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she,
all dressed up acted pretentiously kind like an angel ‘can I have one?’ ‘roll-your-own’ she scoffed a hypocrite in nature
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The sparrow climbs the Himalayas –
a place with flax and grass and challenge. The little raindrops mature and fall as heavy pour. The wind and water make climbing difficult: the sparrow struggles on. I’ll retire from flying if I reach the top, she thinks. But she cannot. She has to come down again, finds her abode at the bay where a boat is waiting to take her away. May be she unconsciously don’t want to succeed cause this venture of climbing keeps her alive! allotropes of invisible objects
when even light cannot pass through a strange climax is reached different perspectives of love A calm morning,
the river is still; in the fog came a fair lady, dressed in black kimono – a garment in silk. She’s here to visit her beloved who she lost in war; no tears, no glory, he’s not a hero but a victim who died in the hands of ambitious politicians! (Those who invade suffer just like those who are being invaded, so why war!?) I dug the graves
the graves for the mice I dug the graves the graves for the birds there need be no rituals but to tell Fonz it is wrong it is wrong to kill for whatever reasons I wish I could send this message the message to people who kill people for whatever reasons it is wrong no rituals no revenge no praying to gods can bring the dead back dugging graves is the saddest thing dancing dolls, pulsating
physical moves fortune cookies on plates of memory good neighbour, bad neighbour i do not care i am no better than machinery my breath is diminishing
i'm vanishing like fog gravity pulls me beyond i'm absorbed the pines still remain fresh, green the moon still glows i came in a little boat
with fate, body and soul i will leave in this same boat with a body and soul i hope my colourful memories my legacy my love will be carved deeply into this complicated world and i have not visited fruitlessly her pale skin
her slender body her delicate features stir up a mad desire he treats her likewise he treats his lover but naked fate prevents him from his wish which has never been fulfilled Trees in the garden
Oranges hanging Feijoas, limes, waiting to be picked Neighbours’ cats still roam about All these call for my return But one man I long to see Will be waiting at the door To welcome me How I miss you How I miss home |
AuthorI started late to become a writer, after I graduated from the University of Auckland at the age of 57. It all began when one of my articles was first published in Muse, a magazine in Hong Kong. I just finished my first novel Tree which is about Chinese immigrants here in New Zealand. Being bipolar it hasn't been easy but I'm proud to have broken the vicious cycle and begin to enjoy life. I'm glad to have survived to this age and be able to live a most fulfilling life. Categories |
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