2 Little Mice

Good afternoon, treasured guests, family, and friends.

We are Martin’s sisters: Julie and Lovely.

Today, we want to tell the story of two mice,

Of how they met, which is rather nice.

Why mice you say? Because they were born in the year of the rat.

And “mice” doesn’t sound as bad.

Once upon 1984 in Medan, Indonesia,

a mouse called Martin was born.

As he explored his masculinity, he discovered a dream.

To be a heroic doctor with a heroic theme!
But several years down the road,

The childhood dream began to corrode.

Martin watched movies till his head was reeling.

Becoming a movie director is definitely more appealing!

Back in 1984, just a week apart, in Zhejiang, China,

Another mouse called Rika was born.

She was studious, and hardworking.

At her work, no one dares to scorn.

As a child, she dreamed to be the maker of clothes.

Years later, another dream arose.

She knew that to be an educator is her fate.

But reality sank in, and that dream has to wait.

One fateful day, Martin met Rika through a friend.

Their adventure began as their thoughts and dreams could blend.

It was almost love at first sight. More like love at first conversation.

And they would plan to meet with precious calculation.

And yet they pulled through together till they settled here.

Singapore, a green city with a cozy atmosphere.

There has been talk about them for being two opposite ends.

She studies very hard, and he earns PS3 trophies with geeky friends.

He speaks English, and she speaks Mandarin.

And yet today God has brought them together from within.

Not just them, but us, to celebrate their beautiful bond.

A bond on love, trust, and harmony. From now, till beyond.

To the World and its Highest Towers

When you are feeling like you’re down,

Your face is drooping to a frown,

Go look upon the Heaven’s skies,

And He’ll grant insight so you’ll rise.

Although we’re clay jars holding gold,

Our hearts hold light beyond our gauge.

Be not afraid, and tell the whole world of His pow’r.

Bring His salvation to the world and all its highest tow’rs.

Don’t only use our words to love,

But show the truth that we speak of.

Let’s share the grace of Him, the One,

Compassion of the sacrificial son.

Although we’re troubled, don’t fall into Satan’s snare.
Although we are confused, dwell not in your despair.

Although we’re hunted down, our Lord abandoned not.

Although we get knocked down, remember His reward.

The face of death we live in, but we have eternal life.

So go prepare your minds to act,

and set our hopes towards His grace.

Disciple all the nations far,

He’ll be with us until the end.

Routine

At one, I’ve just finished lunch.

The dishes lie in the sink.

It’s Friday; you should be home

for dinner.

I look to the door.

At two, I am putting away our laundry.

You like it color-coordinated,

and pre-scented with your cologne.

I think of our honeymoon in Paris.

I look to the door.

At three, my grandfather’s clock chimes

an old oriental tune. I smile at

our memories together since high school.

We should visit the mainland again soon.

I look to the door.

At four, I am looking through the recipes.

I wonder what I should cook

for you tonight. It’s a special night

just for you and me.

I look to the door.

At five, I shower and dress.

My hair must be done. I glance at the clock.

My neck exposed, anticipating
your lips across my skin.

I look to the door.

At six, I place the wine glasses.

My hands shake as I light the candle.

The bok choy is next to your favorite chicken

And the rice is steaming. The vapors tickle my nose.

I look to the door.

It’s seven; I sit at the table alone.

You should have been home three years ago.

I look

at the door.

I look.

Victim

My fingers move over the tight rope,

feeling each string against my skin.

The soft silken thread,

so thin, so fragile,

yet it can form something strong.

Coarse and rough under my touch.

I tug, feeling it vibrate

with a soft twang through my skinny arms.

He sits on the chair, blinded and still.

His mouth is forced open, drooling.

Sliding off his lower lip, dripping

off his chiseled chin. His hair is wet.

His chest is bare, covered in sweat,

and the cotton pants dirty and torn.

What is the difference

between mud and blood?

I caress his forehead. Look at the

rosy cheeks blossoming like flowers.

If only he can stay like this

forever. My Greek god.

So I bind the rope around his neck.

I pull.

So delicate. The strings

and threads feel heavy now.

But my heart has never felt lighter.

As A Sail Disappears

into the horizon where the burning coin sinks,

a soul beats against mine under the same covers as nights before.

Our bodies infest the cotton, but where are our voices?

Soft apples glow under the light, tough bones grazing.

Staring into your bright wells imprisoning dark, chilling winds, my heart opens anew.

Our laughter echoes along darkened walls inked with memories.

The nets are raised, choppy waters biting the loosely threaded ends.

Your winter storms—hard, slushy and wet—leave frost at my doorstep.

You are the breath in my chest, making it sink and rise, rise and sink.

The blue stars tremble in the vast black seas above,

as the sea breeze glides across my face like the flutter of wingless butterflies.

A blade

  slices,

 like a dancer, your words across the air.

Now the clocks of the world stop, as if frozen in a dream,

         floating.

The night has dropped below my feet and swallowed me whole.

Touch my soul, oh dearest one, won’t you touch my soul once more?