Tag: Liu Kang

THE BENCH

The melodious magpie on the bamboo twig --
the passing breeze welcomed the chirping. 
Sitting on a dilapidated wooden bench, 
under the thick canopy of the mango tree, 
village folks rested in the shade, 
calming the tremors of troubled hearts.
The hardship evident in the sighs, 
still hopeful of tomorrow’s dreams, 
drying the sweat of weariness. 
Honest earnings chased away worries.
A pinch on the thigh, a cry of pain. 
Laughter and jokes were shared merrily, 
teasing the maiden sitting by the door, 
smiling sheepishly, welcoming attention.
Recollecting a slice of an old tale, 
fun and camaraderie were reminisced, 
firm and amicable bonds were fostered.
It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory.
Now alone in a room, 
gazing at the handphone screen, 
chatting aimlessly in social media— 
do we remember and long for the dilapidated bench, 
crafting old tales, forging firm and amicable bonds?
Do we remember and pine 
for the maiden sitting by the door?



CUSTOMS

Customs are not like banana fritters 
coated with rice flour, dipped in hot oil, 
served instantly, crispy and delicious, eaten warm, 
accompanied by sips from a cup of black coffee.
Customs are like rain 
that falls on the whims of the weather. 
It’s always there, although infrequent, 
temperamental and purposeful, 
sometimes an inconvenience— plans thwarted— 
but always invigorating 
and instils a sense of acceptance.
If received with gratitude, 
directed with perseverance, 
and tempered with wisdom.
Life is beautiful with droplets of grace. 
Life is fertile with the pouring of bounties. 
Life is prosperous with love bestowed.
Customs make the earth supple. 
Customs make the village noble. 
Customs make a people well-mannered.
Once in a while, 
relish a crispy banana fritter 
and sip warm black coffee 
while it rains cats and dogs. 
Momentary disruption of plans, 
the alleys and roads flooded— 
moments of reflection, 
moments of appreciation for the day,
is inherent in droplets of grace, 
inherent in the pouring of bounties, 
inherent in love bestowed.
Shifting of time and signs 
the soil is tilled with purpose. 
The village gathers and collectively agrees, 
the people ready to realise 
aspirations of good character 
and respected stature.



SMOKE

Like smoke billowing amidst rubbish, 
he burns his self-worth, 
dances in the flames, 
when the fire is meant 
to warm breakfast and meals to school.
Now like smoke, 
his children are floating, 
begging for favours 
at tips of cigarettes and cars’ exhaust pipes, 
crushed by confusion in the stifling air.
Who would be hungry 
if the smoke does not billow in the kitchen, 
and for generations, 
our humanity returns uncooked to God?



CURSE OF A WARRIOR

Hail the snake and its venom! 
Call it a callous and rebellious act! 
Shame be endured, 
head decapitated! 
Surrender not, carry the corpse! 
Foolish is the mind, 
desperate are the moves.
Let death fulfil the curses. 
Let death be executed by the Angel. 
Destroy my body, take my soul. 
The wooden club hit the coffin. 
Pierce my tongue and neck. 
Stab my chest, guts dis-embowelled. 
Blood spurts, life departs.
The warrior kisses the earth. 
Blood turns into pus. 
Pus turns into ambers of Hell.
Let me die so you die. 
Let us die so everyone dies.
I give you my sin, my hurt, my sadness. 
You’ll bathe in blood.