A poem
should not argue
its heart should be pure
though its words might be few-

truth and beauty
it should but seek to imbue
in worship and spontaneity
nothing else then need it pursue.

The past
is never
finished business
a scourge
an invisible bridge
that crosses over
to the present-- bolder
than the self itself
screams to unseat reason
its anger would not compromise
even with the sanest advice
restless in every season
cries foul in vengeance
of wrongs perceived
of justice's miscarriage
turns over every episode
re-reads every page
of one's life-chronicle
in rancour---no image
could be harsher than its visage

but as for me
my case I'll rest
friendship or enmity
hatred, faked love
promises unfilled
of the faithless and unworthy
the world's inhumanity
even the cruel hand of destiny
I'll set aside---it's all history

this then
shall be
my moment
of truth
the past forgotten
I've come to my own
I'm enlightened
reborn
happy
free!

2020 speaks to 2019
behave properly
be responsible
serve humanity--

don't you dare
infect me with your calumny
I know you too well
you can't ever fool me!

STRAWBERRY  FIELDS

I  walked  in  the  strawberry  fields
with  you,  so  long,  so  long  ago

 the  sun  was  shining  and  nature  was  smiling
and  our  two  hearts  fluttered  as  love  was  starting
to  grow
but  I  was  sixteen  and  you  were  fifteen
the  tender  buds  of  our  love  had  not  known
the  fragility  and  ephemerality  of  the  heart’s  affection
we  changed  as  the  seasons  and  time  had  swiftly  flown
now  I  am  forty-­‐‑one  and  you  forty
and  the  strawberry  fields  are  derelict  and  no  longer  sown
none  can  fight  omnipotent  destiny
I  have  become  a  stoic,  happy  to  be  by  myself-­‐‑-­‐‑alone

Be patient, wait, listen, be still, be kind, think of others more than your own self, give a smile to everyone, drink your coffee and thank the barista, tip the waitress, donate $10 to the Red Cross, buy a rose for your wife, read a poem of Keats, listen to a piece of Mozart and be grateful you are blessed

I've slept too long

      no more the slumber

      life's next song

      is springing to my ear--



      beauty will never do any wrong

      as bouquets of wonder she sets to gather

      with love and rejoicing in music's throng

      life doesn't die--it will live forever

Couple in cafe
they must be in seventies
how their eyes sparkled

When your promises are larger
than your ability to fulfil
it signifies a great danger-
you'd have to swallow a bitter pill

There are many things
I wish not to be
it would be hard to cope
they would certainly ruin me.

My love, as you lie on your bed
the first morning rose I'll pick--upon
your gentle hair to deck
ere the day's sunshine is gone

There's such a heartening glow in your face
as the last rays of evening subside
your smile is wrapped in such sweet grace
I'll ask for nothing more beside

your glory will light up every place
in your heart my worshipful devotion will abide
life should be an unfailing welcome and embrace
come love, o tender love, be our constant guide!

It's from the very heart of humility
that gives birth to humanity.

One moment
cancels out another
signifying a loss
something that's past
could never return
the next kiss or embrace
is not the same
each a form
an inscription
a touch-on
like none other
once having emerged
disappears into nowhere
irreversibility is the unchanging theme
of time--

each tide carries
the water forward
leaving the rest behind
a gust of wind
sweeps across
insubstantial, lost
irrecoverable
in empty space
leaving no trace
nothing does
itself repeat
replication
and recurrence
would never be wrought--

ah, my dearest and most-loved
it's the moment now
to which we are together bound
as a word
is said
as our eyes
exchange
a message
as our heart
is locked
in secure passage
we'll not be left in doubt-

as the moanful nocturne
reaches out
and its last notes fade
and sink* away
in the night's whereabout
we will know
for sure
the telling is over
the curtain has fallen
a new chapter
must follow--

if this brittle transiency
you understand
as you hold my hand
it would be bliss enough
as in silence we remain
unfazed, unmoved, unruffled
mindless of what's to come
in the sureness of our faith
that would withstand and defy
any awaiting future outcome--

courage would be ours then
to reign in and reap for keeps
whereupon our long-cherished dream
would have crystallised and bloomed
a bright light would be beckoning from afar
amidst the gloom of the shivering night
we, though weary,  would have arrived safely
after the long-tested travail and trial
Via Dolorosa would its farewell have bidden
all that our heart has longed and searched for
would at last have found its unmistakable haven.

Not wanting

is the one-thing

of my heart's desiring

Bird-songs
bring back fond memories
we were scouts and we camped
in the forest-long ago--seems centuries

when friendship was strong and pure
when life was such a kind friend
amidst bird-songs we sang The Happy Wanderer
and many other melodies--hoping there would be no end

to our simple joys and the world we would continue
to dance with and embrace
under the bright stars and before the camp-fire
each of us wore a lovely moon-lit face

and now we meet fifty years hence
we have so little to say-- bird-songs bring no solace-
our hearts have hardened and the trials
of life have taken their toll---written on our every face

I prefer the unexamined life

            lesser I cogitate-- suffer little from strife

Fulness
is a burden
such lightness
is emptiness

A step I took
just one at a time
within me I'd look
to despair I'd not succumb

my life is yet
an unwritten book
not to be lived in regret
the hardest task I stand to brook

GREAT JOYS IN SMALL THINGS
Why would you prefer
your joys to be loud
as fire-crackers
in the market-place and have spectators shout

'Watch and listen, here is someone who has joys to show!'?
let your joys be silent
temperate as a gentle noon- day
happy is the heart which is content

Why should one display
that which is best kept
to oneself? to preserve and treasure
that which is beauty-wrapped

to last till the end of time
(how brief are those publicly-demonstrated one-day joys-
grand pageantry, pomp and circumstance
by the night to languish away as spoils)

Great joys follow those
with hearts simple and pure
drawn to the sweetness of flowers
and fair nature's every lure

Don't you see the glitter
of joy in the innocent child's eyes?
don't you feel the wonder
of a poem or a song that life beautifies

I am thankful for every small joy
it's the greatest gift that has been bestowed on me
in a silent and peaceful corner I dwell
counting my blessings--happy in simplicity.

I'll no longer deliberate
not on my side anymore is time
old age comes too soon and is abhorred
it announces: 'Beware of the pending final outcome'.

I'll no longer weep
tears should be left
buried under the river
of the past--not to be delved.

I'll no longer beg to be loved
it shall be mine if such I deserve
if I've been true and in faith abided
love's gentle cradle shall be my preserve.

I'll no longer be on any search
joys and sorrows--they have my life shaped
into the labyrinth of my heart they have ******
in their wordless mysteries I'm draped.

I don't write erotica
not because
I am Chinese
or
on account of
my being prudish
oldish
pedantic
sanctimonious
fearful of public condemnation
nothing as such

it's just that the subject-matter
doesn't fit my poetical scheme of things
and I must give way
to others who have such forte
the poetic stage is theirs
and I wish but to be among the audience
to witness their play
and listen to what they have to say

I look at the universal
(this covers more themes than I could ever imagine)
not the microscopic individual
(should *** be brandished as a product
for public consumption?
why do  bed-rooms have doors?
entry VORBOTEN -
private property--no intruders
no voyeurs,  no spectators-
as simple as that)

what is art
and what is vulgarity and obscenity?
who is the definitive authority?

after all
writing is democracy
every writer is free
to choose their subject-matter
no author should have the audacity
to condemn another
it's effrontery
otherwise--
as all right-thinking people would readily
agree

yet
****** poetry
is quite easy
to write
the images , the metaphors
the nuances,  the allusions
the rhythm, the plot,
the vocabulary
are within the reach
of most poets
(only if their interest lies
in this field)

****** poetry
revolves around physicality
the anatomy
of the human body
two bodies-
or one body plus another-
in secluded conversation
of skin-touches-skin motion
positional modality
the heavy sighs
the heart racing
the fluidity of the lovers
as they seek to drown
in the sea of ecstasy
where the dying is
stronger than death itself
the unity
that sets the lovers free
(haven't I over-spoken?)

I don't write ****** poetry
because that's not my poetic territory
and it could spell the death
of my creativity!

LOVE'S CONUNDRUM

I can't die for love
yet I can't live without it
what a grievous conundrum
the puzzle just doesn't fit

tell me, can you die for love?
if so, with you I would die, gladly
and in this act of our dying together
we will live in a love beyond dying—beyond eternity.

The self is not luxury

it's the bearer of misery

How many things
that people utter
are pure hogwash?
but they never

seem to realise
they speak in limbo
in the routine of life
their ignorance does feverishly grow

a pattern of banal thought
has been hard-wired with time
false confidence takes full rein
catastrophic is the outcome

habits are insidious and too soon
harden like immutable stone
those around have had enough
leaving the speakers to their silly own.

If I should want

let it not exceed

the number of fingers

on my one hand

I know where they secretly hide-
these proud two-legged crawlers
(I've been their bane for forty years
fishermen call me 'King of the marine prowlers')

their claws might be sharp
like the brightest knife
the trick is to hold them
by their shells--- no strife

for my nimble, steady and well-trained hands
last week one thousand  I caught--no surprise
every restaurant in town courted my favour
last year I won 'The Village Best Crab-man Prize'

six hundred books on this shining creature
I have read.  I have written a book 'Understanding the Crab'
word got round and there are a thousand crab-people by the sea now
but they return home by sunset and all that they say is  'The day is crap!'

But we walk away

when life still  holds more-

indeed every day-

for us to explore

A PLACE WORSE THAN HELL

So many do believe in UFOs
and life in outer space--so they relate--
but I've enough problem taking care
of my decrepit self--I don't speculate

but if a Martian I happen to meet
this to that something I'll tell
' you stupid ******--why did you choose
earth?  A place that's worse than hell'

I thought then
at the journey's beginning
a new world was beckoning-- never knew
it would be grief and pain at the returning

for a greyer, more fragmented man
I had become--more desolate and disillusioned
there was no Arcadia but the barren wilderness there
I couldn't breathe for want of air----imprisoned

in alienated time and a landscape
never had any mortal ever imagined
the stream had turned dry, every tree had died
the faces of hills and mountains were scarred-- unrestrained

blew the recently-burnt ashes from nowhere
prolonged and hurtful they stayed in my eyes
I began with the dreams of rosy youth
returned with the death of a lost paradise

Let me be guided
and inspired
by just a few words today
as long as they are worthy to say.

Meet me not
by the light of day
let the fever and fret
pass its way-

meet me then
where none would see
us and I'll open my heart
to you and tell my story

love has a strange tendency
it asserts what it should be
the day mars its beauty
the night is tender and holy

meet me when you are ready
I'll be under that willow-tree
waiting for the words you will say to me
come then, like a fairy--come, set me free.

OLD MAN TIME, I’M YOUR MASTER

Old Man Time,  I’ve tamed you
I am your master
Now it’s me who decide
Whether you move slower or faster.

For too long I’ve given you full reign
To your behest I  servilely did surrender-
Gone, no more your tyranny
Enough courage I have managed to muster

And how glad I am
To be free from your fetter
You coerced , you pushed, you bullied
But I’m no machine—I know better

What I want from life and what I should do
Surely not to be your slave or follower
What does it matter to you
Whether I’m in the office or wander

In my garden or read my favourite poems
Play my violin or admire the wonder
Of the dawn,  the glory of sunset and its last glow
Why should you bother?

You should by now have realized
You owe your existence to man’s quest for order
You have a life only because we are kind
You are but a metaphor!

So leave me alone, you wearisome old man
Don’t you dare again look me  over the shoulder
The world is what I make of it—I am my own mentor
As for you, I’d recommend you go into a long, long slumber!

FOOTNOTE:  poetry is often a leap of the imagination and, with this, poets can write anything or fly to any place in the entire universe-
ergo--no poet can ever have dull moments.  
Sanctified by his love for truth, beauty and adventure and also his need for release of his thoughts, feelings and emotions, he becomes larger than what he is and his life is infinitely enriched.

FIVE HAIKU (8th COLLECTION)

1

I saw a green snake
no time to think of its name
I just ran away

2

Moss grows on the fence
on which rests a tiny bird
the camera clicks

3

Insect sounds at night
a glow-worm flutters about
flowers droop in sleep

4

Goldfish in the bowl
blowing bubbles all the time
does it sleep at all?

5

At the gambling house
all eyes were on the machines
many sad faces

THE UBIQUITOUS AND INIQUITOUS 'I'

  The problems of the world
  began
  with the first appearance
and assertion
of the 'I'.

I want
and I take what I want
'we', 'you' and 'they'
  don't have a place
in my domain
(and how I adore my own face!)

and I will say again
I will not cease to want
I have to be satisfied
all else must give away
and be set aside

you must love me
none else is good enough
see, can't you see
I'm of the best stuff
the others are just dross and fluff?
(I am refined, the crowd is ****** and rough)

ego
the most ubiquitous
the most iniquitous word
narcissistic
odious
obnoxious
deleterious
beyond description
bombastic
it makes everyone else sick

no wonder the world
is hell
and there is no sight
of any redemption

please find me a person
who wears a badge--
' I am one
who is you and they
for we all belong
to the human race
please accept me as a friend
each of us is the same
though we wear a different face'

Of course I walk
can't you see
I have no car or bike
take a train? where's the money?

home, what a sweet word
o my rich friend, tell me where
give me supper, provide a bed
I'll happily follow you there!

Let me dream

but not too long

lest I wake up not

and lose hearing life's waiting song

Twitter, twitter, twitter
but no birdie is on the tree
what, what is the matter?
what's the mystery?

Never, never, never
will the birdies sing in lustrous glee
they each have an Iphone and they chatter
after attending a Mac seminar on IT!

Being brainy
is hardly the answer
experience has shown
it's the mother of disaster

Farewell to the song
to every beauty beside
life is not eager to last long
joy is reluctant to reside

dreams to the foolish do belong
the heart is weak and cannot guide
the journey's road-signs they sadly prove wrong
in the end only disenchantment and sorrow abide.

Do I choose my dream
or does it choose me?
am I the water or the stream?
which of us dwells in fantasy?

Am I the stem
or the flower?
the clock's seconds--hand
or the beat of the hour?

My life-long journey I made
to the furthest edge
of experience--in patience
and humility-- old age
begins to tell but no message
of understanding or joy
has greeted me in my passage
I'm far from being enriched
what's before me
is dim and desolate--
the field is parched
the trees are starved
the sea is tideless
the sky is charcoal-black
birds have taken flight
new havens to locate
they would never come back

there's nothing here
for an old man to celebrate
but to sigh and regret--

there's not the slightest flicker
of light in the stealthy night
there's no moon awaiting
nor a single star in sight-

I feel the utter emptiness
my heart begins to cry
my feet are frozen in numbness
as the bitter winds unabatedly blow by.

Boats left all alone
   in shining emerald sea
   dark secrets they hold

GROPING AMONG SHADOWS

We all ***** among shadows
but whose—ours or others’?
can we tell to whom such belong-
angels’ or monsters’?

more real than self itself
the unconscious wrestles with the ego
we pride our knowledge
but indeed so little of ourselves we really know

what makes us what we are?
where is the fountain of our self-knowing?
are we the real we in our waking
or in our dreaming?

should we be afraid of our own shadows?
how do we make them disappear?
but how could I disassociate with my alter ego
when it never goes away-even as I am writing it’s here!

Life is strewn with myriad fragments
somehow they intertwine
past, present and future
they mysteriously combine

to be harnessed to create
a  lasting landscape I could claim to be mine
life should be of architectural proportion and beauty
it must inspire, ennoble, enrich in every detail and design.

THE BEAUTIFUL ADDICTION

Ah, I am an addict, a hopeless addict
my poetry is the cause
I consume more and more of this drug
I can't stop or pause

so I'll call this
the beautiful addiction
you fellow-poets will surely understand
my magnificent perdition.

Life is neither 'no' or 'yes'
most parts are just jest

Soft Charcoal & Watercolor Painting “The Bridge Above”

a close up picture of a water bodyActivate link to view larger image.





Haiku

Hidden paradise

flowers , trees and stream they merge

watched by silent bridge

He's most blessed
who could leave behind
his* muddling mind
he's then at perfect rest.

LIFE’S CONUNDRUM

Don’t be too nice
It could cause your downfall
People take you to be weak
Most regard you to be small.

They are saying-the big people
Are to be reckoned with—handle them with care
But since you are small
None bothers whether you are here or there.

These people like to pontificate
Vilify, condemn or criticize
You are small and can’t fight back
They don’t hesitate  to despise.

Don’t be too nice
Be firm, have faith and walk tall
You should be no one’s prisoner or slave
Nor should you bend to people’s bidding or call.

I'll be the least upset
if the reader were to interject:
how bland your poems are
tasteless, colourless, abject!

Ah, where's my imagination fled?
are the flowers in my heart 's garden dead?
how would I fresh seeds cultivate?
would any poem of mine be worthy to celebrate?