sorta like a rope

Ennui. Dead end. Nothing to look forward to...

photo by dsnake1



sorta like a rope


today the sun comes out
but it's not burning
you try to ignore the sun
and the clock alarm too

you see this dead bird
rotting by the wayside trees
one good life gone, once skies,
now a home for maggots & flies.

you sit at the coffee shop
trying to sip your tea
the other old guys there
are scratching on betting slips

who knows, who knows your life
might change the next day
people begging you for handouts
or you just tear that slip away

you see this old geezer
trying to feed a stray cat
but the stray claws him
maybe it remembers something

the dark roads intersect at night
street lights shine no brighter
than the stars in the sky
somewhere in the distance drones

a siren



15/03/2023
**********


"sorta like a rope looking for a tree to finish the job." - ZQ
The title comes from a comment from ZQ, one of the readers of this blog.

---

Madonna - Frozen

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2023

slag

it is not just about the haze that rolls in from indonesia. perhaps it is more than that...

photo by dsnake1
of an art installation at a museum



slag



it does not look like red slag
from a furnace
red like a bruise on a face
after a fist fight
it has been like that
since september
a dragon's breath
it blows teeth
sharp as razors
the sweat rolling
down scalps
to sizzle
on dry asphalt
the words hot
           hot
scalding

the sky
a frenzy of grey hammerheads

           circling



30/10/2015
**********



this is one of the poems that i wanted to submit for a poetry competition. i think it is not too bad. and yes, what good timing, the haze has just rolled in from indonesia...

---

The sky is not falling
but it is growing teeth

*

from “All the Sweat Inside My Handshake” by David Greenspan


This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in hysterical ways.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2019

flare

Some days are worse than Mondays. Especially if you think the world is out to get you...

photo by pedrojperez at morguefile.com




flare



some days the sun is a magnesium flare
the people in the streets wipe sweat
off their noses, seeking shadows
to hide in, this town, and you
expect the walls and roads
to crumble and collapse.
you duck into a cafe
hoping there's cash
left in the pockets
for a set lunch.
you are surprised
the air-con is cold
the tiles clean, spotless
the clientele polite, making
just small noises, forks poking
at plates, you take the day's papers
the headlines, the black ink staring back

Paris Peace Talks Stalled
North Vietnamese negotiators walk out.

who cares about U.S. air raids when you just
want to look for the jobs vacant pages?
and then the girl brings you your food
she is plump, her hair tied in a bun
her thighs in a short short skirt
ravishingly creamy, fiery sexy
and you really thought of
making hot love to her
and outside the sun
just screams and
shines blindly
belligerently
an exploding

ball of
hegemony.


02/09/2016
**********

---

"and all i could do was
sweat out the summer,
dripping with rage
while the days ran hot
and the rain trees bled
dead brown leaves,"

-- dsnake1, peace


Shared on Poetry Pantry #327 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

i heard water rationing is around the corner

Is there such a thing as a tongue twister poem? No?

photo by dsnake1





i heard water rationing is around the corner


dry
dried

     a
     coke can
     crushed

     by

     the kerb
     side

     tires
     burning
     churning up

     dust
     dust
     dirt

       rust

     a cigarette
             butt

     flicked
     carelessly
     nonchalantly

     arcs
     tumbles
     thuds

     sparks

     on ashphalt
     &
     asphyxiated
     weeds

     pleads pleads       please

itching to start a bush war

all the while the sun unflinchingly
                                  unfriendly


10/10/15
********


at one time we had our tongues hanging out, and there was also the small matter of the haze from indonesia to contend with...

---

“I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?”

― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland.


Shared on Poetry Pantry #292 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2016

a year in a minute

What event in 2013 leaves a lasting impression in your mind?

image by dsnake1




a year in a minute





To me there is one image that defines the year. Floods.

Not the troubles in Syria or other ongoing wars but the floods that swept so many countries, even in my own backyard. You see, I was out for lunch one sunny noon and then the rains just poured out of nowhere, no warning.

I was fortunate, I was only inconvenienced, nothing compared to the scenes of fast currents sweeping away hopes, mudslides, grieving families elsewhere. Are we paying the debts for this rape of the earth? Or is this to be expected in the year of the Water Snake?




29/12/2013
**********

100 words exactly (again)

---

A year in 100 words. In the Chinese zodiac, 2013 is the Year of the Water Snake.


Shared on Poetry Pantry #182 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013

when the ocean bleeds

I love the ocean. But I also fear and respect it for it's power. As a child, my cousins and I would jump into the sea off a pier, and catch catfish. How fool-hardy then, but the sea water is cool and inviting on a hot day. As I grew older I found there is nothing better to calm your emotions than sitting at a breakwater and watch the waves coming to shore.

The ocean is not what it used to be. It is wounded, tired. Walk along any beach, and you will see what the waves bring in. Plastics, oil, debris, dead wildlife. 70 over percent of the earth is ocean, regulating weather, providing oxygen, food. That's an awful lot of ocean, but it is still finite...

I am not an environmentalist, but this is the only earth we had...



image from imageafter.com



when the ocean bleeds


time is short
the tide rises

rusted hulls
bleed ochre blood
to the seas

and washed up
on the shores
driftwood dead corals

oil slicks
rainbows still dance
on wounded membranes

a child picks
a seashell
from the sands

but the shell
is pitted and chipped
and bleached

and if she puts
the shell
to her ears

it is not the roar
of waves she hears

but the whimper
of an ocean in pain


10/02/2009
**********

---

We never know the worth of water, till the well is dry.

-- Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia, 1732



This new poem (though it has been sitting in my hard disc for some time) is shared on Poetry Pantry #133 at Poets United.

---

© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2013.