Friday night
the city becomes alive
She touches up her red lips
just in time for the stranger’s arrival
The conversation between them are smooth
gliding over her Persian blue silk blouse
and his flattering compliment
His fingertips casually strike out thermal waves
with each intentional brush of her arm
It’s getting beyond cosy warm there
and his scent smells late night passion
He moves closer and whispers desire in her ear
Confronted by his tempting invitation
she pinches herself hard
leaving a mark on her inner thigh
where wild nights used to overstay
and never had the courtesy to pay her with respect
She remembers all that devastating aftermath
So she leans over and whispers to him
“Pas Ce Soir”
Category: Poetry and Prose
Restoration
I have been enjoying jigsaw puzzle again. This is one of the jigsaw puzzles I completed recently. From the experience, this poem was created.
It was beautifully whole
A sudden storm broke it into pieces
I could only make out the outline
While the foundation was crushed
Tracking the fragments by their edgy shapes
my unskilled hands perform no miracles
The only hope in restoration lies in time only
It is the time I invest in patiently
which bonds the shattered reality
and make it whole again
And now the beauty is in
both the holder and the beholder
Summer Holiday
You used to live by the sea
free like a dandelion
wild like a daisy field
I drove the winding roads
with the car windows down
let the summer sun bite my arm
We picked seashells
like little kids
buried each other in hot sand
We dipped Tim Tam biscuits
in black tea with soy milk
read books to each other
We curled up by the campfire
listened to James Blunt
ate barbecued marshmallows
That was the summer holiday
I spent visiting you
before you left the sea
Storyteller
Your face tells a thousand stories.
The folds of your skin
capture every storm you endured.
In between,
there are records of victory
and triumph.
New generations keep rising up
to take up the challenge.
You stepped back tide after tide
until you no longer
protect them
at the front line,
instead you watch over them
in prayer.
We look to you for wisdom.
Your face is the evidence
that history doesn’t lie.
If we say
that you are only a stone,
we are fools
beyond the reach of gods.
Bay Walk
The evening bay reminds me
of an ageing woman
subdued in tiredness
letting go
after many years of
keeping up with her youth
Her face is exceedingly beautiful
under candlelight
soft and glowing
like an intriguing book
best to be read
with a glass of vintage wine
by an antique candelabra lamp
Price Tag
He stopped buying bread and milk from the service station up the road.
He couldn’t afford the price, tagged for the convenience.
He started to walk to the supermarket to shop.
Three months later, his shoes fell apart.
He stopped going out all together.
Three weeks later,
he was found dead by his neighbour’s dog
on his own front porch
at the age of 95.
God Tired
I don’t know how God does it.
He hears takers pray to Him
with long-ass shopping lists
without beginning with a decent greeting,
let alone the whimpers, the whiners, or the whingers.
I don’t know how God does it.
He gave us life and means to stay alive.
He even gave us His beloved Son
to teach and model righteous living.
And yet we keep on seeing the lacks and seeking destruction.
I don’t know how God does it.
He gets so little acknowledgement and takes so much blame.
I feel so tired for God.
He says to me,
“Little one! You are created in the likeness of Me. So you relate to my tireness. But little do you know, if there is even one grateful soul out there desiring to know Me, I Am restored.”
When The East Meets The West
The Living Poetry prompt – Epigraph
“Softly I am leaving,
Just as softly as I came;
I softly wave goodbye
To the clouds in the western sky.”
You didn’t see my quiet tears
blurred by my bright smile
Perfect love I left you with
broken dreams I took with me
I fold your smile into my silken sheets
kept under lock and key
I sleep naked on a bare bed
to fend off the ghost of our past
You come into my dreams
drenching me in your torrential rain of passion
I am defendness in the darkness of my subconscious
Precipitously you are leaving
Just as precipitously as you came
You precipitouly retrieve
from the flood of the eastern sea
Her Last Heart Beat
This poem made it to Lisa’s Anthology of Poetry Heart Beats and was published by Prolific Pulse Press in March 2021. I was honoured to be included in this anthology along with other very talented poets. Purchase link here
I saw grandma lying in the palliative unit
She was the last plum hanging on the branch
Although she survived the summer sun
Her overly ripen skin was purple and blue
We gathered around her like a flock of sheep
We retold the funny family stories
Turning our tears into laughter
We kissed her clammy forehead and cool hands
We told her we loved her
And promised to see her in heaven
Her last heartbeat gave in
While the new born birds chirping outside the window to welcome the golden sun
Her Lips
This is written for the Living Poetry January visual poetry prompt
Library seems to be a boring place
But if you know where to look
there are treasures hidden between those old pine bookshelves
Her lips are one of those treasures
When she is focused on reading
Her dark hair drape to cover her face
The mid morning sun penetrades her hair
through the breezy window
licking her chocolate coated cherry lips
I’m barely able to sit still
The urge to grab the sunlight by the throat keeps building up
I get totally consumed by jealousy
Library can be a battlefield
Flicker of Thoughts 