AhA,
significant dae to suddenly publish a blog again, after a what, 6 month hiatus???? that's crazy, some may sae, in todae's hi-tec, wi-fi, neterrifying world of cyberspeed.

yup 6 mths have just zipped by lidat...lotsa significant tings have happened, a BIG pity i havent had time to jot em down. perhaps a blog is realie the most convenient way to pen it down like a diary; it's been extremely hard dor me to craft both drifting emotions and fiery feelings into so-called poems...that partly explains the hiatus.

Yes yes, todae is 3rd anniversary of that much-publicised terrorist kawabunga that shook the ol' cowboy up. All i realie hope for is that nothing much of copycat incidents or other terror acts will occur all around the world todae...especially now with my dear brother in UPenn and beloved teacher Mr Lim in New York!

Well it may sound childish that i still prayed for world peace yesternite on my bed in the bunk, yet i almost never fail to do it on nites when a terror incident is fresh on my mind....what with the recent bombing of Aussie embassy in Jakarta....hiyaz. Sometimes i dunt mind being childish n retreatring to my own small little world and space, take a step back in life n try to look at tings simply, thru the eyes of a child....

okie enaf, the sardonic, melancholic n sadistic john didnt like get possessed or anything....just feel an urge to express this softer side that sometimes props up...yet revealed to few...

Robert Frost: The Man and His Work - 1923

"Sometimes I have my doubts of words altogether, and I ask myself what is the place of them. They are worse than nothing unless they do something; unless they amount to deeds, as in ultimatums or battle-cries. They must be flat and final like the show-down in poker, from which there is no appeal.

My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that become deeds."

"All poetry is a reproduction of the tones of actual speech."

"There are two types of relists: the one who offers a good deal of dirt with his potato to show that it is a real one, and the one who is satisfied with the potato brushed clean. I'm inclined to be the second kind. To me, the thing that art does for life is to clean it, to strip it to form"

"A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a home-sickness or a love-sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment.

A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the words."

We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints; we spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less

We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time; we have more degrees, but less common sense; more knowledge, but less judgement; more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness

We spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too seldom, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom

We have multiplied our possesions, but reduced our values

We talk too much, listen so too seldom, love too little and lie too often

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life; we've added more years to life, not life to years

We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but have less communication; we've become long on quantity, but short on quality

We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbour

We've conquered outer space, but not inner space; we've done larger things, but not better things; we've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul; we've split the atom, but not our prejudice; we write more, but learn less; plan more, but accomplish less

We've learned to rush, but not to wait; we have higher incomes; but lower morals; more food but less appeasement; more acquaintances, but fewer friends; more effort but less success

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion; tall men and short character; steep profits, and shallow relationships

These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare; more leisure and less fun;more kinds of food, but less nutrition. these are days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but broken homes

These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one-night stands, oveerweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill

It is a time when there is much in the shop window, and nothing in the stockroom

Indeed it's all true. think about it. read it again.

-written by anonymous

Maybe Baby

Yet if i should play this game
again
It must be by a challenge

I guess i've seen enough of this
game
I should know the basic rules

But unlike investments, these
returns
May not be clear or even tangible

But i'd only play with my
heart
Not much of my head

Ah, that's where i got
check-mated
Perhaps

Yet if i should play this game
again
It must be by another way

Flowers are nice to have
Yet
It passes like the weather

I'm the insecure type who
loves
to live in a house of bricks

Maybe i can plant
Flowers
But never trust to sleep on their bed

Ah maybe this door hasn't
Closed
Yet; i'm still feeling strange

But this door holds only a
Furnace
Whenever i look back

I hope i don't knock at a
monastery
Nor scorn at such a beautiful notion

Some people live only for such a
notion
A presumed symbol of peace, happiness

But what if God is a big
Chicken
Oh i wouldn't want to break that to them

Some say that's what really makes the
world
Go round, not money

Well i never believed in money
but
Maybe now not even Honey

Maybe Barney is good enough for
me
At least he always tries to be funny

Yet if i should play this game
again
It must be by a miracle

Sleepless in shuttle

Find it hard to sleep tonight
Can't quite tell the worm inside
Holding my bolster, squeezing it tight
I wonder why ther's no moonlight

This night the wine was ripe
I only feared to meet with snide
Though no one seemed to take a side
Least i've nothing more to hide

This small step i've taken to fight
These queasy notions that are stuck inside
I hope will make me crawl again
And one day master this cruel game

Yet for now i trot this milky way
this space, this world, his murky place
I choke on dust and watch the world go by
Stars born, stars die, i've got starry eyes

I'm getting incomprehensible
A galaxy on asthma
Inhaling whole systems
Vomiting asteroids at times

Though i can't see you, Sun
I hope you'll always be there
Tirelessly, selflessly giving up yourself
For all life, for unconditional love

Supernova

Light sears my eyes tearing through my vice
White, black spots, specks fingertips probe and scratch
Around a wall of love, static stasis
Rules my palace i shut my lids and pray
Struggling against the placental bubble
I long for that which never came as near
Red vial of manna my Cup to drink
Ah Abba, how wouldst thou show thy fury?
I must see the light of day, guilt stabs me
I will do it my way, something tells me
To emerge for air and rise a phoenix
Or sweeten my buds in hell i immolate
i shall stem the flood and hold Atlas' load
Will fossil him to serve no one but You

SPIRIT

I am but as strong as the
sunshine that strengthens me
Ra is my god and no other
gods can replace my jealous God

When clouds threaten, i
f a d e a w a y
When storms clash, i
sburmgue

There are many other gods
But none is as worthy as mine
Though ignorance does not
warrant rejection
Faith in my God is what i have
And only have and will hang on to

Even if one day my God spurns me
I am unperturbed for the God in me
Is alive in grandeur though it
might very well be a pagan farce
or dead in reality

Realism Pragmatism
Ah WATEVA

My castle is decked with flowers
And a lily dias reserved for my
one and only God
Who is welcome to resume the throne
of glory, finger-kissed by thy
humble servant

The Amazon

Blue, white, a fluffy mix
White contrails disperse to reveal
An undiscovered land
Untouched even by the natives
Who squat around it
Oblivious of its grandeur and majesty
Yet the balloonist is superficial

Deep in the heart of the Amazon
Lie dark and murky stories
Of fire-spewing dragons,
Of moving mud serpents

The interior is damp
the soil is hostile
The birds of prey screech and circle
Over the unkeen explorer

Roots ensnare, vines entangle
Every breath taken seems a little harder
Each gasp a little louder

Til one realises he's not alone
Even in this wilderness
An overturning of the soil only reveals
another muddle that is
inexplicable, inhospitable

Rifles and muskets must have targets
Yet this insiduous enemy is unseen
It repels intruders, invaders alike
Its territory a veiled virgin
The outside world is not of his type
This musky world is of his and only his

NOTHING MUCH

The sky with no clouds
The sun with no rays
The air with no wind
The sea without waves

A bird with no wings
A boy lost at play
An eye with no sparkle
A night without day

Sorrow wihout tears
Emotions in the sway
Tide after tide threaten
Will they go away?

Memory with no photos
When all was still OK
Now the truth is gnawing
In this state I stay

BATTLE WEARY

I soared above the mountains high
I plucked the stars and sparks of nigh
Yet now I flutter on fettered wings
The wind beneath stilled

Crash-landed on the moon
Devoid of sustenance
Empty at the core

Emptied

Where is the next filling station
That ttempts to replace my
Fountain of Youth?

I must rest and eat as Job
To be battle-ready for the next
Craggy Corner I may land

Yet the logger needs an oak to lie on,
the birds, nests
I stumble in the savanna,
My staff a hissing snake

BALLOON

Inflatable, excitable
Bloated bladder
Pumped by imagination
And hope which the human
Spirit lives on

In cicuses, fairs
I keep smiles on faces
I have a smiling face drawn
Yet I'm a mixture inside

Pricked a little here and there
Left alone after playtime
I shrink in a quiet corner
Slowly, living out my death
I am but empty inside
Sustained by random particles
Observing an unseen force
I am but a balloon

NIGHT (Adapted and translated)

Night.
A conflagration of emotions
My inner spirit exlaims to the ends
A futile cry to her head
That shall never turn again

Night.
I choke with regrets and pining
The phone craves to come alive
Yet the bridge of trust has already sunk

Night.
When ghouls and spirits linger
Life's reality is just as stark to them
A withered flower needs no grooming

Night.
It extincts just like this
Winds of fate have swept me off my feet
My world fades into reality

Night.
A spiritless period.

MIXED

What's the difference between dreams and
reality?
One lives out the impossible while the other
is an imposssible way of living.

Swept beneath the tides of time,
I become history
I feel myself changing; an unhalting process

When i descend into slumber, as if
Gargoyles' eyes lit with brimstone shimmer
At the strike of twelve
I prowl the empty city streets
Taking from dawn til dusk to decipher
What my senses try to deceive
From what emotive reality i perceive
The face so close to touch, so radiant,
Yet the cold glass offers only a rude shock
A cruel divide it is, but perhaps only to me.

THE SUN

Rises, destroying Cupid that wastes away as night fades
Signals to all life to live again
Its long slender arms extend, engulf
Man with searing sight, removing blight
Yet the sun is lonely, the world has
No space for another. Crystal balls
Scintillating with reflections of itself,
It sees no other for it gives sight.
It is dying to give life, it is but
a candle. Its love is great
And all-encompassing and
craves no praise

LAIF

Half-dead, living dead
This thread of light flickers
Swaying in the elements
Which punish the feeble and naive
Mocking the castle of love.
I weep not for life
Which i have not.
Nose pressed against this incubator of life
The sheets do not provide warmth
But threaten to expose lies
Which keep me alive.
I am a ticking time-bomb, red or white
It doesn't matter, i cough and sputter;
Defuse me quick if you can't stop time
Else i shall prove disaster