Remembering You
Roses are red, violets are blue
Every flower reminds me of you.
The petals of your blooming gown
With a hem like a leaf’s blade so sharp,
The thorny stabs have never healed.
I sense you in every corner, every moment
You’ve spread and left your trace like ragweed –
Weeds, they plant themselves in undesirable places
Persistent, pernicious, interfering.
I sneeze when I think you are close but every wheeze
Brings me further away from your scent
Honeyed and bittersweet is the aftertaste of when I last left you.
Dreams of the Past
I have been suffering from clinomania for three years.
Three years ago, coincidentally the last time I slept in
On sweltering Saturday mornings.
Sunny-side ups for brunch on kopitiam chairs
Are things of the past for now, I scarf down
Surds and logarithms, going drunk on
Kopi C Gau to drown my equations in.
The sixth school day is mere noctambulism –
Dreaming of but never achieving my well-deserved
Rest and MSG One Point Zeroes.
(Both were more attainable, three years ago.)
Mr Toad: A Childhood Story
Where the wind blows in the willows there lives a toad
Mr Toad, as he would like to be addressed.
He has appeared in not only Alastair’s bedtime stories
For he is still plump in my seven-year-old mind,
Where we share the same childish obsessions of
Motorcars, caravans, and aimless fun.
Mr Toad is now a hundred and nine years old
If you counted his warts, I think you would know.
But that does not halt me from going back home
To Toad Hall and the anthropomorphic zone.
No comments:
Post a Comment