Jedd Ong

Jedd Ong Oct 2015

An old crow does not fly;
        dark, lopped wings un-sing.

His straw men long’d fought,
        are now with stuffing wring.

A lone branch holds his feet,
        claws scratching at its folds.

His caws now echo hoarse,
        his weak legs too grow cold.

His wings yearn but to spread,
        but spread yearn they to die;

To straws he cannot cling,
        hence trust put he to sky.

For my old volleyball coach, and my old volleyball team. (May you never see this.)

Jedd Ong Oct 2015

Untitled

Am I not my Father’s son,
who too, touched sky and stars
and sat atop moons gawking at the
world’s birthright that tomorrow
would be his if he had only
asked?

Am I not He, who walked too
upside down shrubs, and skies,
and bushels of wood and fire and
swam through soil, digging through
water, marvelling at the glorious
ruin of His creation, how he’d
one day bring it towards light
again?

Am I not He, too of Joseph,
father of dreamers, closing
his eyes and feeling stars crackle
beneath his feet despite the Earth
burrowing his neck further beneath
desert?

Am I not He, son, of Solomon,
who worshipped in temples of gold,
robed in purple and gifted with
brilliance - made to plot, sow
stitch and reap the fruits
of fragment kingdoms at sceptre’s
will?

Am I not He, Son of God,
nailed to crosses and sprung from
stone graves, body light as air,
heart white as snow, skin
made to glow glorious, guiding
those who wished only to see,
blinding those who thought nothing
of sight?

Am I not He, God, Your son,
who was knit bones at your
suggestion, made to stitch soul
to flesh, knelt as your soldier,
became one amongst they:
ruinous, crumbling, blinded, they,
split, and crooked, and
broken?

Am I not of You, God?
Am I not You, God?

Am I not, God?

Jedd Ong Sep 2015

About a car accident, no scratches

And know that these streets are irresponsible,
and that you are too. And that no matter
how bright your eyes and headlamps may be
you will always find something you didn’t
see before. Life will always be throwing at you
curveballs. And car insurance. And the ungainly heft
of police officers leering in lustily at the watch on your
wrist and the hollowed, hungry eyes of your companion.

Do not answer them, I beg of you, when they ask
you too for your name and your father's,
for they truly care not to hear
its sound. They only want to add to the noise -
continue living beneath its dins. Not after money but the
fear, the control that from you stem. Now, yes
I may be over-exaggerating (after all, it was but one
slight dent in the bumper of the car, but

there is no exaggeration to the voicelessness of they
who queued before me, no companions guiding them,
no voices shouting for them.) He, they, there, by the streets,
only has in his hands a car horn. And so he honks.
And so the siren wails. And so the chaos reigns.
And so do they - officers - living silently beneath it all,
urging us onward to yelling and screaming and shouting.
And yet we can’t. And we don’t. And we won’t.
And yet they, for all their damages, do not - scratch,
refuse not - to do so.

They only can look down at the pavement,
dotted yellow, black and white dashed.

Jedd Ong Sep 2015

Zuko

A stone lies shadowed at morning,
Its figures carved long like the shore.
An acolyte lies on it, yearning,
For flames that stoke now no more.

This birthright, he sold for quiet,
A peace but traded for pride,
His scorns, his scar - once scarlet,
Now fades: and so his stride!

To which the eastward sun, foreseen,
Blinks by the shade, above,
Tracing the vestige of figures beneath,
And their voices that beckoned thereof:

“To the Sun belongs the truest light,
“And with it, heard let, and be,
“The fire of men was not for fight,
“But the fight sealed tight in he.”

Jedd Ong Aug 2015

The Mask

Perhaps you aren’t as faceless
as you think you are:

your skin not green,
your face not plastered
with wide-eared grins,
your house neither yellow nor
full of garish trampolines, trapdoors and springs.

This static,
this stillness,
this is you:

Quiet, loud, alone in your room
screaming in whatever tongue you
speak best at, staring back
at reflections in mirrors
that don’t recognise you.

You smile,
measure the gaps between your
teeth and find that they
are a little bit smaller,
check their slant and find
that they lean a little more
to the left,

feel your skin and find
that the green tinge
comes off with a light scratch
of a nail,

and that beneath the coverings,
you still
are flesh and blood.

Jedd Ong Aug 2015

Rainwater

You are full of deluges,
thunder lips and
lightning eyes,
footsteps punctured by light claps,
voice parted by turbulent
winds, You
are the last light in this
greying darkness,
the last calm before these endless
howls, the eye of
the storm.

You catch me in this mud-tracked
ground battered
by wind and rain,
umbrella turned and
turning out-inside, and
inside-out like the butterflies fluttering in
my stomach. You watch
my knees begin to shake
and steady them
with your glance.

You make me wish away
the rain dances,
the raincoat choruses caroming
the river-ran streets
in the middle of day
like a colourful charade,
the desperate
songs and car horn honks
and fog-lit buses and street lamps
piercing through this
watery veneer.

Am I lost in Your sea of silence?

I don’t know,
but I know that I have drowned in
these storms before.

And I know, that my cheeks
run with Your rainwater now.

Jedd Ong Aug 2015

On Your Coming to Heaven

At the gates of heaven
we will be made to
strip and reveal our scars,
our wounds, our addictions,
our hiding.

And we will weep one last time
for joy, and mourning,
at the blood that we shed and was
and for the pain that we felt and he.

"There is nothing to fear,"
He will say,
"There is no struggle left to fight."

And so we will tell of our scars,
and sing and yelp with the crowds
that have already gone before us.

“See this here, on my left breast,
“was gotten the first time I decided to tell
“my parents I was struggling with *******.”

“And this here, on my left leg,
“was gotten the day I decided to ask my
“high school volleyball coach if he
“wanted for a prayer.”

“And this slanted one here,
“on my right forearm,
“was gotten the day I decided to walk away
“from the friendships I yearned to have
“to follow Him.”