Dreams of our Childhood.

Today, a little child
approached me with a big smile
and big, soulful eyes
of his innocent years.
He said hi to me,
a tired old soul
jaded by life's toils,
and struck up a conversation.

He started talking about
his grand plans for the future,
how he wanted to be
just like his father.
His words conjured up dreams
of a bold new reality
too farfetched and impossible
for the hopelessly practical world.

Yet, I was stunned
into utter speechlessness
by the boundless, expansive
imagination of a child.
Not so long ago,
Wasn't I exactly like
him with all my dreams,
and my hopes for tomorrow?

At what point in time
did we forget about everything,
that truly matters in life
for the practicalities of today?
When did we become
the jaded and numb souls
bereft of all the ideals
we treasured in our youth?

The mother comes
to collect her child now,
and as she bustles away,
I cannot help but wonder.
Is this what being a parent
is all about?
To see in every day
a new vision for the world?

Untitled Haiku

Those halcyon days
when we used to be lovers
seem like yesterday.

On The Seven-Thirty Train To Nowhere

"Doors closing,
Please stand back......"

Once again, I am returning home
from the toil of endless days,
Moving through an icon of my homeland,
A microcosm of the society I live in.

The faces are all spent. Theirs is of
a tale of life in the concrete jungle,
Saturated with fatigue is the air in the chamber,
A weariness of the city in their eyes.

The garish make-up of a woman past her prime,
A poor self-deception of one's own beauty.
The wizened old man, more bone than flesh,
A remnant of days gone by.

The office girl in her work dress,
Shouldering the weight of a hectic day.
The 'mat' in his hip-hop wear and spiked hair,
Face drawn in anticipation of weary times ahead.

A young couple cuddling by the door,
Seeking companionship in these lonely times.
A boy playing with his baby sister,
unaware of the fate waiting for them both.

All this I see, just in one walk,
down the aisles of the seven-thirty train to nowhere.
The reflection of the numbness of Singapore's people,
all hiding themselves behind masks of non-feeling.

I get off the moving museum of Singapore,
watch it depart with its exhibit of her society.
And Iwonder where they are headed for,
these hapless citizens of an uncaring reality.

There's No Saying Sorry Anymore

There are so many words I wish I could say,
so many actions I wish I could do,
so many apologies I wish I could use,
if it would only fix what I have done.

But there's no saying sorry anymore,
for it's too late, it's over, the damage is done.

And now you stare at me with spiteful eyes,
while I recoil from your icy tone,
and the cool demeanour of your shoulders,
every bit of you an accusation.

But I don't understand what I have done,
and just for that, a regret, which haunts me til now.

I remember when we used to be friends,
having our fun without a care,
but now everything has changed,
and I don't know how things got this way.

But I wish that I could turn back the clock,
if it could only, only hope, give me one more chance.

Now we have have gone our seperate ways,
and you don't know the scar you have left on me,
but then again I must deserve every bit of scorn,
every grudge you must hold in your heart.

For at this point in time,
There's no saying sorry anymore.

The Three-Week Soldier

We wake, before dawn,
bleary-eyed, spirits low,
And we rush, our time scarce,
morning exercises, to start the day.
A tasteless breakfast, then we march,
stiff and weary, herded like cattle,
sergeants screaming, timer chanting,
the steps we take, to our next ordeal.
We toil, we sweat,
we run, we pant,
we shout, throats hoarse,
heads bowed, hopes gone.
Our rifles spit, the grenades blow,
we recoil, only to be driven forth,
no time to think, no time to stop,
just rush and rush, until we fall.
We try our best, push our limits,
to do it once, to do it right,
but the slightest falter, that's it, we're gone,
guard duty strikes, our weekends lost.

It's too hard sometimes.

Why do we do this? Is there
a reason, is there a meaning,
to what we face each day? Is it
for the small patch of land
that can barely fit us all? Is it
for the embellished, over-advertised ideals
of an age long past? Or is it
for the people you call family, that
girl who possessed your heart, from whom
you left for this island of hopeless toil?

I can't answer that question,
for we are the bald ones, those fated
to act on orders without thinking,
those who are not supposed to think. So,
we can only accept our fate, take
what is our due, and stoically march on,
hoping we'll find a meaning to this someday.

Suicide

She lies there, unknowing
of the sea of humanity around her,
bathed in a pool of her own sorrow.

They gawk at the spectacle, but
do they truly understand the scene,
the last gesture of desperation?

The blue uniforms wind tape, and
they remain impassive and emotionless,
just another day at work.

And I watch and wonder, at
why did she have to diem
How badly did she hurt inside?

The crowd gawk with pity, but
while they are enthralled by her death,
do they see her tears?

Apocalypse Dawn (a warning to warmongers)

Daylight, a sickly hue sweeping over
A city of remains.

Shattered, the skeleton of a city of hope.
Jagged spears that protrude from the ground,
Pale shadows of man's achievments.

Lifeless, what had once been vibrant.
What had once been the pride of liberty,
What had once been the callsign of freedon,
What had once been the city of dreams.

Despair, is all that is left.
No more would free souls pursue their dreams,
In a sanctuary of liberty where all things were possible.
The stars in their eyes have been extinguished
In a mushroom growth of fiery power.

Folly, was what felled the arched bridge.
the lady of liberty sleeps in her watery grave,
A shining beacon forevermore lost.
Tattered and torn is the symbol of the imperial state,
The central patch of beauty stripped by hate,
The descendent of the twin giants meeting its predecessors' fate.

Death, engendered within its towers.
O! How the starting point of freedom
engineered the means for its own demise!
The means of death which stopped the second great war,
Which flew the coop to start an age of uncertainty,
To become the root of the third great war,
And finally returned to the place of its making.

The chicken has hatched,
Flown the coop,
And returned to roost.

The broken soul of the city of the dead,
A herald of the horrors of the coming days ahead.

From Men about Women (with thanks to Allan and Barbara Pease)

Me, as a man, I ask thee about women,
The eternal question of why they are so different.
'Tis strange, is the manner of the nature of Venusians,
A mystery they are to us befuddled Martians.
Why do they delight in torturing us so,
With their manner of speech that goes where the winds blows?
And why do they do things that puts our integrity at risk,
Such as loaded questions as unanswerable as, "Does my butt look fat in this?"
Why do they ask us whether we'll like to get some coffee,
Then sulk minutes later and say, "Why won't you get some for me?"
And what is it about ther mood swings that makes us take flight,
The manic-depressive episodes that makes them lik Jekyll and Hyde?
How do they stow the butter such that we men can't find it,
Then miraculously pull it out from the fridge as if by magic?
And why do they keep scolding us, "Don't take that tone with me!",
Even before we clueless men know what's going on already?
Why is it that they can see things without looking,
From the car keys in the corner to knowing when we're ogling?
And yet why can't they do other things with their god-like sight,
Such as parking a car or reading maps right?
Why di the lie-detector's inventor even bother,
When the truth-sense of all women is truly beyond wonder?
And why, when we and they get in a spat,
Do they accuse us of always this and always that?
Finally, a question which I must ask all men,
For it truly is a mind-blower that gets my mind bent,
If they women are beings so strange and so troublesome,
Why in the world do we men still love 'em?

The Unheard Voice Of An Unseen Entity

From what I see sitting here,
Big things have been happening lately.
Big men have said Big words,
making Big changes to the Big world.
Big visionaries have presented Big achievements,
while Big wars have claimed Big numbers of lives.
Big things have been happening lately,
From what I see sitting here.

Yet, why is small me sitting here?

Why is small me still stuck in this small place,
listening to these things through small talk?
Having but a small place in life,
To which small me must be content?
'Tis small wonder small me is helpless,
able to do nothing but small things.
Listening to these things through small talk,
A small me stuck in this small place.

And there's nothing to be done about that.

A Big someone has chewed out
small me for daydreaming again.
'Tis time to return to my place in life.