By oneself, one goes,
out, outside, walking alone.
By oneself, one sits,
like little Miss Muffet, minus even the spider,
alone with her tuffet.
By oneself, in a market of noises.
Left alone, without the rest.
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Singapore License.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License.
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Friday, 24 February 2012
Quiet Gongfu
Sage Speare sat quietly under the banyan tree,
typing prose in his tablet, and sipping teh-si,
contributing to the pool of literary works.
A group of wannabes burst into the café,
waving their notebooks and paraphernalia.
Tearing other people's work into pieces,
yet scratching their heads over how to do better.
Eats shoots and leaves.
Or eats, shoots, and leaves.
Or eats shoots, and leaves.
Sage Speare knows.
Easier to tear up than to build up.
Easier to talk than to create.
Sage Speare knows well.
typing prose in his tablet, and sipping teh-si,
contributing to the pool of literary works.
A group of wannabes burst into the café,
waving their notebooks and paraphernalia.
Tearing other people's work into pieces,
yet scratching their heads over how to do better.
Eats shoots and leaves.
Or eats, shoots, and leaves.
Or eats shoots, and leaves.
Sage Speare knows.
Easier to tear up than to build up.
Easier to talk than to create.
Sage Speare knows well.
Thursday, 23 February 2012
The Linchpin
The linchpin,
so solid and strong.
The linchpin,
at the centre of it all.
Day in, day out,
the linchpin holds it all together.
The linchpin's getting old,
Replaced one day, it was.
With great confidence, they took it all over,
expecting an easy job.
One thing after another, it starts unravelling.
......
How important is a good linchpin.
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
The Shoes ain't fitting, anymore
The shoes don't fit.
Not anymore.
The soft suede, the real stuff, they're made of,
no longer treasured.
Too understated.
Gloss is in.
The old cobbler tries his best to modify the shoes.
Paint the gloss. Add a frill at the side.
Change the soles. Is the soul still there?
Not anymore.
The soft suede, the real stuff, they're made of,
no longer treasured.
Too understated.
Gloss is in.
The old cobbler tries his best to modify the shoes.
Paint the gloss. Add a frill at the side.
Change the soles. Is the soul still there?
Sunday, 12 February 2012
Saturday, 11 February 2012
Baser Instincts
Greed and lust, baser instincts that corrupt and erode.
Instincts that break and destroy.
Break and destroy far beyond the immediate circle.
Like a stone thrown into still waters,
the vibration resonates round and round,
further and further from the stone, far and wide.
The love and trust of the family,
the hopes and pride,
the responsibility and confidence entrusted.
Knocked down so easily, letting down those who believed in them..
So weak inside, though strong they had looked on the outside.
Instincts that break and destroy.
Break and destroy far beyond the immediate circle.
Like a stone thrown into still waters,
the vibration resonates round and round,
further and further from the stone, far and wide.
The love and trust of the family,
the hopes and pride,
the responsibility and confidence entrusted.
Knocked down so easily, letting down those who believed in them..
So weak inside, though strong they had looked on the outside.
Friday, 10 February 2012
The Little Hamster
The little Hamster rides the wheel,
turning it round and round, round and round.
The speed's slower these days ...
... not because the little Hamster's getting older.
No, sirree.
But because the coach says so.
turning it round and round, round and round.
The speed's slower these days ...
... not because the little Hamster's getting older.
No, sirree.
But because the coach says so.
The little Hamster turns the wheel 360 degrees everyday,
365 days of the year, every year.
Thus tis mandated that the little Hamster undergo 360 degree feedback.
3 60, 3 60, the little Hamster sings.
Slower, slower, the coach sings.
Too fast, too fast, the coach admonishes, giving the feedback of others.
Slow down, slow down, the little Hamster reminds itself,
its little heart yearning for adrenaline-flowing challenges now and then.
Be calm, be calm, the little Hamster's told.
Yes, master, the little Hamster bows,
presenting a zen-like serenity, almost like Yoda.
The little Hamster's restless ...
Sunday, 5 February 2012
The Little Sugar Cane
The little sugar cane, young and succulent, all ready to work.
The little sugar cane, stood straight and strong, waiting for work.
Together with others, sent to the juice machine.
Pressed over and over again, for their naturally sweet juice.
The little sugar cane, pressured though it was, held up under the stress,
proud of its little sugared contribution to mankind.
Over and over again, ad infinitum it seemed, they went through the juice machine.
Till every drop of juice was squeezed out of them.
Exhausted and drained, the little sugar cane and its friends laid flattened, all flat out.
No more juice to be had.
Then one last drop emerged ...
... a tiny drop ...
... a tiny drop of blood.
The little sugar cane, stood straight and strong, waiting for work.
Together with others, sent to the juice machine.
Pressed over and over again, for their naturally sweet juice.
The little sugar cane, pressured though it was, held up under the stress,
proud of its little sugared contribution to mankind.
Over and over again, ad infinitum it seemed, they went through the juice machine.
Till every drop of juice was squeezed out of them.
Exhausted and drained, the little sugar cane and its friends laid flattened, all flat out.
No more juice to be had.
Then one last drop emerged ...
... a tiny drop ...
... a tiny drop of blood.
The Peach Tart, and Days Past
The peach tart, the sugared peach as succulent as we remember.
The peach tart - the reward we usually got after hard work.
Harking back to the past, in early days of work, when the boss treated us to peach tarts from Hans nearby.
The past - when life was simpler.
Thursday, 2 February 2012
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Waiting for the Town Crier
Silence amidst the chatter of the grapevine,
a void in the air.
Waiting ...
waiting for the word.
~~~
None came. The word went elsewhere ...
~~~
The Town Crier was no more.
Withering away, slowly but surely the past few years.
The gardens by the town that he built, slowly going with him.
Leaving behind weeds and wild grass
that divided up the village,
growing a wall of barriers within and to the outside world.
~~~
The Town Crier's no more.
Cry, cry, in our hearts
for the gardens that used to be, for the vibrancy of honest info flow.
Try, try, we must,
to knock down the growing walls of isolation, of suffocating silence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a void in the air.
Waiting ...
waiting for the word.
~~~
None came. The word went elsewhere ...
~~~
The Town Crier was no more.
Withering away, slowly but surely the past few years.
The gardens by the town that he built, slowly going with him.
Leaving behind weeds and wild grass
that divided up the village,
growing a wall of barriers within and to the outside world.
~~~
The Town Crier's no more.
Cry, cry, in our hearts
for the gardens that used to be, for the vibrancy of honest info flow.
Try, try, we must,
to knock down the growing walls of isolation, of suffocating silence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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