises again

they think they are Fawcett clones
sashaying down the street
their bags swinging
their short skirts
threatening to ride higher
their laughter
are the songs that lure
the seafarers to the rocks.

meet you at barbarella's
they would say
that would blow me a chunk
of my pay
but i would be there
in my best polyester
trying to do the hustle
and never good with it

but they are gorgeous
my vivacious mermaids
skipping, bobbing on the dance floor
in their platform shoes
under the disco ball
i cannot forget the way
they twirl the ice cubes in their lemon tea
their tongues licking the plastic stirrers
their lithe bodies wet
sticking to tube tops
their glossy legs in hotpants
crossed on faux leather sofas
as they bum and smoke my cigarettes
on bee-stung lips


"shut up, tell me how do i look
why that sad face, think about my, you know...
i like you but you have been taken.
you don't know what's true hurt is, i do"


and then we all moved on
time and rank pulled us all

on

we grow old
we grow apart
we fall in love
we trip and fall
we die a little bit
and i hear the songs fade away
and the dreams they fall apart too
and a rain rolls over
a shifting wasteland
and the mermaids no longer sing

until one aching night

\\
\ \\ \\
    \\

outside the windows a sudden rain.
a rattling of window panes.

they may be calling me already.




11/11/2014
**********


when we were younger, we thought we could live forever...

---

the mermaids making promises again

*

from “Notes on Melancholia” by M.A. Vizsolyi


This poem was inspired by the lines from the above poem (and some mind wanderings on a cold night). This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in seductive ways.


Shared on Poetry Pantry #308 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016