This is a true story
Of a robber named John-Sill Henry
With a water pistol
He tried to hold up Bank Royal
Caught red-handed--when the water leaked accidentally

Limericks are part of modern psychotherapy
Found to be efficacious in many a country
Edward Lear was before his time and did not think
He could sell his poems to every shrink
Today he would be worth millions in US currency

There was a man from Beijing called Not Tee Lim
Ugly, bald, belligerent, recalcitrant and slim
Won the year's First Prize for Insolence,
Belligerence,  Indifference and Intolerance
He was bestowed a  knighthood--his new name-- Sir Irreverent Lim

This was the problem with the great bard William Shakespeare
Of venereal diseases he did not care or fear
The biographers do lament
His creative powers were unwisely spent
In 16th century brothels of London--on dear, oh dear!

Now you are being unreasonable, Sir --totally so-
I'll relate this story so that the whole world would know
You shouted at me:  "Wrong phone number
You stupid ****** !'
May I say: 'Why did you pick up the phone then, Sir Marlborough?'

I would have liked to meet
Edward Lear
his limericks are very sweet
and marvellously dear.

He would have gladly welcomed me as a friend
as my surname is Lim---close to lim-erick
we would have had fun to no end
and I would have  acquired his every unique poetical trick

We should embrace the limerick--everyone-
A fine thing under the sun
Life should not be taken too seriously
That would knock us silly
And limericks are such great fun!

I was advised by a learned friend
' Live life logically'
I shuddered and thought:
This is not for me

Every situation would then become
A reasoning process: the pros and cons I should consider
Examine every detail lest I regret
Would I have the time? I wonder

'Logic makes your life good', he did add
' You will succeed beyond measure'
   He was a professor of science
   But his advice I didn't treasure.

   See me walking in the green field
   Loitering by the quiet river-side
   Hear me singing a song at a far corner
   I follow my heart---by logic I don't abide

Some make love
others break
just one word
sweetest joy or untold heart-ache

but those who love
should not fear and those who fear
should not love---too often
love is never free from a tear.

Love is not enough
its passage stretches well beyond time
it's but ( mostly so) a shaky start
too soon to call it sublime--

tears must fall and hearts must break
the dreams of lovers are not served on a golden plate
arid lands have to be traversed, wild rivers have to be crossed
before love can sit back, rest, smile and celebrate.

Why am I looking at this drawer
  and am afraid of its contents?
  over 60  love-letters of long ago
  which I could repeat almost by heart
  ( I kept every envelope as well-
    time, date received, year written thereon
   in my best hand
   as though they were worth more than diamonds)
  several containing crushed roses
  a few poems of Robert Browning
  Keats, Byron, sonnets of Shakespeare
  Yeats,  Donne, Thomas Hardy, John Clare..
  every letter a reminder
  of youth's once tender kisses
   solemn vows
  and secret words exchanged
  that could never be shared
  with anyone
  (love is too personal-
   a sacred pledge of hearts
   never to be broken)

    vanished are the dreams of youth
   I am old and weary now

    no longer the proud lover
    but a cynic
    no longer a believer
   in the glory of love-poems
  and stories of romance
  (yes---love is not a fairy-tale
   and all love stories should end
   with this sentence:
  ...and they lived with regret and sorrow thereafter...)

    words are just words
spoken at convenience
for the sake of the speaker
words are selfish
though the speaker knows not

she wrote and spoke more poignantly
than I ever could
she was mistress of words
she wrote as though
she was consumed by the fire of love
and would die in  its burning furnace
for my sake
all for my sake
' I would die for love
and for you, dearest
for you are my life
the very air I breathe...'

(I wept then as those words I read-
I memorised every word )

   Is love but sweet words
  to be forgotten ?
  
  I shouldn't open the drawer
  lest I begin to attribute blame
je deteste?  deja vu? chagrin d'mour?

I was about to stretch out
my hand ...
but my faithful wife called
from the kitchen
' why are you lingering in your study?
  darling, dinner is ready--your favourite chicken curry!'

It would not be enough
to fall in love and love but how
to keep this flame alive
it's easy to assume now

'  All will be fine
we'll love each other forever'
love's journey is hurtful
often painful--never

should the lovers forget:
real tests are just to begin
(the honeymoon is over)
would their love turn cold and thin?

Love is not everlasting sweetness
as the poets would have lovers believe
millions of tears would need to fall
and would need time for healing or relief.

In the sombre night
love-songs weep
desires of the lonely heart
know no sleep.

All love is a song
however sad it's still ever deep
I'll come tonight to sing for you
every past promise I'll faithfully keep.

LOVE’S PARADISE LOST

Paradise lost
love shall come no more
ashes have consumed
every blissful moment that has gone before.

There is no comfort
in tears
the past is buried
in the nowhere of a million years.

Mankind!
who dares stand up
and declare
man is kind
the vilest two-legged monster
who leaves trails of pain and suffering behind?

man -creature of the worst kind
he should be defined
as ' the most unkind'
to goodness and morality-blind

evolution--what evolution
when it brings but destruction?
progress-what progress?
all that **** sapiens does
is to maim and oppress
and hopes of a brighter dawn
fade, wither and die

every future generation
will write
about man's inhumanity and madness
and weep
as no redemption
is in sight

civilisation has collapsed
as man
is  wicked
cruel
and perpetually
un-kind

Not one
but a mask over a mask
over a mask
which hides some

and the wearers
feel safer
stronger
assume greater
control over themselves
'  I'm a face within a face
within a face
a phantom within a phantom
within a phantom

you can peel a layer away
but not all
and I remain
a shadow within a shadow
within a shadow

one moment you see me
and another moment
I'm no longer there
an apparition within an apparition
within an apparition

I'll cause you confusion within confusion
within confusion

I'm obscurity within obscurity
within obscurity*

I'm a person within a person
within a person'.

MATTER OF THE HEART

Have you forgotten
Where you have placed your heart?
Days drift away like passing clouds
They appear and too soon they part.

Why have you neglected your heart?
Are you too hardened to feel anymore?
Are you afraid of the past
Or tears you shed before?

Has your heart wandered
To where it doesn't belong?
To the unknown wilderness
Devoid of happy human voice or merry bird-song?

It's never too late to welcome
Your  heart home -you it does miss sadly
And longs to be held in your warm ***** once more
There shall be no goodbye this time--love is for eternity.

Memory never dies
it lies in hibernation
it springs right before your eyes
triggered by the slightest incident or your imagination--

like a cinema film the past does unreel
with you as the only audience
it cares not about how you feel
it's as though on you the judge is passing his harshest sentence.

Merry Christmas, what merry Christmas?
What about the left-out destitute?
While food and wine go to waste
Millions upon millions live in hunger and solitude.

Merry Christmas, what merry Christmas?
The world leaders shamelessly shout 'Progress!'
The richer get richer, the poor--only poorer
Resources are getting less and less.

Merry Christmas, what merry Christmas?
Will the goodwill last when the season is done ?
It's the same sad story retold
Everything is forgotten--even good deeds, one by one.

Merry Christmas, what merry Christmas?
Think not just of festivity
Have a thought of lasting kindness
That would make the world a happier place to be.

MIND

No science can unravel
the mystery of mind
brain-bred alone?
matter first
next--the insubstantial-
the fluidity of thinking that follows?
the chicken first
then the egg kind of reasoning?

but mind is infinite
and has no boundaries-
it can't be measured
or calibrated
MRI is mechanistic
and neurology is but a crude tool
they probe the physicality
but never touch the inner core
which cannot be detected or mapped
and all psychiatry is but guess-work
will o'-the-wisp and
the fancy of the shrink
who is hopelessly inadequate
and an object of pity
(doctor, heal thyself first!)

where  is the birth-place
of thought?

science is inferior to nature
what is unknowable far exceeds
the bounds of the known
mind--the eternal enigma

how is genius born?
how is the unspeakable articulated
through poetry, music and art?
how does the mind create such beauty
as to be beyond the bounds of human understanding
and experience? Isn't it then a mystery within mysteries
and makes reason mute and causes science to weep?

how does beauty so sublime arise
from the non-physical
which knows not its own abode?

the brain
is not the mind
and the mind is not the brain

which is superior then?
that which is beyond
the narrow straits of science
counts for infinitely more

Miniatures
micro-pictures
win me over
the macro distracts
as too large a canvas it does cover
anything that's in excess
dulls the senses
in the menu of life
there's just too much to choose
why would I prefer ten dishes
when the best I have tasted?

Is life but a mist?
the eyes can't see clearly
we have to imagine
what is before us--sighting partially

is the angst of everyone
journeying in uncertainty
with hopes and dreams
as each seeks to chart their destiny-

who ever does say
living life is sailing in calm waters? verily
the mist is testing man's courage and nobility-
he who dares walk through will score the final victory

to be greeted by pure sunshine
which dispels the mist and lo ! beautifully
mysteriously he emerges as a man reborn
he has become what he aspires to be.

Fools  make small and innocent mistakes
all the while
but the follies of the wise
stretch mile after mile

MOON FLOWER
In my sleep last night
I found myself on the moon ,holding
a flower in my hand, and this it said me
'This flower is real--you are not dreaming'.

Lo , my love gave me the flower
before I went to bed
he left too soon
and tears I sadly shed

Motto for today-
be silent
be still
be calm

close your eyes
for a while

breathe in
deeply
breathe out
slowly

be not in a hurry
(that's a step
closer to being happy)

step back
observe
listen

watch every word you say
such that
you don't offend
nor should you get
in someone's way

it's another day
and everyone is doing 'their thing'
as in a stage-play
some would be so eager
themselves and their wit to display
let them be
it's their day
(not for you to say)

but to myself
I can say-
put your ego
away-
it will be a great day.

In the eternal spheres
where galaxies meet
they sing
and one another greet

as they have done
billions of years ago
taught by their forebears
their love of music never ceases to grow.

When mankind has gone to sleep
the winds and the clouds on high
can hear their celestial notes
drifting throughout every corner of the sky.

Poor earth,  where nations fight
where behind every agenda hides a lie
I watch the firmament and think:
for us the calm and gentle galaxies in sympathy cry.

MY BOYHOOD DAYS
        Klang# then was a sleepy and backward town
      But ronggeng was the highlight of the night
      A dance with a lovely wanita** cost 30 cents
      It brought Malayan men's emotions to the supreme height.

      Mum said: study hard, ronggeng is for grown-up men
      Don't let me catch you  in the amusement park watching
      Immoral men dance with coy and seductive ronggeng girls
      Unless you want dad to give you a good beating!

I am not ready yet
(far from it)
to allow my heart
to take over my life
it's still tainted and blemished
(the past its stories unfold)
and I am not even at the threshold
of self-realisation
nay, so far away
looking through
the distant deceptive mist
half-lost, tired and bewildered
while time is gnawing at my feet
I hesitate, I doubt, I tremble in the cold
like one trapped alone
in the depth of the desolate Arctic
without sleigh, food or water
what next?

the ice on which I stand is breaking
the cruel winds are lashing
my head is swimming
my strength is waning
and I say to myself:
I shall perish
and be buried in the snow

(here a miracle starts to unfold)
my heart
suddenly speaks to me:  
be a man
stand up and walk on

is that an illusion?
no--it's not

The ice suddenly turns into solid ground
and I walk into the sunshine of a summer day

My heart speaks again:
patience
patience
patience

and I begin to understand

I need no introduction
to my own heart----it knows me
well enough but on many matters
it chooses to disagree

And declares its independence
'  You can't push me aside'  indignantly
'   Don't you ever forget---in your darkest hour
   I never abandoned you--it was I who set you free'.

My heart I neglected
it was grievously hurt and turned away
it refused to talk to me
by night or by day

inconsolable
incessantly it wept
we didn't talk for years
as though our happy past had been swept

into the dark bottomless sea
I have lost my best friend
and it's too late for healing
I'll regret this until the end

of time---I was young and too arrogant
to give way to feelings-I knew no meekness
I prided on my strength and resolve
remorse has come too late--what is left now is but my sadness.

Poetry is a mirror of our soul but also a window to the outside world---that which is external and tangible--neither is complete without the other
but it's only the inner side of us that understands the deeper meaning of life and all things.  It's strange but true---the intangible is mysterious, profound and has power and resources latent within us--most of which we aren't even aware---until kindled and brought to light by the muse of poetry.  Then a clear light dawns upon us and we begin to see and understand things better.  The 'physical we' is, in my view,  of lesser significance than the 'abstract we' or should I say the 'essential we'?---that which can be seen, handled or articulated is only the periphery of truth and things but not the core--we are larger than what we think  but we don't grasp this as we are lost in the banality and humdrum of daily life--we are walking shadows rather than light and fall short of our real potential. Talking of language and music, Felix Mendelssohn wrote (my paraphrase):
words mean less to me than music and it's music that speaks clearer to me.
        All said, man is a mystery as life is but they intersect--at every point.

My shadow
has vowed
to follow
me wherever I go

it asserts:
I won't be side-tracked
nor
set aside--I want you to know

I've the same rights
as you--so
we are equal partners in life-
I'm behind you in the show

I reply
in the best way I know
well-said, my alter ego
let's put on our show

I should never aspire
a leader to be
that would
be self-imposed slavery.

Neither should I
a follower be
in rejecting both
I would never lose my liberty.

Farewell to the old
here is the new--
resolution, what resolution?
better the past year to review.

Was it like all years before
the senseless grind and inanity?
foolish mistakes, misgivings and moments wasted
the same boring episodes and company?

We made excuses and comforted ourselves
we said: 'There's time--it's always there
for us to lean upon--there are countless tomorrows'
we lived in default---we took things for granted--indeed, we didn't care.

Resolution, what resolution?
that would be a sign of weakness, failure or despair
what would 2017 and 2050 be like
if we were  fortunate enough to be there?

Night and day
they aren't just separated by time
but are worlds far apart
each has a soul of its own.

Day is unreal-- artifice
of men and women in action
doing their daily round
(so called 'earning a living')
almost like cogs in the wheel
in a place labelled 'society'
human beings are mere numbers
and in the collective they lose themselves
and assume a common identity

but night dispels
the collective
it speaks a different language
and deals with each individual
in specificity
it appears either a friend
or as an enemy.

It's  crunching time
there's no escape
(safety in numbers as in the day
has disappeared)
the inter-face is real and even foreboding
will the individual be able to celebrate
or will these hours
be sheer torture and punishment?

Night digs deep
into your sub-conscious
which was asleep
in the day
it's an intruder
which has singled
you out for reasons
you can't  understand
it wants to know
your hidden secrets
and would not let you rest
until its mission is fulfilled

perhaps stripped
of your false exterior
and as the dust of the day
has fallen on your weary eyes
and you have drunk too much
(in these dark, sombre and lonely moments)
to soothe your pain
your defence mechanism
has broken down
(what's the harm now
of baring your heart
to an outsider?
you no longer
belong to yourself
and are opening up
as though seeking ablution)  

so you have no fear
in inviting the night
to take a journey
through your buried past
with its frightful shadows
and bleeding wounds
( the truth is
you need someone to share your thoughts)

now you are addressing the night
which is all ears and a sympathetic listener
even close to being a friend:

what had I done?
failed to do?
why my wayward ways?
why my follies and unkindness?
why did I hurt
and why they hurt me?

I have a thousand 'ifs'
and ten thousand 'buts'
as I walk back
to the confusing and muddled corridors of the past
do you hear me?
do you sense my despair and anger?
do you feel my hate raising its ominous head?
( by now, you are thinking I am a monster
and you are not wrong)

    You asked me
'Are you seeking redemption?
or is it too late now?'

   ( another glass of whisky down my throat)

I am drunk, dead drunk
I can't think
and why am I treating you
like a guest?

leave me alone

the moon seems to darken
and the stars are pointing
their sharp fingers at me

is all this but
a bad dream?

You thought the day was over
only to imagine
night had eyes
and was watching you

night-hours seemed so unsafe
unlike those of the day
when activities shut away
your innermost thoughts

and amidst the  din and crowd then
you seemed a courageous person
there was safety in numbers and comradeship
so obvious and enticing--you didn't need to reason

all alone now--in the silence
every beat of your anxious heart you could hear
what had you done with yourself in the day?
did the night-hours cause you to tremble and to fear?

No one is a fool
who falls in or out of love
for life is an open inviting field
to be played on
and love is the terra incognita
that has to be explored
(unless one wishes to wither away)

one has failed--so what?
lessons  are learnt
experiences are enriched
ignorance and folly drop away
(those who love should not fear
and those who fear should not love)

All that life is
is  action and progression
the libido
the will to overcome
the courage to be
to test one's mettle
(to be unafraid of bleeding
or of crying)
and not to yield
thus
here lies
the raison d'etre
for living

It's in making sense
of the unknown
to discover
the truth and meaning
of things
that we become
what we want to be

But those
who have not known love
will never know what it is
to **** life's sweetest nectar
a drop of which
is enough
recompense
for the bitterness
of love's pain
and the faithful vow
they are willing to die unto love

No one is a fool
who falls in or out of love

No one's permission you need-
living your life
is not like getting
a licence or permit
to do this or that--or passing
an exam-
you are
your own government
you are
your own authority
you owe none
any obligation or duty

it's your playing-field
to none
do you yield
only that to yourself
be sincere and true
for none
does care or bother about you
in their selfish and often
blind and senseless pursuits
so sad indeed but so true

it seems to me
it's best not to have a name
as namelessness attracts
the attention of none
it sets me completely free

how churlish
are so many
who assume
they are born
to superiority
who proclaim:
' look to me
be my follower
in me
you'll find your destiny'.

how much more
I 've learnt
wandering in the wild
of nowhere
where nature teaches and smiles
the flowers greet me
the breezes sing their songs
in glee
the butterflies, the bees
the birds,  the insects
the warbling stream
the dancing leaves
nature in her pristine beauty
beneath a mild and gentle sky
each living thing relates their own story

only, only
I should be silent
humble, empty
ready
their voices to hear
(how innocent this elemental life
that does over the folly of man transcend--
how sweet, how comforting, how endlessly dear!)

here
there's no coercion
no human clamour or commotion
here's perfect freedom
that teaches me every lesson
about living
I am transformed
transfixed
to the mystery and splendour
of timelessness

no one's permission
I need
this, this is my truth
my salvation
my liberation.

'Not now
because I'm not ready-
    another time'
  
  not now
when then?
   no answer-complete silence

how many moons have since gone by
   the tiny buds
have blossomed into full-blown roses

some others
have stolen
your prize

and you look on
in disbelief
in wild surprise

you can't contain yourself
and start looking for the next round
but find written on the wall ' nothing left now'

Not this time
  once is enough
  hungry and thirsty I was
  life then was rough

  and you let me believe
  in your El Dorado
  I returned more destitute
  all because you I did blindly follow.

No wonder so many are unhappy
Their lives are predicated on pluses
Pluses= happiness
Unhappiness comes from minuses.

All this they hanker after:
Pluses in wealth, power , position
Fame, recognition- even pluses in good looks
And wisdom--anything less is no consolation.

More acquisitions---the goal of life
(Pity those who live in minuses)
All the time they strive and strive
Chasing like addicts for the next round of seductive pluses.

Shouldn't they change their mind-set?
Surely minuses are to be more desired and embraced
Minus ill health,  minus greed, minus envy, minus discord
Minus strife, minus discontent--aren't pluses sadly misplaced?

Old age is not being
young but look at its luxuriant tree
where its fruits have ripened
and its leaves are still as green
it's the same breeze as of old
blowing above its head
and the sky is as blue
and bird-songs by night
are still as sweet
as reminders
that all life is wrapped in rapture
and earth has not lost its pristine  music and grandeur

each stage of life has its  untold splendour
only that the heart must feel and embrace love
and the mind be free and hasn't given up
in despondency (I've had enough of this chagrin-
drop that line)
say instead--
I love life and its endless beauty
I would still bathe in its sea of wondrous delight
I would bask under the sun amidst the dancing flowers
have conversation with the moon and stars late at night
I would still sing the songs I love
and give life to my violin- lest it thinks I have lost faith-
with my shaky hands I would write a poem or two-
never mind if they are frowned upon by others
I would still smile despite the wrinkles on my face
and my grey hair so conspicuous to the eye
I would share in the laughter of youth
among the middle-aged mingle
and with those in my twilight years
laugh at the folly and pride of my early days
and hear their stories spoken
with slow and subdued voices
but no less poignant

I am alive and not left behind
I am there in the arena of life
though not as a player
but  only a spectator

if you do see a silent tear
dropping from my eyes
just know-
it's the tear of gratitude and joy

We were
once upon a time--remember?
but no more
now is our time--forever

all because
tears we shed together
broken hearts once healed
re-love with the most resplendent grandeur.

Easy? hardly-
even taking a step
at a time forward
calls for unusual courage

for
old habits die hard

as
the self has been concretised
for too long--immobility
holds the reins--change
hangs over like an unwelcome
stale, wet and prickly blanket

doubt* and fear
makes the limbs tremble
( adults are no better than kids
  when they sense uncertainty
imaging dangers that aren't there)

' It's better to stay put
on safe and sure ground'

He who doesn't have the courage
to put his foot forward
will be nailed to the spot
where he's rooted
ending as less than a man
while time and fair chances
bid him good-bye
with an unsympathetic look
and downright scorn

he has to turn
his face away
to hide himself
from the light of day.

Open your heart to me
  like the green meadow
  waiting for the kiss of the sun
  let our love glow

  in every sweet ardour
  come to me ere the sunset
  ere the roses go to sleep
  my vow I'll forever keep--how could I forget?

I hope this does clarify beyond doubt--
the lim-erick was not invented by our Lim family
(with an illustrious history)--- the reference is to a place in Ireland-
but the first was written by St. Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century.

I should be ashamed
ever to claim--dishonestly
that my family had changed
the world of Western poetry

I hope this does clarify beyond doubt--
the lim-erick was not invented by our Lim family
(with an illustrious history)--- the reference is to a place in Ireland-
but the first was written by St. Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century.

Then this guy came along
in the 19th century
who perfected it so to say-
Edward Lear--he left behind a great legacy.

He wrote 212 in total
prolific he was--verily-
could Nigel Finn beat this record
as he did cause quite  a stir in Hello Poetry?

I should be ashamed
ever to claim--dishonestly
that my Lim family had changed
the world of Western poetry.

You can no longer knock at the door
of your paradise lost
bliss you forfeited
now you are tossed

into the oblivion
of limbo
there's no light to lead you
and you don't know where to go.

Here is the abyss
of the darkest of the dark
worse than the ship-wrecked
not even the weakest spark

of hope will appear to console
none will hear your lament
banished from the golden land
in this wretched pit all your years will be spent.

To depart
is to die a little
good-byes are tearful and break the heart
life is brittle.

'  I must return to the open sea
which is my home
I'm dying, dying every moment when I think of thee
and I wonder: ' shouldn't I cease to roam?'