Like little flickering flames
Dancing within the depths of a mirror
The little red fishies evade the
Staccato swishes
Of my tender ten-year old fingers
Roiling the surface of the fish pond
Like the clumsy clowning of an errant god.
On The Idiot Box
There I was, sunk into myself, eyes glazed
As a parade of beguiling sights and
Sounds charm me like a beady-eyed serpent
Needy, greedy in my des’prate desire
To forget, to beget my own slumber
Against the roaring din of existence.
On The Israeli Bombardment of Al Ahli Hospital
Too many eyes have been wounded tonight
Eyes which have wept wet tears of blinding grief
Now red, bleared, livid with war’s burning fog.
Bloodshot eyes, now braying for the blood of
Children, women whose only sin is that
They dare to insist on the right to live.
On The Miracle of Modern Flight
Beyond mere sight, the drone of jet-heeled thrust
Propels these numbered souls through sky, through clouds
Aboard this metal wing we embarked, flocked
And flecked with hopes and honeyed dreams ablaze.
Hurtling through the smoky night, we sail thus
Within tubular confine, nonchalant
At the miracle of modern flight, such
Being this, our present state of blessed grace.
Lives thus emplaced in Techne’s steady hand,
We embrace the calm slumber of meek souls.
On New Adventures
Always, the best things in our lives, they come
Unbidden, unasked, unexpectedly.
What does it take for the pale slivers of
Random good fortune and fate to greet us
And beckon us with grace and welcome smile?
How is it that such blessings often bid
Welcome only once Time has done its work,
When Aeschylus’ awful grace has worn down
Grieving hearts into spartan fists, never
Falt’ring in their austere, singular task
Of mournful remembrance for what once was?
And yet, and yet - Fortuna will demand
That we wipe our tears and hoist sails anew:
Fresh winds now come to stir this placid sea
A new adventure calls - we sail today.
On Watching His National Day Rally Speeches in YouTube
From across the yawning gap, the wide chasm Of irretrievable Time, I watched this Lion of a man hold his people in a Roaring trance: his eyes ablaze, his voice in Firm, unshakeable command: exhorting, Cajoling, pleading, teasing, commanding. Teaching his people, teasing out the facts Of a hostile environ in which their Red dot is ensconced: uneasy, wary. Informing them of glory, great heights scaled, Warning them of complacency, of ease. He growls, roars, thunders like an Asian Jove, Like a Confucian father to cowed sons. Tells them to buck up, work t'wards, fight against, March onwards and upwards, Sisyphean. He says, "Even from my sickbed, even If you are going to lower me into The grave and I feel that something is going Wrong, I will get up." As I watch him on Stage, from the corner of my eye, I keep Watch for the angry ghost of Lee Kuan Yew.
On Burying a Father
He buried his father today, hot tears
Streaking down his cheeks as the smoky haze
Of incense and burnt flowers bathed him and
His fam’ly with aching, foreign sadness.
His father is gone, and he can’t fathom
Why his heart feels muted, mutilated.
On The Greatest Politician
I have always been, and always will be Ev’rything and ev’ryone, ever and Always, to ev’rybody. My honeyed Words and grand declamations, they dazzle And confound, seduce and charm, soothe and burn You with the searing heat of wild desire And the roaring march of your heart’s fealty. You will love me, adore me, enthrone me, For I am your true love, your highest cause, Your life’s grandest anthem, your marching tune Your sheikh, your boss, your chief, your Tun, your Lord.
On Being Alone
What does it mean to be here alone?
I see and hear the hubbub, the smiles
And laughter of people less lonely
Than I am. I marvel at their ease.
That calm sense of knowing that they are
Exactly where they need to be, with
The people they ought to and want to
Be with. I imagine what it must
Feel like, to be like them, to be them.
My envy eats me like a cancer.
On My Crown of Envy
Gritted teeth grinding into rough cinders The ash of a thousand spurns in my mouth While you glory in the mud of smugness Your face cloying with its curdled pleading I hurl my hurts into this black abyss And now from this yawning, drowning distance I can feel the dark fire of thwarted hopes They scald with the flames of unholy wrath And this crown of envy melts my skull down With the heat of a thousand glaring suns That burns these sunken cheeks and boils away My angry tears - they wither with the light.