what is darkness, if not light fleeing?

What is grief, if not love persevering?
-- TV miniseries WandaVision

digital art by dsnake1



what is darkness, if not light fleeing?


What will you say when your heart dies? It grieves, cries,
is not dead, beating, but is dark anyway, do you get that?
Darkness blinds you and dries you to a shriveled husk, and
if nothing else, a razor cut to the wrists, surrendering.
Not a day goes by with darkness, hunting, squeezing, driving
Light, the keeper of compassion, joy and hope, but now
fleeing, until one day it remembers, and burns the darkness.


02/04/2021
**********

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This is a prompt from SingPoWriMo 2021 for day 2 (our local version of NaPoWriMo).
We are asked to write a poem with a title that takes this form: What is (noun1), if not (noun2) (continuous verb)? [see the preamble] The poem will attempt to answer the question set out by this title. Or not.

I wonder, is there a name for the form of this poem?

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2021

icy

I wrote this piece recently for SingPoWriMo 2016 and posted it on my other blog. It was getting zilch eyeballs, so here it is! But seriously, it is about a sad subject.

image by dsnake1, done with Sketchpad 3.7



icy


in the time between
the first flame
and the last exhale
of breath
       is
the bubbling
of death
on a heated tin foil
the quick suck of
white fumes
     through
a straw
before the bones break
the flesh tears
the ants
   crawl on
       clammy
         skin
       slipping
sliding
    into
      the poisoned
        blood
       as
     the blades
are drawn

        &
     before
     the dawn

     icy
       dead

the dragon is too mean to chase



23/04/2016
**********


I am trying out a new, free and easy to use online art tool, Sketchpad 3.7. Still learning, but it is an amazing and fun tool. The above graphic was done with it.

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"My eyes are blind but I can see
The snowflakes glisten on the tree..."

--Black Sabbath, Snowblind


Shared on Poetry Pantry #304 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

fill

Even in the most crowded of spaces we can get lonely...

photo by dsnake1




fill


we run from the sudden midday rain
run to malls and cafes and tunnels and bus shelters
all of us, minding our own business
in our own little spaces
just a while ago
and the rain fills the city
and the pigeons and mynahs and flies
and the dull trees and shrubs and grass
and empty pizza boxes and cigarette butts
and trash bins and traffic lights
and the streets filled with road signs
no waiting-no parking-TOW AWAY ZONE-
drive carefully
are given a new wash of life
and
when the rain goes away
sudden as it came
the midday sun starts burning again
the side walks fill
      the trains fill
          the hospitals fill
              the columbaria fill


14/04/2016
**********


Guys, another from my SingPoWriMo 2016 pages. Useful place when you are busy or out of poems...

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"...this evening is unkind again, the stars falling while waiting for that bus to take me home"

-- dsnake1, weed


Shared on Poetry Pantry #301 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

on waiting to be enlisted

It was a time of brick walls and bloodshot eyes...

photo by dsnake1




on waiting to be enlisted
early freaking 70's




so this is it
this is the mousetrap
sprung
i have been listening
to Uriah Heep's 'The Park'
speaking of loss
and needless wars
looping looping
till the track is
scratched thin on the vinyl.

outside just a floor below
the noon traffic lumbers by
horns angry, tyres screeching,
men swearing in dialects
strange that i did not
noticed it before
those noises
or the stand-fan
in the corner of the room
blades turning
stirring stale air
dust motes settling
on the linoleum
again

i am slouched on the
battered sofa
my mother yells at me
to move my ass
nothing interest me now
maybe just the music
or the static
in the head
i am not even
angry anymore
and that's dangerous.

in a couple of days
the army will come for me.


30/04/2016
**********

guys, i wrote this for SingPoWriMo 2016.

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"..the sun rose each morning to stare into my face with the blank but touching gaze of a lovely retarded child.”

― James Crumley, The Last Good Kiss


Shared on Poetry Pantry #300 at Poets United.


The Park by Uriah Heep.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

when she was reduced to ashes

I was at the grave of my late wife during the period of Qing Ming, to clean her grave and give offerings. I touched her portrait on the marble. She is lovely. She is.

I wrote this for SingPoWriMo 2016 (they have a facebook page to post for submissions, but I did not post it there as I did not join the event officially. I think I will not be able to write a poem a day, thanks to my horrible workload). SingPoWriMo is like a local version of NaPoWriMo.

photo by wintersixfour
image from morguefile.com




when she was reduced to ashes




to see her reduced to ashes
in a furnace
i am powerless
and nothing i can do
but to give a
                  lonely
weak wave
and every fervent talk of
life and death
is meaningless
for the night before
she was just a slab
of meat
in a casket
and to think
we used to talk
and laugh
about our small universe
and to
caress and care
every night
before we sleep.



03/04/2016
**********

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"How I wish, how I wish you were here..."

-- Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here.


Shared on Poetry Pantry #296 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016