Untying
lighter I do feel
in my pocket there's nothing
empty from head to heel-

let others do their shouldering
layer upon layer to peel
ambitionless all I do is dreaming
in contention with none to deal.

FIVE HAIKU

1

The sunset’s last rays
light up my beloved’s face
I just want to stay

2

Red autumn leaves fall
one by one on the  wet ground
the crows pass them by

3

The town languishes
it’s the coldest winter night
the streets are empty


4  

The same fisherman
the same river he travels
he feels not the same
5

Friends of long ago
meeting after fifty years
they struggle for words

I hope this is the voice of writers in general, however humble.

Every writer's intention is to share his thoughts.  He doesn't compel the reader to buy or read his book. It's natural of him to write/say this:
'here I am writing what I am thinking and about my experience....'.

But life is never short of philistines.  A few might even say:
' Don't advertise before me!'

That the person should articulate the above shows how low- down he/she is---it smacks of ill-will, ignorance, contempt and spite, immaturity and in the worst case--schadenfreude!

Confucius  the sage (600 BC) wrote about the chun-tze (the gentleman, the perfect person) who is kind, tolerant, encourages learning, practises humility, kindness, generosity, shows respect for all people, and delights in the success of others and never denigrates others as the xiao-ren (the 'small' or inferior person) does.

Confucianism has captured the imagination of the West which has openly declared that the founder was among the world's greatest philosophers.

Was the sage advertising himself? If he were so,  would he have survived for over 2,500 years?

Anyone who dares say that the writer is an advertiser must be among the most deplorable.  He or she should be pitied!

My life
is a parenthesis:
I've more to say
but sometimes what
I'm unsure-
my thought
my feeling
or mood
can change
in a wink
thus, only
a semi-colon
will follow

the full-stop
is the final station
what sort
of coda
will there be
in store?

You would hate me without end
your deadly enemy happens to be my best friend

VESTIGES

The late autumn roses wither
Each petal falls silently on the ground
Peeling will generate new growth
Though vestiges remain without the sigh of sound.

The heart that is forlorn and bereft must rest
Never mind though its sorrows are profound
Vestiges will be the harbinger of new hope and joy
In shedding and letting go future bliss shall abound

Spring is now*
summer follows
seasons are sure
but the heart knows
not the next moment to come
life is all about waiting and expecting
the same daily humdrum
only this I do know
you will never leave me
we share a dream
the best is yet to be

Some words are soft and gentle
others are unpretty and harsh
each knows its proper station
and duly performs its task.

I love you
not as before
love's true art I've learnt
henceforth you'll be loved much more

Winds have died away

snow still drips from barren trees

what's in store tonight?

a kiss exchanged
that wishes to stay

the love that grips
fears to bid farewell

the heart hesitates
seeking words to say

the dream after the awakening
that refuses to fade away

Smart people
    there are too many
    not all achieved their goals-
    they lacked curiosity -

    how they did bask
   in their past each victory
   resting too long on their laurel
   they faded away in complacency

Some day
soon enough
what I've written
would be blown away
by the cold winds of time
every word
every rhyme-
such thought
has left me not

until then
with my shaking hand
I'll still hold my pen
to jot
down
what my life is all about

dark and sombre
is the night
my candle-light
wanes
dim is my sight
deep are my pains
that cling to me
the past convulses
the present is mockery
the future but mist
that foreshadows
the most friendly star
if I do hold on to hopes
they would be away too far

the hour is approaching
its footsteps are
at my door ajar
the moment cannot wait
all that's within me
it will tear asunder
and my every dream
it will heartlessly mar--

silence
but fear I've none
my heart-beat
is growing weaker
my breath is slower
the last note
of the symphony
I love so dearly
seems less familiar

a sinking feeling
is weighing upon me
I can't look back

and from nowhere
comes a strange voice:
'the words you've created
will not leave you-
to you they belong
your life has been given to
nurturing and shaping them
and they have no reason
to blame you for any wrong'.

I was there
it was real
I breathed
and sweated
as each moment
did its power peel--

my ground
I stood
I didn't yield
despite the wounding
in calm acceptance
myself I managed
to heal--

life is lived
much in suffering
despair I would not-
my equanimity
nothing nor anyone
could ever steal

LIFE’S ETERNAL STORY

Enough has been said
Too much, indeed—no more--
The river of words has gone dry
All past words and deeds have been washed ashore.

Who then is the victor?
And who is the vanquished?
Even the mightiest and strongest
Have kissed the dust and into oblivion vanished.

Some say: life is a cheat and a thief
Others say: it is a sweet song
Yet there are others who are indifferent
Who then is right and who is wrong?

One sage says:
This is the way
Another derides
Ideological clashes never go away.

The poor have hope
The rich have fear
Who is happier-
What in life should one hold most dear?

Who are the foolish
And who are the wise?-tell me
Who is the judge?
But none is the authority.

But and if
if and but
these two words
could break your heart--

if I were you
I would immediately start
to place the two words
permanently under my ****.

Unnoticed I quietly slipped away
from the over-crowded room
words vilified and polluted within
there was too much gloom

I didn't say anything
all I did was to lend my ears
they spoke like chosen prophets
they stirred up apocalyptic fears

to the guillotine they referred
and next the execution on the electric chair
the listeners could hardly breathe
visibly they trembled--the tension they couldn't bear

the gentle evening breeze greeted me
as I stepped away from the closed door
I wondered and wondered--how
such people could assume they knew infinitely more!

You would no longer
recognise me
I would be encrypted
as a symbol in the Land of IT.

MY MIRROR AND I
                    
              Mirror, mirror on the wall
              you see not just part of me but all--
              my warts, frailties and all my grey hair fallen away
              tell me, would I be a better person some day?

Silently it struggles--meaning-
doubtful of its own meaning

Silent village stream

bears memories of past lives

history-keeper

Dear ...


Yours is a post PhD thesis and sets us thinking about what life is but definitions are relative and subjective as philosophy and morality is not science--more by way of speculation and hypothesising.  Truth is sui generis--we de-sanctify it by claiming we know it but it stands askance.

I would look at life in awe and in recognition of the limits of my own understanding, also in acknowledgement of my lack of maturity and perspicacity ---I shall not pre-empt bur rather live a day at a time-if lucky enough, I might learn to know a bit, just a tiny bit more ,of myself and my relation to life.


I do not need to have an answer to life's mysteries, complexities, nuances or its contradictions as my happiness and wellbeing does not rest on knowledge--I would deem myself lucky to have some oblique insight--to be able to see a moment in its intrinsic state  is quite enough--though it is not enlightenment, a new consciousness would have dawned upon me as what was reflected by Blake in his AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE.  

Whether life has meaning or not is definable only by personal experience, stripped of external influences or the ranting of writers and philosophers---it is the perennial 'I' and 'Life' that is the crux.

Existentialism is but a lonely and isolated way of looking at life and might be better suited for Western thinking in its vague and dubious search for answers to living unlike the Eastern which seeks to live in harmony with the self and the universe. As such, the West is Yang and the Eastern, Yin--the former involves struggle of the self, the latter is strife-free in its benign acceptance, acquiesce, humility, compassion and subjugation of the ego and not over-doing or over-achieving. That the West is bending more and more towards Zen, Taoism and Buddhism clearly shows a sharp shifting of thinking in espousal of Eastern wisdom.

Love is more real than life as it impinges upon me in my relation to those whom I love and also in my knowing I am loved in return.
It is not an abstraction like life or truth.  

What shall save me at the end is not understanding nor knowledge
but rather in recognising I am but a ripple in the limitless vastness of the sea of life and my acceptance of such.

Do I make sense, dear Master?

My IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF ZEN--THE PATH TO A CALMER AND HAPPIER LIFE (published by Brolga Publishing, Melbourne) is on sale in 14 countries under Lim--  for rating vide Lim Sing AbeBooks, et al.
It mentions, inter alia,  existentialism, Camus and Sartre

with my deep esteem.

If you do well
      don't you boast
      they would give you hell
      not the toast

I like you better
if you treat me
not too seriously
it would bore me to death
such big-sounding words
and pompous philosophy
you should know and see
life is not about gravity
and there's a huge space
for fun and frivolity

so, if you wish to be
a friend of mine
drop all the insinuation
the flattery and insincerity
we'll meet and talk like pals
(no bull....) but genuinely.

HATE AND LOVE

Hate is easy to define
(not love)-
it’s the message
of molten steel
tight fist
wicked look
red-hot eyes
it yells
and rages
it kicks
it wants
to shake
the building down
it wants to tear
your heart to pieces

in the public square
it makes itself
felt and seen
with obscene utterances
it holds
a poison vial
it condemns
and your name
is forever smeared

but love
(the most- used word
and most profaned)
comes
in so many colours
shapes and sizes
kaleidoscopic
chameleon-like
it stays
(none knows  for how long)
for some reason
it goes away
(what in love is fair?)
it forgets
more
than it remembers
it forgets to remember
it remembers to forget
(should love be embraced or avoided?)

what does the heart say
what words does it choose?
does it know what it says
and why does such it say?
what will it say
tomorrow?

passion and kisses
moonlight songs
sweet embraces
under the palm tree
the wine is strong
life is paradise
nothing is amiss
love is bliss
(love is forever!)


moonless and murky night
the nightingale sings
no more
wine has gone dry
the night is tedious and long
two dismal worn-out faces
their eyes hardly meet
the hour is never so tardy
  (she is with me
but her heart is elsewhere
not a word she does say
I know she will go away)

she pretends
to attend to her hair
but looking
in another direction

I could sense it all
she picks up her bag
quick-footed
she disappears
into the night
she does not even bother
to say goodbye
(my instinct turns out
just right)

hate and love
only two words
on which side
are you?

My duty to return
the books I will not fail
I am reminded of the consequence
as I might be sent to jail.

In such tender bloom

flowers raise their heads to sing

nature perfected

My old selfish way
    I willingly discard
    to wake unto a bright new day
    the past totally I disregard.

Every poem is a new world
where wonder and beauty richly unfurl

I can measure, to a reasonable degree, the work I have done
but not the extent of my unkindness and inconsiderateness.

I do not trade
I'm no merchandiser
life to me is no market-place
commodities I don't treasure-

to the fields and hills I belong
like a lover I court Nature
in her embrace and nakedness
every rapture and joy I capture.

If I were to say
'wait until then'
I would be less of a man
with nothing new to invent

Let each have their say
it's what everyone is entitled to
however insignificant it's still their story
this applies also to me and you-

life is the universal democracy-
I am unafraid to declare
I've fought, I suffered
and bled. I was there-

no life is the same
we should deal not
with the general
but the particular--each thought

belongs to the individual
it's what makes him or her
let's step aside and our prejudice
cast--we aren't asked to concur.

Poetry
that which transcends the self
it's the voice
that speaks of life and humanity
of which each poet is a part-
the self that incorporates
the common human heart-

the 'I' becomes the 'we'
suffering that's singular
assumes the plural

the same thread
that runs through the fabric
of every single life
where each act
of the drama
is played out--alone
but to end
in the blend
that bears the name:
' Our Oneness In Life's Sojourn'--

one person's tears
fall into a mysterious sea
that is the depository
of all tears---the ultimate home
that opens its doors
to every weary traveller
who bears no name
but requires no ID
to enter--

poetry then
is
our  own face
in the shared mirror

it's the message
the focal point
the quintessence
of a universal religion.

Every age does create
its own poems and music
its voice shall not be silenced
deeply into the nature of things
it would not cease to dig-
conventions they blind
they suffocate the wit
rise, oh rise to raise your song
those who seek truth and justice
do not aim to do any wrong
today is the call to a new world
tomorrow shall belong
to the courageous and strong
the false edifices of the mindless throng
shall crumble.  This is not a revolution
but a logical and peaceful transition
the symbol of an age reborn
heralding in a long-awaited dawn.

People talk of their strengths

       as for me,  my weaknesses I study

       life is a sharp ascent to better-hood

       what in future would I be?

Why would I want to be ahead of others?
with none I strive
I have too many problems of my own-
with myself I struggle all my life

even if the whole wide world were mine
and I were ahead of everyone
I would be nothing and am empty if I belong
not to myself and would come undone

If you count me of worth

   draw nigh---my heart will receive

   the gift of your love--every word

   of yours will bring joy and relief-



    you should know what I can give

    is but this sacred devotion--nothing more

    through all our days that we together live

    in the grace of happiness or in the shadow of sorrow

‘ I CAN’T’

How I love to say ‘I can’t’
Believe me, I am but an ordinary man
I leave to cohorts of supermen
Each brave and strong to proclaim ‘I can’.

How light is my burden
So well it does serve me
The more I say ‘I can’t’
The more I am set free.

This is a world of ‘ I can’ and ‘we can’
Hear, hear the voices of leaders out there
Joined by the sea of chorus of the mindless crowd
In the noisy and greedy market-place---where

  Quick exchanges are made
  And money and power hold relentless sway
  But I remain unmoved,  one who is naïve enough
  To cling to his home-made credo—‘ I can’t’ -be anyone’s prey’.

Before I can act courageously

I must first learn to live reverently

Suspended in time
thwarted ambitions
trapped and imprisoned
by myriad vexations-

dim and misty horizons
the test of uncertain circumstance
dreams that dissolve and disintegrate
life seems more like a death-sentence.

Mind as volcano

erupting in wild colours

only artists know

No one can run away from hurt

        such bruises have to be in silence borne

        how often is the heart found in such girt

       when love has failed and forever gone

The 'is'
and the 'is not'
no longer
troubles any thought

LIEBESLEID

I can't find another
and in the wasteland of love
I'll linger
watched by the last star above

I can’t love another
you are my first and last
I would rather
not to have loved you in the past

It would be unnecessary
to apologise to life or to explain
for thoughts conceived or what was done--
the stoical heart could bear any mortal pain

rising above the tyranny of destiny
purpose and meaning there awaits to attain
from the drought of despair and misery
there shall be the sprouting bloom and harvest of the grain.

Please do, please judge me
I've never claimed infallibility

Don't you sing me
another love-song
enough I've had
my love all went wrong-

don't you tell me
love is sweet as a rose
my sense of smell is lost
now my poor heart I close-

don't you persuade me
to go in search of another
too many tears I've shed
I don't ever wish again to be a lover-

don't you write me a poem
of love pure and over-glorified
from life I've walked away
my feelings have long ago sadly died.

Moonlit face
starry eyes
poets are out-of-place
they tell lies-

love is bliss
its abode is paradise
no--it's often amiss
harbinger of grievous sighs.

When death
    is put to sleep
    what fear is left
    for us to keep?