Some how I can't see the words,
I can't hear the rhythm.
The meters got no beat to feel,*
And the Rhyme I cannot deal
Constantly the consonants
Corrupt the Poems appeal
Like feral Syllables Ascant of any
Meaning it just can't be real
In pica print Parklane Font
The printing does leave for Want.....JMF 3/9/2015

There's more that meets the eyes
And this will never change
It's too complicated to explain why
The answer will never be the same
Just remember to hold us when we cry
And beware those moments we act insane
Sometimes a firm, warm place to land
Is the only thing to soothe our weary brain
Were difficult at best, impossible at worst
But true love is always on our mind first
Some women want the finer things in life
Some just want children and to be a good wife
Others need to be held and reassured constantly
Some just want to trust and receive honesty
No matter the woman, you'll never understand us all
But keep in mind... There's no greater feeling than the fall

…1966…Malaysia…


1
I’m on my scooter
back home to my village after work
in town
and it rains
and I take a short-cut
people have told me about;
and along the way at a bus-stop shed
I see in the moonlight
a woman waving at me

I stop and she says:
“Please give me a ride
and drop me home;
I’ve missed the bus…
Just the first house on the right
straight down this track…”

2
I see her face and her form -
O She’s beautiful
and I offer her my jacket
and she sits behind me
and I ask her for her name
and she tells me it is Salma;
it’s a beautiful name
and I love the fragrance she exudes so close
and sometimes, as we ride down the dirt-track,
her body brushes ever so lightly against my back


3
I stop at the shed that is her house
It is still raining
and Salma jumps off the scooter
and with a wave she runs into her home
I am happy –
she has my jacket
she is beautiful
and I know her home
and I have a reason to call on her
the next day…


4
It’s Sunday the next morning
and I ride to Salma’s house
and an old woman opens the door
and she listens to my tale
and she is shocked I’d want to see Salma
and she takes me into her small home
and she shows me
Salma’s photograph on the wall
and she asks: “Is that her you saw?”
and I nod shyly
and the old woman cries
and she says:
“I’m Salma’s mother;
Salma died three years ago…”




5
And Salma’s mother takes me behind the house
and there behind the trees she shows me Salma’s grave
and there on the grave is my jacket…
“She died three years ago,”
the woman cries..
I run; I run…
and I ride my scooter like crazy;
I don’t want my jacket back…
and I’ll never ride this way again…

Maybe it's the way the national flag flies so high
Despite the country's imperfections
Maybe it's the way we're united
Not separated, despite the difference in cultures,
Believes, traditions, languages

Maybe it's the way you see an Indian eating with chopsticks,
The way you see a Malay in a saree,
The way you see a Chinese making ketupat's for Hari Raya.

Maybe it's the unity you see,
Maybe it's the goosebumps you feel when you say Merdeka,
Maybe despite the hate you have towards history,
Deep down, you know how grateful you are to be Malaysian.

Maybe it's the way you walk into a mamak,
And say
" tauke tapau roti canai 1 milo ais 99 "
And maybe,
It lies in diversity,
Beyond everything else.

*Malaysia, tanah tumpahnya darahku.