we seek the simple things in life
for the pleasure they grant us
we set out on a straight path
caught in a web of entanglement
how our hearts grew weary
our mouths proceeded troubles
we are stuck in the loop
for we lost hope
until we stumble into someone
who rekindles our first love
for simplicity
and the joy
proceeding
from
it
strolling under the night sky
along the stars murmuring to each other
occasionally a chuckle fall off the stratosphere
depositing on my spine like chill air
in the infinite airspace
gladly losing consciousness
if not the chattering cicadas
prompting here and now
I would vaporise into the way over yonder
I know I want to write
I feel inspired to write
I do not know what to write
So
let my heart be the North Star
let my soul be the explorer
let the spillage of paint be art
abstract, impressionist
a craftsman of words
these are too grand for my intention
So
let me be me
a labourer of self expression
a mumbler of everyday stories
a restless night owl hoots composition
It is my sweat and blood you harvest
It is my life you are drawn to
it is the nature you hear
Let me be me
a reflection of you
in beauty
walking on the pale sandy beach
spotting treasures in the sparkling sun
enough to whisk away the pensive mind
submerging in such shimmer
daydreaming the clouds to be
a motion picture of happy memories
until the edge of a rock or
a broke shell
cutting underneath her foot
the clouds turn into a violent swirl
brown bleeding out into the muted sand
from a place of torment
empty drink bottles
a monster broken capillary face
wild eyes flaming
savage shaking of a slim form
empty promises
an innocent blood drained cheeks
fearful stare vacating
prey falling off an arrow
how many times those cuts
drove her to the dark shadow
ignoring the brightly shining sun
gossamer waves reflecting off the water
old blood fading away into the saline foam
like the broken shells
in mock dismay
with my intuitive detecting eyes
scrolling through your photo gallery
the vulnerable eyes
immersed in deep thought
antient and karmic
with a hint of
primal longing
gravitating
captivating
consuming
time stands still
the clock chokes in the
curiosity infused air
a surge of
warm
gooey
puppy love
casting its net on me
i am cacooned in your
inescapable presence
A well of emotions
saturated my words
they go soggy and weak
only my lips can express
my gratitude to you
my beloved
I often don’t understand why people love receiving flowers, especially a bunch of freshly cut flowers.
As somewhat a practical person, I much prefer a vegetable bunch, beautiful colour mix, thriving and ready to be consumed.
You may say that’s extreme. Ok then, let’s meet half way. How about pot plants or potted flowers in lieu of the freshly cut flowers? Don’t you think flowers belong to the garden beds? They look so at home and divine in their natural nursery.
I have had that preference for years, not remembering when did I actually start such weird preference.
Recently I traced back the times I did receive flowers. Sure enough, I finally realised the ‘Why’.
Firstly, in the second year I moved from Guangzhou to Sydney. I answered the door bell. There was Currier service delivery for me. After signing the receipt, I opened the box. There were a bunch of long stem red roses lying in the box. They didn’t make it all the way from Guangzhou to Sydney. They lain in the box, withered, lifeless. I counted there were 11 long stem red roses. I didn’t take them out of the box. I didn’t feel right to disturb them. I put the lid of the box back, neatly tied the ribbon again. It was like a burial. The 11 long stem red roses just lain in their coffin. The bundle of breakup.
Secondly, it was at the airport, I was greeted with a bunch of vibrant colour flowers. It was somewhat a surprise, at the same time, the dread feeling made my inside turned. What I discovered later prove my dread. The bundle of apology.
Lastly, I was at work. The office was busy as usual. I had a meeting out. When I returned, I was told there were flowers delivered to me. My heart sank. I reached the flowers, before I looked at the blooms, I read the card attaching to the bunch. I called the person who sent me the flowers, just in time to catch him out of another suicide attempt. The bundle of farewell.
There was grief relating to the receiving of these bunches of freshly cut flowers. The beautiful blooms, the fragrance, the artistic composition remind me of the tragedy moments in life.
The comfort is there are alternatives, be the bunch of fresh vegetables, be the potted flowers, or at its best, leave the blooms in the garden bed where there is life and pleasure to the viewers.
“It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.”
― Betsy-Tacy and Tib
Her lips search for his
in the confidence
she has just befriended his cheeks
She is confident
there is more than friendship
she will find
when she finally
meet her matching
soft secret
A reminder pop up on my screen
A check in call is due
A habit of mine
Always check the file notes
A flash of subject line ‘tenancy vacated’
An instinct to open the note
‘Advised by tenant’s sister tenant deceased’
Attila is dead!
A flush of memory of our last check in
A stroke he had
A sequence of specialist appointments
Anxious about his puberty son
Apologise for not coming to the scholarship ceremony
A good wish for my beauty in slurry speech
A last good bye
An end to the line
Attila and me
A client to his advisor
A prayer said to his son
Alone in this world fatherless
Acne face
Angry displaced
A lost sheep
Alchemist in the making is
All I prayed
Flicker of Thoughts 