Ghosts in city lights

Perhaps words
are people
with bipolar disorder;
now they are dying to be said
when we are all living to die;
the manic meandering
through lost fields of coherence

then, moments later,
not looking too wise
nor frightfully fearless
- they are here to stay

and yet they lie in wait
still they stand in line
to traverse the sky
side by side
on another day

51

The thing about birthdays is, time
- in all its fleetingness - heaves to a halt
and stops to smile; an aesthete pausing
to admire a painting in a museum of
memories we hold onto by the string of
a kite performing pirouettes in the weighty air.

Birthdays are, to too many people,
a lesson in the art of appreciating the ones
we too often fail to appreciate;
celebrating the triumphs
we too often sour with defeats.

But you can't do justice to a cup of ice lemon tea
without a piece of lemon.

.

Your birthday bash will be back at the Kallang this year - I hope
you still remember those times, even if
it's now a dome that we can't really call a
home; an architectural feat to behold, yet
one without a
soul
Is the grass greener there?

Tonight we shall sing for you,
all 5 million of us, and
25 in Brazil will wonder
who will sing for them. They will

run, jump and fight

for you

They may even watch you - yes,
you and your birthday bash, but
you will not watch them.
They may be in Rio
but there is to be no Redeeming.

You're in a mid-life crisis.
An ecosystem of tastes, ebbing
away - you see, it takes more than
six letters to spell 'hawker'.
A heartland wonderland, where
kids come and play - football
and catching into the dark of day.
But it is no more; today you build barriers
yesterday it was the railings
- how long before you stop
voiding the void in our decks?

I'd like to think that when we age
we leave a part of ourselves behind -
a morsel of the birthday cake
left uneaten, a crumb
carried away by the ants
into holes we cannot see,
spaces we cannot enter.

You're still the same, yet not
quite the same; you're a flapping bird
in an endless game. You try to paint
your feathers here and there:
a ferris wheel, a casino,
and the lavish marriage of nature
and the man-made, where trees
can feel more super than they already
are. Lewis Hamilton will tear the streets. Some
even say you've put on a short skirt and bought
a pair of Oakleys you thought you'd look
good in. But what if I told you that
it's okay to grey, that when the tides
come in and the Merlion has had
its laugh, I don't expect to see a
fifteen-minute fireworks display.
What if I told you that it's actually a pity
that people come from all over the world, and
they board the Flyer, as if they can
see the real you from up there. All I'm saying is,
don't try to be something
you are
naught.

And I know I'll grumble, l'll tempt -

no, test

the line your Father drew in the

Changi sand. I'll curse myself for 

knowing you, for writing to you at all. But

I also know that when all is said and done,

that when the bright lights and awe-ful
sights have had their say, you are still
that crescent moon that follows me in the car.

In a chorus of 'lahs' and 'lehs' I find the you
I know - not a hipster hyperbole but a
no-nonsense nanny
not a H&M human Christmas tree but a
discount-preying
4D-praying
parking coupon-strategising
queue-curious
bee hoon loon on
a daily prescription of Yakult.

You are the number one of
number ones
or at least you try to be;
fyi, NUS is top in Asia,
which is, frankly, not surprising, given
their avant-garde orientation camps.
On to the more obscene,
let's see whose neighbourhood can
put up the most flags.

Speaking of flags - you are the
commuter-harassing
tin can-juggling
uniformed student
with the kempt haircut
and "non-striking" shoes - that is,
if there's a good reason it's called "Flag Day"
and shoes could actually go on strike.
(SMRT can help with that)

Like all middle-aged souls
you are desperately trying to find
yours, only,
you don't have to.
You don't have to identify
your identity or define
what defines you
because you just are.

Alpinists never use the word 'conquer'
so please don't climb the mountain to get
to the top
climb it
because it is there.

You may have put on shades.
You may have dyed your hair.
But
You are still that crescent moon that follows me in the car.
Only a slender crescent, yet
ever so
whole.

--
First time writing in free verse on here so please let me know what you think...

P.S. Sorry, the stanza on Team Singapore at the Rio Olympics was written before Mediacorp announced its last-minute deal with rights holders to broadcast the Games 'live'.

Silent and sure

A congregation in constellation

Faithful and far

The world an endless question

Under a sky full of stars.

--

I grew up on 'Calvin and Hobbes' but it never gets old because Bill Watterson was always presently futuristic.

Across the Causeway

I know night and day, and
I also know black and white, heck
I even know of,
"the dying of the light."

But here I am a headscarf,
coming into view,
and covering all the parts,
of the things I thought I knew.

I am visiting my neighbour
(she's fifty-nine this year)
and now that I'm on her turf,
I find her kind of queer.

A world away
Across the Causeway
I know now for sure
This is a world
a way.

Bishan Street 24, at a coffeeshop for Sundays

Teh-tarik mornings chalked in fine print
Condensed worldwide wisdom (or lack thereof)
Soft-boiled sentences and runny lines
Bread-and-butter, matters that matter,
Hail,
The life of a dying newspaper.

Louis Armstrong thinks to himself...

The Earth is weeping.

The Earth is weeping because she shivers on a summer's day in June, a warm afternoon, yet cold as the touch of frost; Frost, who once lamented, "and miles to go before I sleep."

The Earth weeps.

The Earth weeps because her residents are too busy to be humans; too busy firing and wiring weapons, too busy fighting for peace. Fighting. For peace. That's why we drop bombs on people who dropped bombs on us.

The Earth weeps because her inhabitants are too deep in debate to be deep in thought; too obsessed about who you should be allowed to love to actually love; too busy flattering the ones that "matter" to praise the Earth's quaint hills and luscious gardens, to look up at the sky and exclaim, "How nice."

The Earth weeps because these days, "niceness" is defined by one's acts of compassion and courtesy, as if one must "go the extra mile" to be a human being; as if it's not in us to do the right thing; as if we don't expect that of ourselves.

The Earth weeps because she realises she can't expect that, not when her world has descended into a wintry picture of its former self. Hatred has grabbed her by the collar; Heartlessness has poached her heart; Grief, well, Grief couldn't even look her in the eye.

The Earth gently weeps, for her beings are no longer being and the living are no longer live.

The Earth is weeping, but it's all just a teardrop

in someone else's ocean.

--
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xsP-J_-rv8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3yCcXgbKrE

A full void

The voices, they boom, and
I daren't call it noise
for they speak in tones of grandeur,
as if to portend their own
importance.

I can never quite understand,
how words can shoot like rockets,
how
they can seem to swallow each other up
- an hourglass choking itself.

My words, they glide on paper.
My thoughts, they float in mind.
That is not to say
I have nothing
to say
for this is just my kind.

Guffawing may be a thing,
but to me it's not worthwhile,
and when all break into hearty cheer
the most I can manage
is a smile.

The quiet, we are 'cold' souls
accused of nonchalance.
If only they knew
just how much
we knew
while not part of common parlance.

Sometimes I think they'll never know
(like a moon that can never know the sun)
the longing to speak with -
not to
- someone.

It's me, not to be loud,
And I'm pretty sure
that's
allowed.

--

Author's note: I think for many, silence is seen as a void - a gaping hole in a world of buzz and chatter - but for the quiet,  I think it makes the world whole.