Designed with WordPress
Wednesday of the Second Week of Easter
When white the morning rises,
Stars collapse the prison door,
Will I find myself entombed or
Chains dust the weeping floor?
Bleeding mystics’ ancient joy,
Pure ascent, lack of selfish ego,
Will my mirror reflect your gaze?
Will the garden bid me go?
Forever spring, life blooms at once
Weak tenderness and keeping,
Will I accept your crown of thorns,
Speak my joy in newness reaping?
Tuesday of the Second Week of Easter
John 3:8
The wind blows wherever it pleases; you hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. That is how it is with all who are born of the Spirit.
Wandering was, to us, more than after-dinner exercise.
The truth is that we were carried between discoveries
Even if all we saw were granite quarries,
Moss-ridden and overhanging a still lake
In this part of the deep wood
As far as this urbanised garden would allow.
But there are days too when the dark
Veins of the leaf of a simple common tree
Stuns me that I misremember
Where I walked from and how I’m leaving
As if the shadows of this late night never truly mattered.
by
To the grandmas from Bury who spoke to me on Zoom during the lonely pandemic
My heart sang its last slow
hallelujah
in tongues but
comprehension slips
memories ebb
with time like waves
despite my best
cold sleep’s caress was all I had
and the four lonely walls
of a present without hope
disaster and disaster again
eating away at future life
But a gentle truth
“we can fix
everything
and we can always mend
what is broken”
though you said it entirely offhand
I listened to the closing tide
and the cold water drew away
from body and shipwreck
I finally breathed
as we wrote poems together
about the beach and things we loved
even though they were in history
and a million miles away
And the dove in my chest
awoke
to church bells ringing
with repose of a simple painting
a chorus drawing
workshopped
pencil strokes holding hands
since the old are neat guides
and motherly sounds
unaware of their affection
and protection
unabashed to build with soil
and tired hands
my imagined cathedral
I quietly began to believe since then
since my heart gave up
and tongues descend
a hallelujah once again
I still think of them some years now
and how it’s okay, it’s really okay
to find yourself in pain
yet accept those same words again
“to mend”
to be comforted
and none of those words or wants
of trying or falsely accused unjustified living
of remembering what was lost
and writing it down with love
will ever be in vain
First written in 2021, edited and published in 2024
by
Money, that weightless thing. So invisible,
So undiscernible in value except maybe for the size
Of its note or the braille printed just before the edge
Meets invisible space. Money is so heavy, that fleeting thing
Constantly oppressive. More than its entire weight in gold.
Gold shines so that you can feel, taste, smell and pretend
It’s worth more than the collective weight of things
You have since let go to hold more money.
by
I’m always heartbroken
In memory of you and me. All
The time, happy. Sad.
They are the same.
To me, all tears flow downwards
Like rivulets to the ocean.
Happy crying becomes sad. So too
Heartbreak slips into
Times we had each other.
Someone else in this big blue world,
At least one.
Like my heartbeat, the water cycle
Passes along,
The rain seeps into the soil
It kills, it kisses. All
Blended as if it is one thing.
by
Translation.
Abot means reach. Kamay means hand.
Abot-kamay means within reach, something you’re aiming to have, or something you worked hard for is almost at your fingertips.
Abot-kamay
When you will be born on that fateful day,
Wrapped in sterile white blankets
And the heavy caress of a tired body,
I will remember dreaming of you today,
As I gaze into those brown eyes that awoke
Drowned wet with tears this morning for the dream
Of having you far off in the grey future and not being
Able to hold you, all bloodied and crying, in the small
Of my hands now, so wrinkled and far from worthy,
Smelling of oranges and lemons, feeling softness.
by
I was always fascinated by the story of Babel
Which could be said to be the story of mankind:
“To become Gods” or “To find God” or “To kill God”.
It is the story of ascent like that of mystics
But with the spirituality of warriors, kings, and conquerors.
I am a man, just a man, so I too think I know how men
Think. We want to climb the tower, holy or not
To achieve. Maybe we were uncomfortable in our baggy skins,
Disgusted by our flesh that is so easily bruised… and our egos.
As if in our old souls, we knew. That earth
And our allotted lotteries were not enough—
That there was something in us unfinished. Well, ironically,
It took someone stepping down, somewhat from that
Broken tower of ambition, to show us in all humility,
Clothed in our skin but not in our ancient weakness,
Not like Superman from the comic books but instead a poor criminal
Broken to show us that to be truly human is to truly be like God.
by
When I tried to walk,
Softness and the smell of apples
Tug at my feet like small hands.
They pull me into the concrete. So cold,
Like the other side of a pillow.
I hoped I’d recover
At least the motion of walking
From whichever drawer I kept
Your “I wish you were happy”s
Before I forget.
For Jonathan
Men are weak to tears because they remind
them that life is not a competition,
that hardness of heart is not normal
nor is it virtuous. Tears remind men of pride
which is folly; for in all their
strength, it takes a soft and tender heart to sit
with the wounded. It takes vulnerability
and what is that in the eyes of cold, domineering strength?
It is a power that they cannot comprehend
tears melt a man’s cold heart,
tears trickle through the ice
as they pass through rivers, seas and moats
and in time, hard men shall embrace
the tragic and beautiful reality
of a warm heart’s giant roar.
by
It haunts
The glint between my spectacle lenses
I am far away
No more plastic smiles
No more concrete
Stony faces
Crack in the ground, the road
hidden differently
Hearing
Knowing
Not understanding
Forever given to the future
by
I only know
you breathe my breath
that to be
I am not worthy
despite my unloveliness
torn shawl and drawers
the spite and adultery
the cheating and scandals
you have kept me with you
As written in the book
I do not know
why for
how far I have turned away from you
but admonishing
with all
I am
and where I want to be
by
A rocky cliffside
jagged and beaten
hides a reservoir
as water drips
through moonbeams
the cracks of clenched fists
a candle wanes with dignity
wax melting
stronger than electricity
listen explorer
the cavern speaks
tremors
fear its rumbling
swaying everything
hold still
the ripple
from a drop
as mountains melt
submit
rocks fall into water
by
Quiet room
Deathly
Cold
Silent steps
Starless night
Still air
The night before
Bathed
In water
Wine
Before blood
A wedding eve
Hard
On dust and sand
Sobriety
Uninvited
Simple
Not just my feet
Stops
Time
Kingship
Everything
Unprotected
by
If heaven is as good as it sounds
then take me there
to a place that is forever
white and green with eternal springtime
like in stories where bread fall from the sky
like ash flakes after a campfire in the morning
like hope descending and unbecoming
where there is only love
where we are going
and more than I love
as good as it sounds
than impermanence
our life here below
our sadness
beyond present dissatisfaction
raised up to heaven
won’t I gawk
on the table unspent
forever mirthy
a joy that lasts
for nothing dies
like flowers
alive and held
so unweary
undemandingly
by
There is magic in my lungs
my heart is a cathedral
my tears are waterfalls
my hair is salty and bitter
my knees have scraped
against the hard grain of rigour
they hold the valleys of the world
my hands carve its timber
my brain holds a treasure
existence in a pool
fed by blood so rich
my golden regal tooth
my soul screams the loudest
if I listen to its tune
a hear the golden cymbals
I feel all life illume
by
Things are feeling better now but I don’t know
whether they actually are better. Nothing
has changed – the cogs continue to turn.
The home is panopticon. State is self-surveillance
in the disintegrated human-
every mistake, a crushing boulder,
when one hope is lost, a faint firefly
I still hate myself I still feel like I need help
Have you forgotten how to live? Why
try to do everything yourself? Trauma shrugs
it doesn’t go. Ribcages tighten and collapse
It is much easier to hate and remain inside
to not move forward.
Lungs are out of breath
become again.
“I’m worried about you.
Let’s talk.”
as if talking would change anything
but remind me that I am loved
All I want to proclaim is that I don’t recognise myself.
Love – a question or an open invitation?
What is the answer to suffering?
Not death. I don’t remember much of it anymore.
Only love, always suffering, union this side of the veil.
Always love. Who? I was looking at faces in RGB.
I didn’t expect the outside world to be so green.
Singapore returns to Phase 2 of Covid-19 restrictions after an influx of community-spread cases.
by
why did she remember
his favourite brand of cigarettes
when she
tried to remember
their distance
when she questioned
how much she loved him
choking
between wafts
staring at her curtains
the breeze rustles
the balcony
his disheveled hair
his smell
his shirt
his favourite spot to flirt
if only
she loved better
or never asked
she should never have asked
for more
than the smell of tobacco
from him
for him to love her more
if she loved better instead
if
to breathe
more than
oxygen tinted memories
in between bursts
burning polyps
but why
it never mattered
would he have stayed
not her tears or his promises
nor the spot he left behind
where she still revisits
if she looked at him more
would he still be there
at the balcony
smoking his favourite
the last thing he left behind
other than her
now melting
burnt to throw
by
she lit a cigarette for the first time
it hung in between the space
of her middle and forefinger
smoke haunted the living room
where she sat crossed legged on the floor
inhaling quietly
she never took a puff
but let it burn away
because she missed the smell
it choked her and clogged her eyes
it always had
it hurt
she let it happen
the night turned grey and passed
with slightly bitter tears
by
Twiddling my thumbs at the midsection of noonday, I gave up on life
and all that it promised: green edible leaves, the cornucopia, fresh water.
I didn’t know who I was anymore after relinquishing control
so I decided to just walk away from everything in my mind
I couldn’t quite comprehend the sensation in my fingertips, the sweat
rolling down my skin, traversing through the canyons of raised
hair follicles. I know I am not that good a person but I never
expected to see such a broken figuration, my guts spilling out.
My brain. I had a hernia once, it almost ruptured my genitals
when my large intestine fell into a place that it shouldn’t have.
I look back. I could have died. My brain is also empty. It echoes
with the silence that nothing mattered if I wasn’t rushed to the hospital
or if I didn’t live up to this gift of life, this great surprise.
I look at the potted plant on my counter. It is a money plant
dropping down like all crawlers do. It is the ultimate household plant
Money plants do not require much watering or sunlight. I wonder why it tries so hard.
My phone buzzes. I read everything but there was nothing of note or
nothing to note. No duty, no responsibilities save the ones I make up
for myself in my head, these foreigners. To God, family and country. Never did I
ever feel so selfish than at the dark noon of midday when in the middle
of my siesta that I decided to drop the ball. To die like everything mattered
and accepting that I couldn’t lift even a finger to die.
Jsolitaire Writing & Poetry 