what are their names

We are drinking our beer and eating hotpot under the stars. The street looks vaguely familiar. We know we had never been here before. But we knew we had been there before.

photo by dimitrisvetsikas1969 at pixabay



what are their names


how many towns did we missed
some up in the hills?
What are their names?
these towns, these streets
that we passed through
like a whirlwind?
why do the children cheered
when our armored vehicles
stop at their shops?
because we pay in greenbacks
but the cities
the big ones
we know their names
because well,
R&R
and where we catch
our jetliners home

we don't care
how paddy grows,
this way
or that
why hogs roll in the mud
as we marched through
poor villages
rifles drawn
old grandmas look at us
with fire in their eyes
spooning plain porridge
into their mouths
home is a hut plastered
with red paper
with golden words asking
for blessings
and
everyone is glad
to be alive

I wondered how those kids
have grown
munching on giant fish balls
and wild boar meat.
how they will miss
our greenbacks

and I still do not know
some of their names.



02/06/2022
**********


We trace a line across the map and it leads us home...

---

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - Déjà Vu

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2023

ROC '76

We train for war, so that we may live in peace.

photo by Pexels at pixabay.



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.



written 09/04/1988
revised 05/10/2011
******************

Rosemary at Poets & Storytellers United wanted us to share our musings on war and/or peace.

---

U2 - Bullet The Blue Sky

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

routine jungle training

Keep calm. Carry on.

artwork by saydung89 at pixabay


routine jungle training


it is still raining
in the jungle
not heavy
but the dink dink dink
on the helmets
drives you crazy
and it's damn cold
even with the ponchos
and the rifle's gonna
get very screwed
and we can't light
a cigarette
even if we wanted to,
trash the rules
should have just
abort this patrol,
haul us back to base
or to the orchard
we passed yesterday
where we stole papayas
off the trees
and the irate farmer
came rushing at us
with a machete
and we ran
like kids caught stealing
(we were)
past a laughing village lass
a very well-endowed one
and if we had time
we would probably
exchange name cards
but we are taking no chances
with a farmer swinging a blade
so you see
it's one bad shit
after another.


15/11/2010
**********

This looks like a one sentence poem, hey?

---

Dire Straits - Ride Across The River

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

R.O.D.

That was a really long time ago, but it seems like it was only yesterday...

photo by yapo-zhou at Unsplash



R.O.D.


just a tired wave to the guard at the gate,
no words, not one needed
those days of running in the sun, humping hills,
cold rain in dark jungles
half forgotten, gruff sergeants, muddy tracks,
sweat, curses and comrades'
faces and names i thought i really remembered,
goodbye godforsaken camp!

their bitching still clear, in hokkien, mangled
english, honest, unapologetic,
fuck the army, as the sergeant screamed of big
elephants in rifle barrels,
and now on this bus ride home to a change of clothes
from fatigues to polyester
the sounds and smells of the streets vaguely familiar
like home to an old place.


06/06/2021
**********


The title refers to the last day of conscription service, when you return to civilian life. On that day, some laugh, some cry, some spit, some are indifferent. I am not sure what's the acronym these days.

Posting this on the eve of our National Day.

---

Roger Waters - The Gunner's Dream

Shared at Writers' Pantry #82 at Poets and Storytellers United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

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
****************

---

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

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

Another beer

This one was written and submitted for the Golden Point Awards 2007 competition. Now you can see why it didn't impress the judges.

photo by manfredrichter at pixabay



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.


21.07.2007
**********


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 rapidly at a table. :)

---

“You can't be a real country unless you have a beer and an airline - it helps if you have some kind of football team, or some nuclear weapons, but in the very least you need a beer.”

― Frank Zappa

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

There must be wars being fought out there

This is a poem that was accepted and published in an online poetry magazine, The Sidewalk's End, a decade back. It was one of the first few poems I submitted for ezines. I am quite fond of this poem, maybe it speaks to me in a certain way.

photo by mzacha at 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.


22.03.2006
**********

---

"What he meant, of course, was that there would always be wars, that they were as easy to stop as glaciers. I believe that, too.
And even if wars didn't keep coming like glaciers, there would still be plain old death.”

― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five


Shared on Poetry Pantry #328 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

returning

Another from my SingPoWriMo archives, which seldom have many eyeballs. Reminiscing about my army days. This is one of those poems that "wrote itself". The muse kindly took my hand and glided it over the paper. Sigh.

photo by dsnake1




returning




returning back
to camp
from the hills,
no one noticed
that
daylight had broken,
the toads
had stopped croaking,
only
our muddy boots,
our rifles rusting
from last night's rain
and
the grass,
green and
slick with dew.


09/04/2016
**********

---

"as the black shell of a sky fell on us
my comrades, my brothers
my thoughts, their thoughts we tumbled towards
home."

-- dsnake1, excerpts from lonely when away from home



Shared on Poetry Pantry #323 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

before the day is done

There was a time I worked with contract workers (hahaha, I am now a contract worker myself) on a wiring project. Most of them are lowly educated, picking up their skills on the job. It was menial work mainly but one thing I learned about them, they never let their hard life get them down. There's always a smile on their faces and a joke waiting to burst out. Perhaps it is easier to pass the day this way?

I have posted this poem before, but it was getting little eyeballs. So yes, I thought I would share it again. :)

photo by dsnake1






before the day is done





as the last rays
of the sun
strain through the rain trees
into the hoist bay
we sit at a makeshift table
in a pow wow
before the day
is done

rolling our cigarettes

it is not easy really
tobacco rolling is an art
the fingers greasy no doubt
it's either that
a big slab of leaves
smuggled in
from indonesia

or beedies

then the click
of lighters
the lazy flare
of a match
the cackle of laughter
crude jokes
crows caw

a puff of smoke
puffs of smoke

stub out ends
in
a dented coke can
choked with butts

or let it burn
to the fingers

dropping ashes
to the concrete
floor

ashes like squashed moths

more crows caw
truly rude jokes
caw caw caw
cough cough
then

they leave
we leave

leaving
unwashed mugs on the tabletop
waiting for moonlight to wash
over them

tonight



05/01/2010
**********

---

"come at the end of the shift
we'll go and get pissed"

-- Pink Floyd, Not Now John



Shared on Poetry Pantry #289 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

Tampines Bike Park

I am sorry to see it go. This bike park is the only place near my home where we can do off-road riding. So two weeks back I was there to get some long due trail riding when the security told me the park is closing its gates for good in two days time, on the 15th of September. A new town of housing blocks will be built over the land.

In the past years I have regularly gone there to improve my skills in off road cycling. I am still a lousy rider. I have left some skin many times on those gravel and stones. But for those looking for an adrenalin fix (or just for some plain exercise) it is a good place to go. I like the challenge of man and machine against nature.

I am going to miss this place. Cycling in a public park and a trail are different. I will miss the challenge and unpredictability of the latter. So before the place is totally transformed, I took some pictures with my cell phone. The quality is not so good though. Oh yes, it also inspired the haiku (and a tanka, sort of) that accompany the photos. :)



Tampines Bike Park

one of the few trees not zapped by lightning.



evening-
the birds return to the tree tops
to gossip.

elephant grass in the sunset



i think of days
in the tall grass with rifles.

the sunset is brief
it could be longer.

and then the croaking of toads.

a much needed rest after a ride



defying physics-
alloy tubes, rubber and leg power
over mud and gravel.

night is falling
all photos by dsnake1


the moon
trapped in those branches
sighs and sleeps



28/09/2014
**********

---

Get out and get some play.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

my old sergeant

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

This is about a chance meeting between old comrades.

photo by click, image from morguefile.com






my old sergeant


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

we talk
and laugh.

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

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

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

and then
go about our
separate ways.


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

---

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


Shared on Poetry Pantry #200 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

the hills

I wrote this poem for NaPoWriMo 2013. It wasn't getting much attention at my other blog. Recently, I did a revision on it, a major rehaul. I think the revised version is a much better, more compact piece. :)





image from imageafter.



the hills




looking down from the hills
to the town below
the apartment blocks
like pixelated lanterns

we can only barely imagine
people sleeping,
reading the papers,
watching tv with a beer,

while we are here in our foxholes,
reeking of earth
the toads croaking
their displeasure

in the weeds, the mimosa, a lighter
flares, a cigarette glows
red in the next hole,
a click of a safety catch,

a muffled cough, an expletive,
under a moth-bitten
blanket of sky,
we hunker down

for the night, cradling weapons,
wishing for a beer
a warm bath and
thinking of home too.




written 17/04/2013
revised 29/07/2013

---

Shared on Poetry Pantry #156 at Poets United.


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

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

Toolshed

When I was much younger, while waiting to enter military service, I followed my father around in his work for a couple of weeks. He was a sub-contractor who managed all the woodwork that were required to erect a building. In those two weeks, I learnt how tough it is to earn that pay, how hot it can be under that sun. I also learnt about camaraderie and teamwork and wood, and a lot more about my father.

He is no longer with us, he left early. Maybe the years of toil has taken its toll. But I can still remember, those calloused hands of his, can write the most lovely of calligraphy, the words flowing like a gentle stream.

This is one of my favourite poems. It has appeared in this blog before, and was also published in a local literary ezine.






image from imageafter




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
**********

---

Shared on the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.


Notes : Punggol is an area in northeastern Singapore. It used to be a rural area with poultry and pig farms. But it is very different now, with a township of high-rise residential apartments and developments for recreational activities and sea sports.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

in the night the weeds

This poem was written for NaPoWriMo 2011. Some recollections from my army days. It did not attract a single comment back then. Let's see if it can do better now. :)





photo by carygrant
image from morguefile.com




in the night the weeds



in the night the weeds, the ferns were
all black amorphous shadows that
rustled and creaked and we sat
among them listening to
the quarrels of
the frogs,
the toads,
as we broke regulations
lighting up a smoke, cupping
the cigarettes in our hands to hide
the glow of burning tips, waiting, rifles
cold on skin, for the next detail to relieve us.




11/04/2011
**********

---

Shared on Poetry Pantry #143 at Poets United.

---

©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

live rock at club woodstock

Yes, yes, another archaeological find from my NaPoWriMo archives.

Back in the bad 80's there was this club on the roof of Far East Plaza which played the hardest rock in town. I can't remember the resident band's name, but it was good, doing covers of Pink Floyd (Another Brick in The Wall was played to death), Scorpions. et al. Come to think of it, in our beer-drenched state, every song that exploded out of the speakers was good. :)







photo by FlyingPete
image from morguefile.com




live rock at club woodstock



i)
the band was gunning through
a pink floyd number
heart-stopping bass
rolling thunder
like a tribe
on the eve of battle
we punched our fists
into the smoky air
and as one uttered the call
another brick in the wall.

ii)
and the maori trooper rose up
from his rickety chair
like a dark hill shaken by a quake
said he gonna take a leak
(we suspected he was looking for trouble)
we parted like he was the plague
counting the seconds
before the first glass breaks.



written          : 22/04/2011
slightly revised : 12/01/2013
*********

---

"All in all you're just another brick in the wall".

-- Pink Floyd, Another Brick in the Wall - Part 2



Shared on Poetry Pantry #132  at Poets United.

Also shared on Poets Rally Week 77 at Hyde Park Poetry.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

home

I wrote this in response to comments and suggestions on my poem, "spectator", given by a poet friend. I had a re-look and see if I can edit it, or improve on it. The result is somewhat different from the original, but both are inspired by quieter moments while serving in the military.





photo by dsnake1




home




what can be seen then
when we have returned
our arms for the night
our backs against
the weathered boards
of our barracks
as we slowly savoured
every wisp of
cigarette smoke
(and some had more
than just tobacco)
our fatigues unbuttoned
boots unlaced,
removed
as we flicked butts
towards the perimeter fence
towards the concertina
razors
that are protecting us
keeping us in

what can be seen then
an evening sky
blushing red
the colour of
muzzle flashes
red tracers
clouds stretched thin
like oily gunsmoke
and a scimitar moon
unsheathing
and then
through the thousands
of kilometres

the faces of
girl friends
wives
& children
waiting
for their daddies
to return

home.



23/09/2012
**********

---

I am posting this for Poets Rally Week 73 at Hyde Park Poetry.

---

©cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2011

before the day is done

There was a time I worked with contract workers on a wiring project. Most of them are lowly educated, picked up their skills on the job. A couple were ex-cons. But one thing I learned about them, they never let their hard life get them down. There's always a smile on their faces and a joke waiting to burst out. Perhaps it is easier to pass the day this way?



photo by dsnake1



before the day is done


as the last rays
of the sun
strain through the rain trees
into the hoist bay
we sit at a makeshift table
in a pow wow
before the day
is done

rolling our cigarettes

it is not easy really
tobacco rolling is an art
the fingers greasy no doubt
it's either that
a big slab of leaves
smuggled in
from indonesia

or beedies

then the click
of lighters
the lazy flare
of a match
the cackle of laughter
crude jokes
crows caw

a puff of smoke
puffs of smoke

stub out ends
in
a dented coke can
choked with butts

or let it burn
to the fingers

dropping ashes
to the concrete
floor

ashes like squashed moths

more crows caw
truly rude jokes
caw caw caw
cough cough
then

they leave
we leave

leaving
unwashed mugs on the tabletop
waiting for moonlight to wash
over them

tonight



05/01/10
********





I am posting this poem for Poetry Pantry -#106. (what, one week already?) It's been lurking in the hard drive for a couple of years, and I guessed it's time to drag it out. :)


Song for the day : Another Day in Paradise


© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

my old sergeant

This is for Poetry Picnic Week 25 at the Gooseberry Garden. The theme is on "Military, Soldiers, Veterans".

I have a soft spot for war poetry, perhaps because I have served in the military before, and partly I have strong views about war when I was younger. Age has mellowed me considerably, and age is about the following poem I have written about a chance encounter between two old soldiers. Hope you will like this poem. :)

photo by click

image from morguefile.com




my old sergeant



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

we talk
and laugh.

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

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

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

and then
go about our
separate ways.


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

---

Some of the great war poetry I have liked, and you probably will...

i) Facing It by Yusef Komunyakaa

ii) In Flanders Fields by John McCrae

iii) The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell

and a whole lot more, written by those who have served, and lived to write about it. And yes, the lyrics of Pink Floyd's album The Final Cut





© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2012

ROC '76

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

Toolshed

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