Poems I haven't got around to formatting for web display:


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Songs of a Jilted Generation

We are the voices of a jilted generation.
  With songs of tragedy we fill our masque.
Scars without traces embellish our existence,
  And into the abyss we toss our hearts.

Where is the beacon which guides our journey?
  Gone are the shadows which mark our path.
Light, upon light, so bright to eternity,
  Yet only in darkness do we find our caste.

    And the flame flickers so faintly.
      The columns seems so frail.
        No more cosy shelter
          To shield from wind and hail.

    So we stand,
      And we brood,
        And we ponder,
          And yet we know not still.

We are the voices of a jilted generation.
  Only in our nightmares can we cull our wrath.

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Clouds

White clouds fair
In clear blue air
How lucid you look on this clear fine day

Placid in motion
Serene in tone
Yet radiant is your aura upon the bright sky dome

Briefly you appear
Swiftly you go
Carefree in your voyage over the meadows you sow

Riffle and rumble
With fluffy feathery roll
Brush away the spectres of our speculative souls

Long may you fare
In the clear sky bare
Above our households and the abode we share

With exuberance declare
And a warmth so rare
Watch over our families and the folk we care


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Roar of the Lion King

Hear the roar of the savage beast.
  Sit in silence.
  Watch in peace.
Witness the passion of the fury unleashed.

Basking in the glory of his freedom unfettered.
  Joy in the hunt
  And blood of the kill.
Prowls behind the flurry of the herd in thrill.

Feel the fire of his fiber inflamed.
  Filled with longing
  From hunger untamed.
Pounces on the victim he so boldly had claimed.

Swept by the fervor of his mastery in fore.
  With fangs unveiled
  And sinews in vigor,
Will in resolute through the flesh he devours.

With pride he strides showing insolence assured.
  Walks without hesitance
  And growls without fear.
Dauntless is he in the refuge of his sphere.

Hail the grandeur of his imperial frame.
  Arrogance abundance
  In the twilight fade.
Surveys the majesty of the kingdom he made.

Naked is the manner of the wild kingdom.
  From the eyes of the hunter,
  To the trail of the prey.
Nature in balance in the savage fray.


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Legion

Who am I in an empty room? 

No lights, no shadows.
  No mirrors, no images.
No prying eyes.
  No idle whispers.
No form. No structure. No masks. No lies.

I can be whoever I want to be -
  That rugged sailor in the wild blue sea;
  That charismatic tenor on a silky smooth key;
  Or that pompous monarch with his senseless decree.

Or perhaps... perhaps...
  I can just be me...

Should I?
  Could I?
    Dare I, for once, be me?

      Whose hand is this I see before me?
        So soft and delicate,
        As a lamb in flock.
          Yet wields the dagger and strikes without mercy. 

      Whose eyes are these that give me such glory?
        Of sunrise and flora,
        And billows upon shores.
          Yet stain all scenery with blood most gory.

      Whose lips are these telling my stories?
        A voice so tender,
        Like sounds of dulcimer.
          Yet speak such evil so fool and hardy.

      Whose soul is this perched within me?
        Filled with reminiscence
        Of love and devotion.
          Yet burns with sins from the depths of Hades.

      This soul which burns
        Guides the lips to curse
        Taints the eyes with blood
        Leads the hand that strikes.
      All the while doing so without me.

I want to go
  Where no one knows my name,
  Where dwellers hide no shame,
  Where no words cry of blame,
  And others stake no claim
    On who I am to be.

I want to stay in this empty room
  Where no wind blows,
  No sound stirs,
  No light shines,
  And no pen chronicles
  My impending climatic doom.

    I seek solitude
      Away from the turmoil.
    I want liberty
      From all that consumes me.

And when I'm gone,
  Remember me as Legion,
    ... For I am many.

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The Meaning of Life

I am falling.
Away from the ledge that times before I have stood in isolation.
Towards that pavement that I always thought must hold the solution.
This time I took the step.

Freedom.
Exhilaration.
Wild winds gushing pass my ears.
Into my mind no longer consumed by fear.
Into my soul no longer filled with tears.

So many images.
So many sounds.
A quick-play review of the discoveries I've found.
A crystal clear collage of experiences that count.
A simple assorted summary of my joys and frowns.

Now,
At this point in time,
With only 1.26 seconds to go,
I finally understand.

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Smile by the Stream

So sudden was the storm that swept the skies.
The bright flash of lighting strikes to plunge the house into darkness.
The deafening sound of thunder roars and leaves the air in silence.

All is quite,
So calm 
And solemn.

My heart flutters
With thoughts of the demons behind the secret doors;
Of intruders with axes doused with blood;
Of solitude
Loneliness
And grief.

My mind cast back to that warm, breezy day.
To that bright-lit, salt-fresh day by the sea
And solace in the angelic smile sitting beside the stream.

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We as Teachers

Radiant unreserved laughter.
  Bright inquisitive eyes.
Lost in the sparkling realm
  Of their curious inquiring minds.

Thrills in the miracles of discovery.
  Secrets of the world revealed.
Treasures in every idea.
  Passion for sagacious zeal.

And I pray:
 Let the knowledge scorch their hearts 
 Let them feel the fire.
 Let not the cynic dull their thirst 
 Let them dream forever. 
 

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Face of the Fallen

"Future terrorists will find they need ever more spectacular horrors to overcome 
this capacity to absorb what previously would seem intolerable."
                               Terror 2000: Report by the Office of Special 
                               Operations, U.S. Pentagon

Another face in the fallen rubble.
Another corpse from the grim debris.
A cry for mercy from beneath the crumble,
Or perhaps theyíre voices of my own malaise.

This face today in the ruins of Nairobi
I've seen before amidst gunshots in Palestine.
Wasn't she also in the wreckage at Lockerbie?
That familiar face in a familiar scene.

Where is her name in the front-page coverage?
Who knows of her children crying in obscurity?
The global frenzy and international rhetoric
Ease not the pain of the anonymous in grief.

Today I weep for those who have fallen,
But tomorrow I'll switch to the next breaking story.
Who's left to remember the nameless children
And the faces in the aftermath of our showdown in beliefs?

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Remember the Songs We Sang

 "Please remember June the Third, 1989. The most tragic event happened in the 
Chinese Capital, Beijing. Thousands of people, most of them innocent civilians, 
were killed by fully-armed soldiers when they forced their way into city. Among 
the killed are our colleagues at Radio Beijing. The soldiers were riding on 
armored vehicles and used machine guns against thousands of local residents 
and students who tried to block their way. When the army conveys made the 
breakthrough, soldiers continued to spray their bullets indiscriminately at 
crowds in the street. Eyewitnesses say some armored vehicles even crushed foot 
soldiers who hesitated in front of the resisting civilians. Radio Beijing English 
Department deeply mourns those who died in the tragic incident and appeals to 
all its listeners to join our protest for the gross violation of human rights and the 
most barbarous suppression of the people. 
Because of the abnormal situation here in Beijing there is no other news we 
could bring you. We sincerely ask for your understanding and thank you for 
joining us at this most tragic moment."
                                  Radio Beijing English Service, 4th June 1989.

Remember June the Third.
Remember the spirit of the words 
  We chanted at the Square.
Remember the make-shift statue 
  Bearing the liberty torch.
Remember our frailing bodies
  In thousands linked in hands.

Remember the songs we sang,
The hymns that sparked the air
To arouse the sleeping city;
To incite on our southern kin;
To stir our blind masters;
To call on the world to bear,
Hear our fading chorus,
And remember our sorrowful songs.

We sat to the end for what we believed,
And we greeted our end for what we believed -
Our right to think, to speak, to dream.
And for a time, 
  We thought, 
    We spoke, 
      And most of all we dreamt.
For that we were condemned.

Remember June the Third.
Remember the songs you heard.
By the blood-red stains in the concrete Square, 
At the Gate of Heavenly Peace,
Remember the songs we sang.

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The One and the Thousand

 "Under such circumstances, the Communist Party of China, as a ruling party 
and a government responsible to the people, is forced to take resolute and 
decisive measures to put an end to the turmoil."
                         Li Peng, Premier of the Peopleís Republic of China, 
                                                              19th May 1989.

His is the lone voice of one, 
  Yet his is the deafening voice of thunder.
Ours is the united voice of the thousand, 
  But ours is the silent voice of the dumb.

From behind the seraphim curtains, 
High on the glittering clouds,
Came that roaring voice of one. 

The voice of one
With one casual command 
Brought the red tide to the Gate of Heavenly Peace 
And cloaked in bloodshed the Avenue of Lasting Harmony.

With golden skin and ebon hair, 
Heirs to the Dragon we all.
Yet his is the voice of one to be heard,
While ours is the voice of the thousand to be hushed.


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How Dare You Judge Me?

 "What qualifications do they have to criticize us? ..."
                        Deng Xiao Ping, speech to martial law units of the 
                                Peopleís Republic of China, 9th June 1989.

How dare you judge me?
With your silk-laced suits and floral ties;
In your flashy cars with neon lights;
With naive words and glitzy lines;
Have you a billion children to feed?
Have they in millions been claimed by floods?
Have the mammoth famines taken their lives?
Have your home been ravished by friends from outside? 
Have you folk been poisoned by snow powder white, 
While helpless you watch and in silence your cry?

Judge me when you can see beyond your eyes, to the truth past the light.
Judge me when you have reached four millenium in life, and have endured the agonies like mine.
Judge me only when you have withstood the tests of time.
Then perhaps I will listen.

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Companion

In gloom,
  She smiles and conjures the light of creation.
Hush,
  She speaks and drives away the seclusion.
Sense
  The misty air tinged by her fragrance.
Comfort
  In her face, her touch, her presence.

Many times
  I've questioned my once compelling conviction.
For different
  Are we, as day and night in motion.
Through moments
  When she acted in ways of great annoyance.
In the end
  That is her fashion, and I accept her - the person.

I ask
  Not that she reaches to cure my afflictions.
Only
  That she cares to give the gift of attention.
I'll remember
  Our despairs and heights of exhilaration.
My only regret
  That it took our scission to bring forth our union.

To Shorna Hewison, always,
  My partner, my friend, my companion.

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Garden of the Crystal Rose

Two hands joined in Heaven
Two hearts immersed in glow
Two souls floating incessant
In the garden of the crystal rose

Blossom in the light of Creation
Dispelling the clouds of woes
With the glory of life abundant
In the comfort of your humble abode

Trust in the arms of the other
To be calm as the clear breeze blows
Potent may be the tempest
Potent still is your bond that holds

May the Divine be your guardian
In your journey of promise and hope
May your union be bright and sparkling
As the radiance from the crystal rose

*  To my brother Teck, and sister-in-law Mag, on their wonderful wedding day.

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Annabel

Like a ripple
In the stream
Under the clear blue sky.
Your laughter
Fills the air
Through the silky summer nights.

Your eyes twinkle
Like stars
By the pale moon light.
Your song
Like a nightingale
In the bright sun shine.

What will you be when you grow up?
Dear sweet Annabel, what will you be?

You hop
Like a joey
Without a care in sight.
Your steps are bold
And bashful
With no restraint, no respite.

You play
Until exhaustion
Then drop like a fly.
One minute
You snuggle
And then the next you ignite.

Why you do like that, Dear Annabel?
Sweet, sweet Annabel, why you do like that?

Your words
Are abundant
Yet no meaning I find.
I wish I speak 
Your language
But too senile am I.

And though I'm deluded
To interpret
Your wish and every incline.
Your emotions
Are evident
In your cheerful jovial smile.

What will we do with this delectable little child?
Dear, dear Annabel, what will we do?


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...a space otherwise left unfilled

Liquid
Fluid
Malleable and engaging.

Meandering
In motion
Through silent streams flowing

Crystal
Waters
For clear light reflecting

Stars
In Heaven
On the spotless surface twinkling

Billows
Breaking
Over rolling rocks enfolding

Beauty
Strength
Merge in harmony and synch

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Storm

The gathering clouds herald the coming tempest.
A flash of lightning brings with it a pounding deluge of the flooding rain.
The booming thunder roars.
The sky-scraping trees arc under the force of the pounding gale, as leaves and branches tear, and 
the sturdy trunks creak.
Man and beasts cower from the blinding strikes of heavenly fire, to then be doused by the pouring 
water from the high above.
Houses that hours before stood firm as pillars, now folds and collapses into pulpous mash.
Boulders of boundless mass disappear into the howling tornado.
Waves encompassing the sky crashes onto unsuspecting shores and harbour lines.  
The earth retreats and braces in the core of the raging battle between the gods of the elements.

But behind the clouds,
In the clear skies,
Lie the delicate stars
And the serene smile of the crescent moon.


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Flower

Flowers, flowers, everywhere,
  But not a petal to crumble.
Flowers, flowers, everywhere,
  But never a bunch to trample.




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Frost in the Light of Dawn

* Dedicated to all the droopy-eyed early-morning skaters

Freeze, freeze, freeze.
  Ice all around me.

Cut through the atmosphere,
In sub-zero temperature,
With limbs near seizure.

SOMEONE LET THE SCORCHING SUN IN, PLEASE!

Help, help, help.
  My teeth are clamoring uncontrollably.

It's too early
For this teeny body
To get itself ready.

I SHOULD BE IN MY COZY WARM BED!

Run, run, run.
  Heat please engulf me.

I can't stop the shiver,
With a headache so bitter,
In this place of eternal winter.

GIVE ME MY BOILING CUP OF COFFEE!

Mummy, mummy, mummy,
  Please come save me.

Buried within these mittens
Are my thumbs frost-bitten
Aren't you at least guilt-ridden?

SENDING ME TO MY ICE-LADEN DEATH!

Coach, coach, coach,
  I beg you, let me be.

The chill is over-bearing,
And the cold unrelenting,
Like hail from above descending.

I WANT TO GO HOME!!!


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The Marathon Man

I. 
Rain drips down
  Upon the barren pavement,
Cleanse in part
  The dry arid atmosphere.

Hours had it been
  Since the challenge commenced.
Ages it seems
  Since his ordeal began.

Weary in the eyes
  Of the lone dark figure.
Threading the streets
  With mind in rigor.

And the rain beats down 
  Upon his desolate body.
No shelter has he
  From the cold harsh city.

The steel ice droplets
  On scars and bruises.
The bleeding blood ignites
  Like flames upon desert.

He now is one,
  Where before were many.
They now are done
  And he longs for their company.

His journey was littered
  With mishaps upon disasters.
From mid-road collisions,
  To bone-jarring catastrophe.

Patches enfold him
  From tip of the toe, to back of the neck.
Agony apparent
  From his awkward limp to the throbbing head.

Yet up again he goes,
  And on and on he went.
Step after step he took.
  In his long laborious ascent.


II. 

Why do you run, Mr Marathon Man?
Why do you run when relent you can?
Can't you see the sun's idle descent?
Can't you hear the sandman's lament?

The event is done, and the race is won.
The festivities finished with the fading sun.
Jubilant were the crowd when they granted the medallion,
But now they dwindle and the memories are none. 

Your dry parched lips upon your stone cold cheek,
Carried by your limbs so consumed by fatigue.
The pain in your frame through your eyes they shriek.
So utterly pointless since no reward you reap.

It's time to stop, Mr Marathon Man.
It's time for your journey to reach an end.
Long have you traveled, and tired must you be.
So stop, dear sir, and let yourself mend.î


III. 

"Why do I run, my curious friend?
Why do I run when relent I can?
To you it seems there is no demand
To endure with the event in which I'm began.

My legs are sore, and my knees are torn.
My torso is so battered itís not fit to be worn.
Rest would be heaven when my task is done -
To relieve the muscles and let the flesh reborn.

In the distance Iíve heard the dash to the tape.
Long ago I realised the end to the race.
No podium to climb, no records to break,
But finish I must for my satisfactionís sake.

Races I've won and their memories will last,
But in those victories I seek not to bask.
The weak will wallow in the glory of the past.
The strong look forward without filters or masks.

Though pain reaps through the sinews of my body,
Vigor still infest every fiber of my being.
While struck severely by the rain unyielding,
To no depths of surrender ever shall I sink.  

For glory comes not through the auspice of ceremony,
And achievement is not for others to perceive.
The only time we fail in our quest to succeed,
Is the one time we doubt and cease to believe.

In the end it's not that you won or lost.
It is that unwavering in your own self you trust.
For the challenge is not how strong, high or fast.
The spirit of the Olympics is in the courage you amass. 

Why do I run, my inquisitive friend?
I run unwavering because I can.
To desist and depart would mean to suspend  
Being the man I believe I am."


IV. 

And few got to see him there,
The night he dreamt and dared,
With courage so pure and rare,
He showed to the world so bare,

The perfect splendour of the human spirit.
And although no history he made,
To no cheering crowd he waved,
And no shining trophy await
On that day, that fateful day,

He won.


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The Bodhi Tree

The body like a Bodhi tree
The soul like a mirror face
Daily we work and toil
To keep from dirt and dust

The Bodhi was not a tree
And the mirror has no face
When really not an entity
Where does the dust infest

* Translated from an ancient chinese verse