sanity

is when you can draw a line
between knowing
and pretending.

Post 111 (and then some)

the birds whisper their evening song
as the light fades and sky darkens
the activity once here is now gone
and eerie quiet comes [silently] creeping

upon the empty school

Version 2
dark, contrived quiet creeps upon the school
where light fades and soft evening comes [also]
upon the empty halls where birds whisper

Version 3
contrived quiet and darkness creeps
upon the school

where light fades and heralds
soft evening

among the empty halls where
birds whisper

//many ways to play with the same idea and words la... and school is really like this at 7pm on tuesdays... quite frightening really...

and the little people

and the little people
go

----------------a-jumping

----------------------------jumping

---------jumping

all the way round

whoa.. ego probs

i looked upon a reflection one day
but i was surprised
for something frightening stared back at me
until i realised the face was mine
and i cursed the mirror that hung upon the wall
who told me the prettiest of them all

oh mirror why did you lie to me?

/this is exploring the realm of ranting over failed ego trips... not very good at it... poem not very nice either.. what is it about good poems that make them tick??.. i must read more.. more prose.. more poems...

it's been a while

it's been a while
since the skies bathed in pink
while green clouds swam by

it's been a while
since camillas and tulips breathed
yellow and redpolkadots,
frolicking in violet fields

it's been a while
since sand sang blue,
since waves crooned frothy orange

it's been a while
since the pastel palette
tinged my sky

chameleon

fading in and out of countenances,
charming coquette blends with
treebark and prettyflowers abound -
for the vines where we all (hypo)criticise:
the colours and shapes;
moods and textures untouched-
not by the poisonous fangs virtue preyed upon,
but modelled after surroundings printed
exquisitely by more:
mere chameleons.

rhyme & reason

/bing. all i can say is. wow. very nice. and if the poem holds true, i feel sorry for you man... and your father...

i hope one day i might rhyme
and words shall come rushing in
filling me, as i sail, line by line
upon the misty wind

and as i rest, perhaps, one night
i shall hope to count no sheep
and yet sweet words will be the light
that sings me to my sleep

/i realised i havent done a proper rhyme for a long time...still sounds rather forced.. my rhymes were always engineered you see... still are i suppose... blogging does take ones time, but when its doing something i like, it's worth it...well, until i wake up groggy the next morn...

Waking

I know that once the sound of
the doorknob turning hits my ears
like a gunshot at two or maybe
three in the morning, I will hear
my father’s footsteps sink into
the marble floor like feeble boats
and the fatigued rhythm of his movement
that indicate how surely he is aging
and cannot afford to have his sleep
interrupted so many times in a week
And I cannot but keep as still as the furniture
as his stern words attempt to
traverse the sea between us. I like to think
that we might be two panes of an open window
which will one day be firmly shut,
but till then what remains is a long receipt
of merciful silences, like the one that
accompanies us in the dead of the night,
or the one colder than the air-con in the
car as he drives me to school
while I watch the daylight gush out
from the wound in the sky.

Bus Ticket To

It was the same white, rectangular face from
long ago that returned my stare as it lay
comfortably on the bed of my palm, in the
slumber of time, now almost transparent
just as it probably would have done when
my eyes were only as high as what I thought was

the mouth of the red ticketing machine and its
mechanical cough, the commuter’s irregular heartbeat
which I waited to share as my mother paid with her coins
but not without first consulting the bus driver, who to me
was always the man in the green shirt with his hands
on the frighteningly large steering wheel. Similarly,

I can’t remember every invidual ticket, but I recall
I once planned to collect hundreds of those slips
as though an incomplete, huge jigsaw of memory was
waiting for a contribution that would never have sufficed.
And I do know they made good origami materials on the way
to abacus or piano class - how I could fold hearts from

those worthless receipts is ironic; but how the threadbare
detail on each of them was so easily erased from memory
is no surprise- EZ-Link has made them less important, but
years have crafted more complex shapes from this creased
past, so they linger, the fine print inscribed on the ceiling of
my mind, and allege that remembrance is the law of existence.

Another Untitled

i would be grateful
for the opportunity
to be myself in a place
where i can sing
and dance and talk
to myself
and nobody would bother
or wonder why my lips -
they move without a sound

/phy test tmw. hafta go and sleep. but note use of one or two long words, ones that are unnatural to a poem...