The Little Wooden Heart

A little hurt,
A little bruise,
The little wooden heart feels.
Like a war-beaten horseshoe,
Discarded,
After valiant battles.
Like a war-beaten horse itself,
Set aside,
After many a valiant battle,
All fought fearlessly.

But switch to the Pollyanna mode …
The little wooden heart
Nestles in a temp shelter, at least.
With friends who care,
Friends who share their little somethings.

The little wooden heart,
A little hurt,
A little hopeful.

The Farm

The Farm
A cosy place of living creatures,
Animals of various shapes and sizes,
Of diverse capabilities and strengths,
Living in harmony together.

The Farmer built and nurtured it,
Day after day,
Month after month,
Year after year.

As he left for the mountains,
In search of a Different Perspective Potion,
Entrusted the farm, he did, to a close friend.
Like a baby to trusted nanny.

Days passed,
Into months.
Some creatures mutated.
Some went to the dark side.
Harmony in diversity eroded,
And shattered,
Like a mirror broken by forceful stones.

Weeds, crows took over the Farm.
Even vulture-like creatures too.
Neighbourly ties broken,
Relations with the local grocer set aside.

Up went the walls,
With barbs.
Inside training all day long,
To prepare for going on crusade.
The Farm, now a military camp.

The Farm's no more.
Reduced to ashes in spirit,
Feelings crushed,  morale deadened,
Years of nurture eroded.

The Hand

The Hand,
The outreached Hand.

Of news, good and bad.
Of promises, with expectations managed.
Can the Hand be trusted?

Memories of working together,
Aligned in spirit and mission.
Surely the Hand is true?

Yet, just yet,
Murmurs of unfathomable action,
Murmurs of uncharacteristic treatment.
Can this be the Hand?

The outreached Hand, can it be taken?
Or would one plunge into a whirlpool
Of no return?

Oh, the Hand.
Can we trust thee?

Babies without the Hunger

The babies in the nursery,
So cute, so adorable.
Yet so different.

Hunger a common driver,
Yet some more driven than others.
Some stretch their tiny hands
In search of milk.
Others less active, wailing for their mummy express.

Hunger a driver of initiative.
Hunger bestows ownership.

Without ownership, where can there be initiative.
Others will do it.
It's not my project.

Parent Express will settle it.

Disappointing inaction.
The heart sinks.

The Corps de Cuisine

The corps, now far and wide,
Islandwide and some overseas too.
A humble start
In a historic building, now a national heritage.

The early corps, from humble beginnings,
But with deep skills,
From Western to Asian, and variations in between.
Cuisine of all types, of all complexities.
From the basic crust, to the ingredients, freshly handmade.

Now spread far and wide,
Hobnobbing with kings.
Well dressed, articulate and confident.
Beautiful pastry roll off their pins,
Aroma from their ovens.

Behind the scenes ...
The pastry, crust from supermarket,
Mousse ready-made from upmarket bakery.
All put together, like pieces of jigsaw puzzle,
A beautiful end product.

A beautiful shell.

 

The 10th Birthday

John marked a date in his diary.

Purposefully.  With anticipation.

It's his 10^th birthday.

A milestone year for a kid.

 

With satisfaction he looked around him.

The lego sets he has built over the years.

The houses, the farms, the trees and even waterways.

Piece by piece, he put the lego pieces together.

Group by group, individual by individual,

He brought them in to build together.

 

On his 10^th birthday,

He would have a party with all these friends.

And celebrate what they have built.

And plan what else to build.

And so he busy around, planning in anticipation.

 

A stone's throw away,

In a house with perpetually closed curtains,

A plot was hatching.

A plan was brewing, to take over John's legoland.

And turn it into nogoland…

A plot to conquer and change.

Out goes the trusted butlers,

A strange army entering in their place.

 

John doesn't know what awaits him …

Adding Friends

A small group,  

Working under intense pressure,

Working under tight timeliness.

As we parted ways, 

Let's keep in touch, we say. 

Online,  some of you connect. 

Perhaps one's the odd one out. 

Kept out of the circle. 

One's the unseen hand, 

To help support the bid for higher office. 

But then,  unseen is unseen. 

Done because it's right. 

Perhaps one's not seen as important to connect with after all. 

And we've parted ways. Completely. 

A Fall too many

A fall. And two "ba lu ku".

Quickly apply the ice pack to contain them. 

Another fall.  And another. 

Some more serious than the rest. 

Then another. 

More serious than the rest. 

Trauma to the brain,  blood clots all around. 

Fight,  fight it!

Stabilising now. 

But we must not slacken. 

Continue the fight. 

To regain normalcy. 

Up, and ...

Come, use your strength, climb up.

They tell the little ones. 

Come, work hard, another step. 

They say.

And so up and up, the little ones climb.

Happy with each step. 

Feeling more accomplished with each step. 

Friends and family applaud each step. 

Then to the penultimate step.

A narrower step. 

Step down,  the little ones are told. 

Step down!  No place for you,  the little ones are told.  

The little ones stood.  And wondered.  In bewilderment. 

Blue Skies on a Tuesday

Blue skies above
as the human traffic floods the public transport and the roads.

In the anonymity of the crowds,
one boards the bus
with a light heart and
the aroma of freshly baked bread in the bag.