Swings

I wrote another poem a few months ago, titled "Swings." It took me about 2 months before I finalized it. Once again, I didn't share it on this blog. But you can find it here. It was a quiet and windy spring day during my exam week. I was tired of reading, and a little emotionally drained. Perhaps that's when most of my inspiration comes. Enjoy!

Last Memory

The metallic frames open and a waft of musky vegetables enter my nostrils.

My brain screams in disgust, but my face maintains a neutral disposition.

A quirky man in black boarded.

He takes off his Batman backpack and sits down to my left.

His rugged face is covered with white stubble,

and his hair covered by a Seahawks cap.

His thin and graying ponytail spread out over his back.

I can hear rock music blasting in his ears.

Everything about him is dull except the 4 gold rings on his wrinkly fingers.

Fingers as wrinkly as mine.

Pale blue eyes stare vacantly through black-rimmed glasses.

He's near and far-sighted.

I'm guessing he's old.

A middle-aged Asian woman follows behind.

It's 3 stops before I can examin what is in her arms.

It looks like celery...

Oh it's tulips!

A memory stirs of Valentines Day and the giving of roses for a loved one.

It was just yesterday when I was carrying a bouquet of my own.

A bouquet of roses, freshly cut from a garden.

I remember approaching her door,

ringing the bell,

hearing the buzz,

seeing the man.

Crushed petals at the bottom of a can.

Torn and crumpled wrapping paper.

Screams and tears.

A black eye.

A child crying in a corner.

His father yelling at his mother about the young man at the door.

What could he have done?

The child never did anything.

The child could not have done anything.

He sat there hugging his knees against his chest, praying his mom will be all right this time.

Is it a sin to love?

Was it a sin to love?

The memory fades. I'm back in my seat.

How did I get here?

The last thing I remember is the man running towards me.

An itch.

I finger the scar on my scalp underneath my own greying hair.

The Asian woman is seated to my right now.

She wipes at the beads of sweat on her forehead.

A look of relief on her face.

Her flushed face flashes once more in my mind.

And no more.

The white-stubbled man is drumming his fingers to the rhythm of his song.

Only he does not know how fortunate it is to live in the present.

He turns and smiles as if he knows me.

A young man grabs my hand and called me "dad."

He tells me "we're here."

I follow him, but I don't know why and to where.

I see the name "Sarah Blanchard" on a stone plate.

Underneath, "1936-1971."

1971. 1971. Has it been so long?

Is this all that's left of my lasting trauma of that memory?

My last memory.

Flight

So I wrote another poem... It was written in December 2012 but I kept putting it off simply because I thought that it wasn't "perfect" enough. It put it off for about a month before I decided to just put it out there.
Except, it won't be put up here on this blog. Instead, I've decided to collaborate with a childhood friend of mine who has a website on WordPress. Click here to check it out! It's got a lot of stuff on it, mainly related to literature.

Anyway, you can find the poem I wrote, here. Enjoy! :)

Till the next time I write another poem I guess!

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.