Tampines Ave 2, 11.35 p.m

Sometimes you work some ungodly OT hours and you are hoping not to miss the last bus home...

photo by dsnake1



Tampines Ave 2, 11.35 p.m.


in the rain
the city walls
shuddered
with the sudden cold

the last
of the late night
stragglers
huddled at bus shelters

caught out
in the storm that
hammered
the sidewalks the trees

and jerky
vehicle headlights
skidded off
the glassy wet asphalt

on store fronts
limp banner ads
fluttered
in total surrender

as traffic lights
blinking angrily
protesting
their cyclops eyes mad

at the rain
and the wind's
brazen
intent to claim the night.



written 28/11/2010
revised 24/10/2011
****************

The prompt at Poets and Storytellers United this week is to write something "inspired by the idea of storms, literal or metaphorical". How convenient to have one sitting in my hard disk. :)

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"There is peace even in the storm"

- Vincent van Gogh, The Letters of Vincent van Gogh

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2025

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

over the rooftops

I wrote this on a wet rainy day looking out from my kitchen window, and this piece was also partly inspired by a Henry David Thoreau poem. I know, this is not a very cheerful poem (as most of my poems are). It was even published here before, but few eyeballs (the cheerlessness?). So here it is again.

photo by Daniel van den Berg at Unsplash



over the rooftops


over the rooftops from which
the blackbirds have passed

the clouds hung like a wet veil
as the evening retreated

a flash of lightning lit up a second
white as a shroud

the wind moaned by, trapping dust
and leaves in its blast.



30/04/2012
**********

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and this is the poem that inspired the above :

On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand Has Pass'd


On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
There after harvest could I glean my life
A richer harvest reaping without toil,
And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will
In subtler webs than finest summer haze.

-- Henry David Thoreau

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2023

before the rain

Something old from NaPo days. Short, like the shower that inspired it.

photo by Nick van den Berg at Unsplash


before the rain


The grey clouds rolled away
the afternoon sun
like a squad car shooing off
the crowd at a crime scene,

pulled DO-NOT-CROSS tapes
across the sky
with flares of lightning,
and the blackbirds,
perched at the edges
of the roofs
of apartment blocks,

hesitant
to fly.


05/04/2009
**********


Shared on Friday Writings #56: Cozy. This poem is certainly not cozy. 😁

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Uriah Heep - Rain

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2022

dark side of the moon #10

and the moon comes crashing down...

Clipart by OpenClipart-Vectors at pixabay



dark side of the moon #10


i am thinking about the noise that lifted up
all the buildings like thrown lego bricks
still, like faraway dreams, i faintly
see strangers, walking, tripping,
calling names but i woke up on
what was once a street, dim
in the grey fog. faintly
i see a paramedic, the
man walking away
hey you can't
leave me like
fucking this!
he turns his face
he appears to be crying
perhaps there is too much
death and misery for one day
far too many awkward questions
a fine rain of grey ash is falling
just ash, flaky, dry, stinging lungs
to my right a dirty, naked mannequin
missing most of his hair and a
                                  mouth


25/06/2021
**********

The prompt at Poets And Storytellers United was "to burn". I think this comes close.

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A Perfect Circle - So Long And Thanks For All The Fish

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© 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?

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Dire Straits - Ride Across The River

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

to the pigeons of my block

Columba livia. Nice name, but you certainly have a haughty attitude...

photo by dsnake1



to the pigeons of my block


you are fearless, feckless
you think you owned the turf
the void decks, the lift landings
you shit indiscriminately

you walk, mostly waddle
little heads nodding
like some fat capitalist
counting his stocks

ready-eyed, sometimes red
like my bad hangover
you spy some stuff you leap
like plump ballerinas

eh, what's for lunch today?
rice/corn & chicken bones
someone's ancestral offerings
the joss sticks still burning

you take, like racket money
no questions asked, the bullies
muscling off the bald, old ones
to get at the leftover scraps

and when you are contended
you fly off to the eaves
your homes, cooing, fussing
trying making peace with us.


17/10/2021
**********

Shared on Friday Writings #3 at Poets and Storytellers United

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Emmit Fenn - Who Dat

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

heavy metal

"even as the magpies
flapped in
from the storm"

- dsnake1, november rains.

photo by lee junda at Unsplash



heavy metal


the sky was rocking
heavy metal,
clouds bruised
blue black,
as white light slashed
across its face
it growled
as in pain.

i leaned at the window
watched
as my cigarette smoke
curled outside
to die
in the rain.


13.12.2006
**********


This poem is a repost. It was published here in 2006. It was one of my favourite poems then, and still is.

Linked to : Writer's Pantry #91

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BAND-MAID - The Dragon Cries

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

an oasis in a desert of ennui

pick an ace, man, pick an ace...

photo by mrganso  at pixabay



an oasis in a desert of ennui


as i am sitting in this bar waiting for the world to end
a gecko is crawling on the opposite wall
checking out the posters of happy people drinking beer.

if you are thinking of pretty girls look for another joint
there are just us, a dozen or so of ugly slobs
that people want to punch and cops like to pull in.

there's really nothing much we can do, a desert of ennui
lift some bottles, light a fag, people die in wars
and accidents and that gecko would still be on the wall.

the bar-keep stares at me, looks at my army crew cut,
goes pour himself a drink, he probably
has a parang under the counter to ward off evil.

i stub out the cigarette, drink the last of the beer,
the last bus to my camp is due soon, can't miss it,
though the bus-stop is conveniently outside

i wave a salute to the barkeep, the fucker smiles,
as i push out the old-west saloon doors,
and walk out to a loud, unforgiving night.


07/01/2021
**********

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Pink Floyd - Have A Cigar

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

Arashiyama Bamboo Forest

Almost suddenly, past a railway track, it is like entering another world. People talk in revered tones, no one shouts. There is no litter on the paths, only fallen leaves, no wrappers, no drink cans, no butts. The small stone shrines are coated with moss. You expect a fox spirit to step forward and greet you...

Arashiyama  Bamboo Forest, Kyoto, Japan
Photo by dsnake1


Arashiyama Bamboo Forest


coming out of the noise of the train station
and across an old railway track

the bamboo forest

because the bamboos are so tall, so straight
their leaves like spear tips

the early daylight

just creeps quietly through the slats of wood,
whatever tiny spaces of freedom

to fall silently

on the paths we are walking, to monuments
of immortal haiku poets

in buried fire

the bamboo leaves bow in the slight wind
to centuries of poetry

and did down these paths

samurai warriors, katanas drawn and rifles loaded
went to die at Toba-Fushimi?

their dreams silent
as the frozen moon?

but now in this new century

i see this smiling girl with a hijab
photographing a pokemon toy

this is pikachu meeting kitsune

further ahead famous shrines await
under a foggy autumn sky

Adashino Nenbutsuji
and the red maples



written 28/06/2020
revised 26/03/2021
****************

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Virtual Japan - Arashiyama Bamboo Forest

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

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

these trains

riding the trains before smartphones took over the world...

Commonwealth MRT Station, Singapore
photo by dsnake1


these trains


i ride
     these trains
         quiet rage
             looking at tunnel walls
                               dark walls
                    roaring past
separated by a metal door
try
   reading newspapers
          the previous day's wars
                       football games
          to pass the time
    else i sleep
            standing
            holding onto grab poles
                                           in
                this heaving beast's
     metal belly
as metal wheels
             grind
                 on tortured tracks
i am thinking of the wasted day in the office
as departing station
           after station
                   the recorded audio reminding
                  DOORS CLOSING !!
          the time seems
to have stood

still

still
     these dark walls
      darkly rage by
      se parated only
      by a metal door


written 13.05.1998
revised 25.02.2021
****************

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BAND-MAID - Alone

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

in the time of stillness

A tiny virus did all these. It was a strange time of empty streets during the lockdown, mandatory face masks and social distancing when outside...

photo by dsnake1



in the time of stillness


the city is standing still
it is learning a new language

the grass and weeds are allowed to grow
buttons, sages and mimosa poke heads out of concrete

butterflies show off their orange wings again
the stacked-up chairs at the cafe are lonely

the tower cranes have stop turning
the jackhammers retire to their sheds

you do not have a guy breathing down your neck
while you are placing a lottery bet

we have been the magpies
gleefully bathing in a puddle on a hot day
we have been the pigeons,
always hungry, pecking for food on asphalt

the language is new and strange
we gripe but are quietly learning.


02/05/2020
**********

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A Perfect Circle - Imagine (cover of Lennon's song)

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

a tourist strolling through the Gion district at night

Around this time last year, I was preparing to visit Japan...

photo of a Kyoto bar by YunPing


a tourist strolling through the Gion district at night


A cold autumn wind unexpectedly greets us
blowing from behind as we exit Sanjo Station.

Coming from the river, the chill shakes billboards,
descends on the crowd going to Pontocho Alley.

Even at this hour, 9 p.m., in this slight rain,
from the stations, the main roads, the hotels,
groups of people talking, laughing, taking selfies,
head towards this narrow, wet and dim alley.

Indistinct chatter in many languages, guffaws,
Japanese polite phrases, hang in the air.

Keeping a close eye on any puddles, or any geishas,
lit lanterns on almost every door or eaves,
my friend helpfully points out the lights to me.

Not the ones with names, clan crests, but
only the ones with a red symbol of a bird.

Pausing at one, he says that this is a geisha teahouse,
quaint, but expensive, if you want the experience.

Resuming our walk, the crowd is still not thinning,
slanted light pours out of a bar as a door opens.

The banter of gruff men floats over, phlegm laced.
Under this dark, rainy sky they could be yakuza,
vying for one last fling of greatness.

We are exiting the alley to a busy road, the
x on our maps showing the next train station.

Yearning for the warm beds of our hotel, we
zero in on a takoyaki stall to end the night.


12/10/2020
**********

This is an Abecedarian poem. It is a poem that uses all the 26 letters in the alphabet chronologically, each letter starting a new line.

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Theme song from anime movie Castle in the Sky - Carrying You

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

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
**********

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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

and all i see are wet petals on asphalt

"And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
         Not shaking the grass"

-- Ezra Pound

Osaka, Japan, at night
photo by dsnake1



and all i see are wet petals on asphalt


the train doors close
like a breath exhaling

and i slip out of the station
to an empty street

a cold wind blowing
and a long way from home



01/01/2020
**********

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* “Where are the people?” resumed the little prince at last. “It’s a little lonely in the desert…”
"It is lonely when you’re among people, too,” said the snake. *

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince


Shared on Writers' Pantry #1 at Poets and Storytellers United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

every morning the sun looks in

in limbo in the city...

photo by dsnake1



every morning the sun looks in


Every morning the sun looks in with the gaze of a bored child.
Today, a white cloud, with a face of Jesus, floats past the window.

Every second that passes makes me wiser, not necessarily older.
My poems are buried in my pc, they have served their purpose.

Today, a white cloud, with a face of Che, floats past the window.
Disinterested pigeons waddle past on the sidewalk, fat and mean.

My poems died in scraps of paper, they have served their purpose.
The neighbours do not talk much, just smile, we have our secrets.

Disgruntled pigeons waddle past on the sidewalk, fat and free.
The mound of cigarette butts in the ashtray starts to smolder.

The neighbours do not talk much, some smile, we have our secrets.
A blind musician sits on the worn stairs, plucking guitar strings.

The mound of cigarette butts in the ashtray starts to sputter.
At 7 p.m.a police cruiser slides by quietly past the 7-11.

A lady in yoga tights walks her pit bull down the worn stairs.
Late day shadows are darker, who may be hiding in them?

At 8 p.m. a police cruiser slides by quietly past the laundromat.
Late day shadows are darker, what may be hiding in them?

Every second that passes makes me wiser, not merely older.
Every morning the sun looks in with the gaze of a bored child.


18/01/2019
**********

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“What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?”

― Jack Kerouac

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

who moved my fries?

From my SingPoWriMo archives. Yes, no eyeballs at my other blog.

When you are trying to write poetry but got terribly distracted...

illustration by cd20 at pixabay


who moved my fries?


and here i am sitting in a cafe
goofing-off
with the other unhappy, loathsome
loafers
perhaps all in need of some help
with their time
watching the ice in that cup of coke
dying off
and trying to nurse that packet of fries
oh shit
so i feel like a stalker watching those
happy kids with their happy meals
those boys and girls from the nearby school
dating
on the pretext of studying biology
oh you can't fool me on that
and why the heck was i here?
oh yes, trying to write a poem like this
because this is the month of april
maybe if i am lucky i can wring some verses
from this joint
but mainly it is because of the
free wi-fi

but damn, the fries are moving fast
it will not last till evening.



written          : 01/04/2016
lightly edited : 11/11/2018
**********************

Took out all the f words. Maybe I shouldn't. Getting soft.

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And, to get back to the world after this, listen to the poetry of Graham Nash - I Used To Be A King

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018

echoes in the night

I wrote this for NaPoWriMo 2014. Urggh! Not many eyeballs there, so a re-post. The piece was inspired by a scary urban legend. Thought of reworking it. Decided not.

photo by Alvimann @ morguefile.com



echoes in the night


the distant thud of thunder
that might have been
the last beat of your heart

in the blackness of the room

only the ticking of the clock
the slow twitch of its luminous hands
grasping the hour of the night

a shade of ghastly green

and then quite clearly from the ceiling
tock//tock//tock
the sound of marbles dropping

but above that is only the rooftop...


08/04/2014
**********

is Halloween around the corner?

---

"is that a strand of hair brushing your face?"

-- dsnake1, -O-


To keep you company for the night : Uriah Heep - Echoes in the Dark

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2018