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

---

U2 - Where The Streets Have No Name

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

A diary of the lockdown

During the country's 56 days of the 'circuit breaker' lockdown I managed to keep a 'diary' of the event. There were opinions, rants, humour, pictures of my home-cooked meals, and short poetry. Below, I have chosen 5 short poetry from the period. If you want to read all the stuff, the whole nine yards, click HERE. It is a long read but should be interesting. 😁



A diary of the lockdown

---

photo by dsnake1


Day 23


cherry blossoms -
looking at my photographs
of Japan


29/04/2020
**********

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photo by dsnake1



Day 24

Two blackbirds perch on my air-con unit and debate the pandemic.


30/04/2020
**********

---

photo by chelle at morguefile


Day 43

nicked finger -

red fish gills
in a white sink


19/05/2020
**********

---

photo by dsnake1


Day 46

hi love we will get by

sometimes even manage
to squeeze in a pub
if not the sky and stars
                         above
will do.

Ain't it good to be alive.



undated, probably late 80's
**********************

---

photo by dsnake1



Day 51

hospital waiting room -
another trip to the water cooler again.



27/05/2020
**********


Day 23 : No chance to go back there for a holiday.
Day 24 : An American sentence.
Day 43 : Really nicked my finger preparing food.
Day 46 : Recently found from my old journals. Pretty appropriate now.
Day 51 : I was at a hospital for a scan when i wrote this.

---

Now that the lockdown is over, remember, places are opening because of the economy. Not because it is safe. Take care.

---

© 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.

---

Procol Harum - A Salty Dog

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

home

This is from an old post but I think it is worth sharing again.

Life throws you to unexpected and strange places, but you will always come home.

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 loves
to return

home.



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

---

Tracy Chapman - Stand By Me

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

why i must slog on

This is something I posted way back when this blog was very new. A little gripe about why I must slog on. I am in much better shape now...

This piece is not very good in my opinion, hope to be back with a better one.

drawing by dsnake1





why i must slog on


i work
just to put something on the table
pay the bills
that are strewn on the sofa
like so many fallen leaves.

damn. $95.12 for utilities only?
how lucky.

my kid, in secondary three
thrusts her physics book at me.
flunked her test.
there's another one next week.

what, and you want a webcam?
how much? a hundred and what?
i don't see the....

We go through her books
as if i was back at school
though the day at the office was rotten
this chore i have to slog through

ah girl
can you explain
why $48.30 for SMS?

i work
just to put something on the table
ok it might come in styrofoam boxes
but it's edible.

daddy, not chicken rice again?
i want KFC.

chicken is chicken, dear. chicken rice only $2.50
and by the way, how was the physics test?

you won't want to know, dad.


01/11/2005
**********

---

“Reality continues to ruin my life.”

― Bill Watterson, The Complete Calvin and Hobbes

---

© 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
****************

---

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

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

what do you know

Sometimes the giants are amongst the most ordinary...

photo by Free-Photos at pixabay



what do you know


she kept silent,
the old lady, bent with the years,
bags of groceries in one hand,
an agitated grandson on the other.

most probably she had seen it all,
her flight from China to escape poverty,
to another hard life in a foreign land,
to the darker ages, a World War,
surviving on tapioca roots,
evaded Sook Ching, and the massacres,
staying plain,
hoping not to get raped,
staying sane,
squalid huts to call home,
soon the terrors of Konfrontasi,
the uncertanties of Merger,
and Independence,
the horrors of racial riots,
then blissful marriage,
giving birth to sons, daughters,
raising them, nurturing them
saving the coins to build
a business
a home
a country

and
the little boy, indignant,
cellphone-ipad-game console generation,
muttered
"what do you know, grandma?
what do you really know?"



written 19/04/2009
revised 19/07/2018
*****************


This was intended for Wednesday's Midweek Motif prompt for "Greatness" at Poets United. ☹️

---

“A great man is always willing to be little.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

father's day a blue bear

Daddy is fortunate to call you "daughter". Have a great day!

the card by my daughter




father's day a blue bear


so what
if the bear
looks a lot like
a doughy swamp thing
is blue
and the paper smudged
fingerprints
trapped by glue
and the text
the words
each letter marching
on a beat of its own
squashed
misaligned in parts
spelled

HAp p y FA THER' s D Ay

so what
as my eyes start
to tear
my heart gurgles
a bubbling brook
as that little six year old girl
smiles
extends the card
with both hands
those proud eyes, burning
that said
i made this card
specially
for you

for daddy.



revised : 23/03/2018
*****************
no original date in the hand written poem in my notebook.

---

"but I can show you
baby
enough to love
to break your heart
forever"

-- excerpt from "Song for Baby-O, Unborn", by Diane di Prima

---

© 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

---

"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

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

moths

I wrote this, intending to submit it (and a few others) for the Golden Point Awards 2015, a national writing competition. So I thought I would polish it up a bit, office work took its toll and the deadline breezed by (can you imagine it was three years already?). So yeah, forget it, I will just post it here (and the rest of the lot, if ..) Wonder how it will perform in the competition though. :)

drawing by dsnake1 done with Sketchpad 4.0




moths


i

When I was a small boy, my father would talk to me in hallowed tones about Dien Bien Phu, showed me from some Chinese magazines, the monochrome prints of tired soldiers, a landscape so scarred by shells it could well be the moon and parachutes in the air like thin black mushrooms. I do not understand why a battlefield in Vietnam could excite him so.


ii

My father had come to South East Asia, looking for their Ellis Islands, their torches bringing them to a new land, as insects attracted to light, growing roots, hear the fledgling politicians pounding their socialist rhetoric, taking sides, staking a claim on an opportunity, building a home from scratch.


iii

In time, i served this new land, i bit a cigarette too, dug foxholes in hills, filled sand-bags just like some French troopers, biting on their Gauloises, in some hell hole in South East Asia. Only difference was, i need not fire a shot in anger, our Anne-Maries, Beatrices and Isabelles were not trampled upon, and died.


iv.

Later I retraced my father's words, understood why Dien Bien Phu made him proud of his skin, why we may forgive, but never forget, even among our own creed. And why my parents made sure that their children do have an opportunity that they were denied. In time I understood all these, there was so much learning even in a house without electricity and running water...


v.

bright pressure lamp
moths come in from the night
to die


written 08/04/2007
revised 13/06/2007
revised 25/01/2013
******************

---

“Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door.”

― Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems


And a song if you are thinking of home : CSNY - Our House

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

siblings

A couple of years back, I sent the following photo and words to a contest celebrating the family. The words in the textbox must be less than 300 characters. That's me in the photo, the guy in the middle, with my brother and sister.

photo from the archives of dsnake1



siblings



It’s the early 70’s, and we siblings just want to have fun too, on Chinese New Year’s Day. But lots of things have gone by since. Bell-bottoms, tie-dyes, fire crackers, and big hair. Especially the hair, there’s not much now. But one thing did not changed, the bond amongst us. Wherever the era.



10/07/2013
**********

294 characters, incl. spaces



And now, a haiku for the day...


bedtime -
my daughter reads a story book
to her toys


15/05/2016
**********

---

The prize was a MacBook. I am still using my old battered and bulky laptop.

Shared on Poetry Pantry #302 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

and all we cared about was the shopping

It has been a while since i visited the Orchard Road malls...

photo by dsnake1, taken around xmas 2015




and all we cared about was the shopping



A child was riding the train with his father. I was sitting opposite them and could not help listening to their conversation. "Daddy," asked the boy, "when the train reaches the last station, how does it turn around? It got to come back right?"
The dad was not too sure either, for he started to hem and haw.
"The train is sooo long, but it got to somehow turn around, right?", the kid persisted.
The father seemed to have an epiphany. "The driver walks back to the other end", he said.
"Huh?". The boy was not sure what his father was saying.
"There are two driver's cabins on the train, one at each end", the father explained.
"When the train ends at one station, the driver walks to the other end and starts the next journey from there."
The boy was quiet for a while, contemplating his father's answer. "I want to see the other cabin", the boy said.
Sighing, the father took his child's hand, got up from their seats and started to walk towards the rear of the train.
I smiled. Poor daddy, it would be quite a long walk...


in the train
only the children look out of the windows
at the world.


19/03/2016
**********

---

“Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.”

― Garrison Keillor, Leaving Home



Shared on Poetry Pantry #294 at Poet's United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

the light

I have grown to love this poem. I wrote this originally in response to a prompt. It was about my life in a squatter colony when I was a child, where the home has no electricity or running water.

The "light" in the poem could refer to the physical light itself, and, as I realised later, it could be a metaphor for the values that our parents taught us, without which, my path could have been vastly different.

photo by xandert
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
*****************

---

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

― Leonard Cohen, Selected Poems, 1956-1968



Shared on Poetry Pantry #228 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

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
**********

---

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.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

you laugh and my heart sings

Another haibun. This was inspired by the prompt at Poets United Midweek motif, which was "melody".

Had to dig deep into the memories for this, but once there the writing was easy. :)

photo by Prawny
image from morguefile.com





you laugh and my heart sings


The train platform is crowded, it is the evening rush hour. I am already late for my date. I hope she won't be mad. Coming out of the train, I scan the crowd for a face. We see each other almost immediately. Throwing up a hand, she gives out a laugh, which sounds like a cross between a siren and a cackle. She must be really mad.

"Daddy!", she screams, letting go of her mother's hand, and her little five years old body flies into my arms.




neon soaked street -
a saxophone breathes
into the night



12/09/2014
**********

---

♡

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

for that bowl of rice

This is one of my favourite poems. I wrote it on one angry day, in one sitting, with almost no revisions. I still have that yellowed page in the journal I wrote in, the handwriting heavy and scrawly. I loved how the way it turned out, in choppy little lines, as if reflecting the mood I was in when I wrote it originally.

image from publicdomainpictures.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
=================

---

“These woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.” 

― Robert Frost, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening



Shared on Poetry Pantry #195 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

why i was thinking of a lighthouse

I wrote this for NaPoWriMo 2013 and posted on my other blog, i write too. It wasn't getting many eyeballs there, so I thought I would give it a chance here.

My daughter, as an infant, inspired this poem. She is a big girl now. :)




image by dsnake1
done with Sketchpad




why i was thinking of a lighthouse



because one night i woke up wanting to feed you
but baby, your face, like a moon in the cradle
your skin glowed like stardust in the moonlight
your breathing was the song of the stars
a faint scent of talc as the stand fan oscillated
i was holding a bottle of milk not wanting to wake you
just sitting on the cold tiles, looking at you
thinking you are the beacon in our lives, our lighthouse
your eyes were closed, there was a faint smile
your lips moved slighly, and i said i love you too
but baby, you do not yet know about the ways of this world
and it is better to keep it this way.


30/04/2013
**********

---

"but I can show you
baby
enough to love
to break your heart
forever."

-- Diane di Prima, Song for Baby-O, Unborn


Shared on Poetry Pantry #185 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

micro-fiction - home

Trying out a little micro-fiction. This baby has been sitting in my computer for a couple of years. Time to dust it out. Doesn't look too micro, isn't it?

photo by click

image from morguefile.com



home



It was Christmas again, how he wished he was at home with his family, and his dog, by the fireplace. Just his luck, the ballot for the limited seats on the flight home was unkind. A video conference with his family later will do. Still, it was not so bad. His fellow miners had even managed to whip up a rare Christmas meal, with a roast turkey thrown in. He smiled and looked out of the dormitory window. It was dark outside, as usual. And hanging in the black sky, like a piece of cut blue jewel, his home. Earth.



25.12.2010
**********

100 words exactly

---

Shared on Poetry Pantry #181 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

Joy

Today is my daughter's birthday. She is one of the best things that came to us. Wish you all the best, girl. Though we disagree in many ways, we do share the same values in certain things. :)






birthday card by YunPing




JOY



Just as I thought,
Out of the pan into the fire,
You came into our lives.


27/05/2013
**********

---

The image is a scan of a birthday card my daughter made for my birthday. Confused? :)

Shared on Poetry Pantry #151 at Poets United.

---

© 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