One night
before I went to bed
while dusting my books
One by one
counting the ones
I had read
I came across
a book from you
I had it all along
I wish I knew

Chapters I never gleamed
Pages I’d never seen
About places
I’d never been
Experiences I never had
Things I never heard
and to add to that
a bookmark
with your name
and a blue bird

And out slipped
a photo of me
As I flipped
the cover to see
The title
And there was you
You fell out
from the book too

Two photos torn
separated by scorn
placed in pages of a book
Between the worn covers
were torn lovers
and It never dawned
for me to ever look

You never told me your name
yet your smile said it all
you signed me your number
gestured a phone for me to call
I look around for pen and paper
I find neither anywhere
locked in memory, loud and clear
in my head I stored you there
But by the time I made it home
my sharpness wasn’t as it were
within the charging of my phone
the numbers began to blur
I rang the wrong number
and dialled a different voice
just another unfamiliar stranger
I hung up, I had no choice
I tried so hard to remember
combining captures of what you said
piecing a puzzle for a clue
picturing it all in my head
how the stars had failed me
how in love I am cursed
the more I tried to remember
the more I made it worse
and now you’re probably wondering
why I never did call
you have no idea how I’m dying
my memory, your smile and all

Shaking the grains
of salt like rain
over my fries
I bite into a burger
of my free order
and find a sizzling fly
You may laugh
but it’s a little rough
when dandruff
is white icing
on a blueberry pie
A free meal
is a risky deal
and I tell you no lie
once I found there
a metre hair
I choke and nearly die
I pull up to the counter
complain to the waiter
who couldn’t give a jack
just a dingy diner
at the mall
with free meals
and worse of all
you can’t ask
for money back

a girl kissed a boy
and told him not to tell
he grew up to be a poet
with a promise kept so well
till he wrote one day a poem
that she’s found reading, but forgot
and wondered if it’s really him
and thinking that it’s not
but buried within these pages
and hidden within the rhyme
were words dripping from his lips
caressing every line
so she came in a little closer
and read it to the end
and found him in the poem
and kissed his lips again

A little green grew
in the grey and grey blue
in a world that was dusty and dark
in the form of a flower
with colours to devour
that could turn a city into a park
But the crowd passing by
in the black and black tie
hardly took the time or knew
through the crack in the strife
the hues and colours of life
blossoming beneath their shoe
yet stretching out its wild leaves
with a beauty to please
It was a sad, sad trample amidst the scuffle
the busy people passing by
who would not raise an eye
wondered “what scent was so, so wonderful?”
but the crushed fragrance blown
was all that was known
though they knew not what it was
for they’d never seen
that little, little green
it’s just the smell they now speak of

a little piece please
just a little piece

for the hole in my soul
to fill the whole of my soul

just a little piece of peace
for me

I decided a long time ago
as long as a piece of string
I would be the one to cut it short
if you were to cut it thin
yes, It was a long time ago
along a long and lonely path
I longed to stretch it out
what you would cut in half
I decided a long time ago
as long as you were here
long is such a long ago
I, short of memory,
long to remember

The moon was afraid to rise
so it settled for the night
gave the day to the sun
and in doing
compromised its light
Now often every evening
as soon as the sun will set
it makes an appearance
before the sky and day reset
And like tears, the stars twinkle
while the moon mourns regret
how light once sparkled
now just sprinkle
of things you lose but can’t forget

I’m gonna jingle a single in my singlet
Juggle Bintang bubbles in my jocks
Run wild and free in the city
No trickery tickity tock
Just flippity flip in my flip flops
See me rickety rock off your socks
Dangle the bangle and I haggle
Cha-ching cha-ching on the rocks
One dolla two dolla or three
Join us for a beer at a party in Bali
By the bay with a babe by the sea
With Marley and Ali and me

I am currently experiencing
a severe case
of creative block
I’m bleeding from my ears
blood from my eyes
dripping down my chin and brow
blood on these lines
stored ****** thoughts
reserved in my head
leaking down my nose
Dam I’m bleeding read

A poem half made
is like bread still dough
like a bed unmade
like half a mo
A poem half done
is like a shade of day
with half the sun
A kiss, an inch away
A poem undone
Is a four moon phase
a count to one
a ‘mil’ out of place
A poem half finished
is like a tin of spinach
still unopened
and an expired usage
A poem not a

a
   poem
      hides a
     secret within a
    letter or placing of
     a word look carefully
           and intent-fully
                   a secret you may have
                heard examine it ever closely
                       what’s preferred
                  or inferred if you
         open read it slowly
     it may fly out
like a
bird

A poem is not a place
to belong
It’s hard and rough
treacherous and long
words are wounded
bled and blended
the rhymes are lies
stiff short and ended
lines are cut
and dissected
meanings fray
if not mended
a poem is no place
too small
to find your space
without a wall
or ground to pace
no not at all
no support or hold
for a poor poet
not to fall

A poet has but a few
favourite things
they are much too busy
writing
dreaming
the day away
not wasting
a thought caught
on a day of play

A poet has a few favourite books
yet their imagination
is as good as any
read in their head
are heroes, hurts and hopes
flipping pages in their mind
a librium of poetry and notes

If asked, about their favourite hue
they have no colour but words
squeezing line
mixing rhyme
with feelings
close enough
paintings plainly heard
through strokes
spoken
without brush

A poets favourite things
are made up of life
and what life sings
pain, suffering, simple joys
a poets favourite toys
are madness
and the many things
they employ,
that brings birth
breath and wings
into the poetry we all enjoy

The stakes are high
when words are at stake
It’s an open hand
we give
we take
waging with words
a gamble for me
playing a fine line
with cliche
or corny
no matter the draw
poker face
or story
that rhyme you find
too profound
too bally
I deal this poem
I roll
you read
double or nothing
a hit or miss
is always
guaranteed

“Do you think we’ll ever be ok?”, she asked

“Depends what you mean by ok”, I replied

She then, gave me a look that spoke a thousand words and said, “okay”.

This is a tale about a tale
that had no end

A tale of the tale
of what was then

It went on forever
from wherever

but none knows when

I fell in love with a blind poet
I fell in love with her eyes
they were as pretty as words
Oh, the light, she would write
reciting every line
though blind and couldn’t see
between verse and the rhyme
I swear, she’d see
right through me

A blind woman gave birth
to the most beautiful girl
on earth

She could feel her heart beat
but could never see her face

She could touch her hand
but never saw her
eyes of grace

She could smell her skin
but never seen
her smiling

a beautiful blind woman bore
the most beautiful woman on earth
who saw her mother more

than just with eyes and all their worth

I have a bag full of money
Filled only with paper notes
it’s not really all that heavy
Infact, It’s so light it often floats
So I’m glad I don’t carry
The weight of the rich
on my back
because life would be so scary
weighed down by a sack
I’d rather be up and airy
strung along by a balloon
Flying up like a fairy
Scattering money from the moon

Better to be
than not be at all
Better to hang
than to fall
Better to be looked over
than over looked
Better to be baked
than overcooked
Better to frown
at the ground
than smile
at a falling sky
Better a toothache
than a heartache
or be found
with heart break
and die
so better to live
and to give
than take
like pancake
is better with
ice cream
than icing
on cake

Why do people play with big words?
Is a poet to impress or express?
As for me,
I’ve carried too heavy a load to care
I just want to share

I weave words into woods
and forests of dreams
feeding your fear with stories
of giants and beans
stalks and straws
cracked golden eggs
scrawny fingers
a glass eye and
wood for a leg
to aid your sleep
come werewolves and bears
ghosts and ghouls
for a nicer nightmare
so come now hither
come to the deep
and dream
a dream my dear
if you dare to sleep

In death there is no fear
neither is there in pain
compared to such a treachery
than putting one to open shame
many a thing they may endure
but poke at the pride engrained
you’ll bind and break their spirit
when speaking evil of their name

I’m building a bridge
from my heart to yours
crossing over troubled water
my shore to your shores
one end to another
we’re stringing the sun
with the moon to the other
till the whole worlds been strung
so if our hearts ever dangle
and if you ever hope to jump
come hang on with your life
and I’ll hold you up

Let me burn evermore
In a way I have never burned
before

Till the ashes
of my passions
cover the darkest night

Let us all learn to burn
till we yearn for light
and fight for sight
no more

‘In her eye
is a butterfly’
I know…
sounds like you’ve heard this poem before
…may sound crass
But alas…allow me, a word or more

You may find
in the next few lines
what may sound a familiar tune
like butterflies and stars
heartaches and scars
or another poem about the moon

but…
this one’s eyes are rare
like caterpillars they’re
brought alive without a womb
and she breathes new life
with the flutter of  her eyes
yet she needs no cocoon

She said,
“My name is a flower, you see”

I said “Lily…it must be?”
She said, “no, no, no!…

...a Lily…is soooo,
not as beautiful
as me”

She replies
bashfully and wise
I’m just as much beauty to the eyes
as I am to the nose.”

“Oh!…you must be Rose”
She laughed
and cried more ‘no’s’

“It sounds a little crazy
I know and maybe…
but you must be a Daisy??”

she giggled all the more
“who knows?”
and winked
“.. if only baby”

Finally,
I put my thinking aside
I tell no lie,
while I, still in my head
wondering

she sighed

”My names not ‘white’ or ‘plain’
‘Self raising’ “, she said
”…is my name”.

Can I ask for love
Without the romance
Without the slow dance
Without the holding of hands
Give the kiss, a miss
necklace and jewelries
without the emotional abuse
The manipulation we use
like flowers or presents
The chocolate selections
The dinner pretension
The relational misuse
and the facade we choose
When love in truth
is the exception