poetry

Dear Khao-I-Dang

Dear Khao-I-Dang,
The songs of screams
spread its wings into my memories of you,
You were barren,
Filled with teary eyes
And skeletons-
Whose wails are put to
Sleep on your orange dusty surface.
They crawled
Into your heaven, hidden amidst
bamboo and palm leaves -
They danced in your playground,
Behind corrugated walls, as they were
haunted by the scent of tin -
And their distressed voices shouted hollow woes,
Which echoed through hill tops.
I knew you,
Like a mother, you cradled me
And the rest of the roadside refugees
In a mass exodus
travelling south-east-
Towards temporary relief
Dear Khao-I-Dang
“Did we collect peace
In your place of refuge?

Nigella Damascena

There is an aging picnic in the mountain scene;
chrysanthemums surrounding the young souls,
who sleep on carnations, making daisy chains.

White silk is streaming across the long grass-
as they feast upon the chicken within their sphere.

Three Mediterranean dishes sit undisturbed
among the honeysuckle and primrose bush.

There’s no Amaryllis growing in this field-
it’s a thriving meadow of mainly lilies.
And within this field, there hides a china pink
growing hazily in the hidden periwinkle patch.

They are two vivacious hibiscus statues,
escaping like hot air in the mountain scene-
with their impermeable bamboo and checked mat.

They gather around the waterlily pond,
wearing their flax hats and daisy necklaces.

Two drops of chrysoberyl falls from them,
that makes the water trickle lightly…kindly…

They dip their bare feets between the
giant leaves and shiver frivolously…cackling…

He strums his guitar, bearing blue-eyes-
and the pleasant hymn begins within the mist.

It’s a secret breakaway into a salvaging scene;
a reality conjured by sweetly written dreams.

The food is guarded by a horde of fireflies;
as their eyes shimmer like gold and rain,
against the lilies of this mountain valley.

Take one:
there are fruits scattered on the ground,

Take two:
plates of meat are drying on the sunflower tray,

Take three:
chocolate almonds fill three glazed bowls,

Take four:
and desert is served on a china plate

Mozart’s melody plays lightly in their ears;
its a fine mood to light a picnic in the dark,
and so awakens the silence in their minds.

Secrets are revealed amid the heliotrope;
soft hands cleanse the harshness of life.

They sink within the mystical mist-
that swipes the sorrow from their lives

The insects rest as if they’ve found peace,
near these two young souls on this Sunday’s eve.

There’s no poets love in the scene tonight;
instead rests a small nest of jade butterflies.

Tradition is mocked in this mountain scene-
where worlds are mixed in this pearly haven.
And here’s where he hands her a tulip red…
and sticks a marigold in her hair

Guns can never love roses

Have you ever seen a gun marry a rose?
I witness this every day.

The silent trigger whirs and shoots the
Bullet through the anticipating cathedral
And hits home with the sound of “I do!”

However,
The wounds are hidden;
Covered by the merriment of a
Vacation in the Bahamas
And buried by the euphoric
Tides that sweep the opening retreat.
And as the curtains close on the
Maiden night of a newly-decorated home,
The damage dawns

The morning breaks with a trickle
And the thick red of a primus rose sets itself through -
As the quarrel over money
Echoes itself through the bony walls

Have you ever seen a gun marry a rose?
I see it being staged every day.

The rose is only a bud
Her white dress is dragged
Down the aisle;
Her arms clenched firmly onto her fathers
And the thorns on her stem protects her

She stares at the gun at the altar

He is dressed in black

His trigger behind his back

Then “bang!”

The noise unheard

But the pain is shown
as the rose blooms
For merely awhile –
Allowing the tourist of the Bahamas
To see the dew drops gleam
On her pretty petals,
But the residents of her hometown
Will only see the wilting flower

August the Fifteenth

A white canvas and you painted it black.
Half my face sketched in mould and chalk white-
that it glows like a penetrating streetlight.

For eight months-
I kept my voice down;
grounded like a sack filled of cocoa beans…

but I did the right thing… I waited!
while I spoke to the screen at eight pm everyday,
alone and depraved
like Te Aro fountain in the rain -

And now my computer’s broke.
It was as black as your painting;
it croaked
and always failed on me.

Just like your words…
“I miss you heaps?”
Digs deep into my wounds
like a sharp spade in dirt.
Because you missed like a sheep
attached to its herd.

And when you came home,
you watched my flower wilt
like burnt Asian silk -
when my secrets played
like wearisome decay to you.
And I felt a fool who spoke!

Guffaw

I loathe your e-mails -
your ugly tools of seduction
to keep me webbed like a fly.
You spider, you -
who came and sucked me dry.

And on August the fifteenth,
I felt my life die -
toppled like coloured dominoes -
drenched in tar or rye.

And a war surfaced in my mind
Where your words were like soldiers,
Who battled until the meaning died.

I wish I could delete you from my life,
like my black computer deleted my files.

But now I’ve paid the price for being gullible -
a shot to the heart like the side effect
of an illegal pill.

And I neglected to read the warning signs,
although plastered big and bold.
And now on my wooden bed,
I think of you…

How unexpected were these thoughts.
From august the fifteenth,
you changed,
or maybe you just started to show.

Samay’s Ode to Greener Pasture – from UNDER THE BAMBOO SHOOTS

- from under the bamboo shoots…

I journeyed here on the tin creature’s back
Its wing like an eagle’s across the night sky
My tiny feet brushed upon these white shores
Its air like perfume that drowned my worst qualms
The glistening river dazzled my eyes,
The kind sweet blue that swam fast with its tides
I sunk a little into its white mist
No fear of whether it could bring me death
I couldn’t resist! There was so much to see
Little brown girl in this land….wandering
What treasures she’ll find, and hold in her hands
In the rolling hills that make up this land

I arrived at my home, close to the sea
Its white picket fence, a sooty chimney
It’s not a palace, but it suited me
A displaced soul in her new odyssey
“You’re officially adopted!” my owners said
As they chucked me like sheep in their backseat.
I didn’t complain, I was finally here
On shores of a paradise, my own lair

Rarely get peace in my suburban home,
Often pushed to one side, and left alone
But I met a boy on the other side
Of the high red fence that concealed our cries

His name is Fred! Erick to be correct
Their family spoke the same tongue as me
They invite me over for lunch and tea
But the landlords that owned me disagreed.

Fred would say to me, “Oh why do you cry?”
I would answer back…. “I wonder the same why…”
My life was never as cherry as this…
I was a lost child, alone in the midst

I use to wander sad streets in the night
Watching the sharks grow legs and take flight
Over poor souls that lost their will to live
Torn from their homes, their histories, and kids

I was never a princess, nor a saint
My tiny scarred hands, wrinkled but quaint
I only touched and sang a lullaby
And every day, I would watch another die.

Their stories were sad, not fond memories
Of neighbours which turned into enemies
A civil war brewed from a greater plea
For greener pastures, a new place to breathe.

Now it’s people, as history has shown
Are stuck between minefields, in a pit, alone
They try to search for their sense of a home
But their bodies are weak, their spirits have gone.

Are we too selfish for running away?
And finding our feet in this greater place
While our friends, our country men are one
Step away from a voluntary grave.

That’s why when I cry! I bite my tongue
I sleep on a bed, high above the ground
My blanket is warm, my pillow puffed
And the cold floor will never be as rough

As the dirt that our parents once lived on,
Or the cracked streets from a theory gone wrong

Three years passed quickly, and ninety-eight came
A sweet princess died, we thought the world changed
She stepped out of her comfortable reign,
To help the needy, the lost, without gain

The streets poured tears across old London square
Our TV’s hot with news from everywhere –
And around the world, we stopped to mourn
An angel of hope, in a world went wrong.

Each day I would sit, inside my cold tin can
And write about an adventure in this merry land
They call it: “New Zealand,” the land of white clouds
But it seems grey inside this “senseless crowd,”

The phrase my friend used, I met her this year
A pretty girl who did not cry… or care
She would scream and shout! And protect our rights
Even though she knew, it was a futile fight

I wore white and red when I went to school,
And sat in hallways, with Ann and her crew
Teachers would tell us: “You’re lucky to be here,”
Ann answered… “That’s lovely, run along dear.”

It was during these times, I felt blessed
I had friends who served my better interests
But another war was brewing inside
Behind walls in a schoolyard, civil strife

They taunt us for our scanty eyes, and pushed
And teased in front of teacher’s eyes – who stood
And stared, a smirk across their face, without
Care or need to stop abuse that surfaced

Ann taught me to write my feelings away
She said: “I can’t help, with our laws these days.
I know this paradise is not what it seems
So much green it hides the dark cold streams…”

The gloom behind those suburban white doors
Are smeared with screams that we choose to ignore
And as I wipe the blood off my hands
I tell myself: “it’s better than before.”

No bodies float in the cold-crisp river
Or skulls and bones in its deep blue lakes
No memories of a war, whatsoever
Just the dark, peaceful, suburban landscape

I saw the city when he plunged into black
And missed the lights that sparkled through the sea
The man at church said: “It’s the devil’s work,”
But the news report said: “Dead cables lurked!”

I asked him: “Sir! Does the devil cause wars?”
He said: “Oh no dear! It’s cause by our greed,
our need to want, and want, our selfish deeds!”

Was I selfish for wanting some justice?
Some peace inside this “peaceful” paradise!
But they tell me: “You should be grateful!
Not everyone has this opportunity.”

And as the year draws to a close, we hear
The first apology: “I’m sorry for
Genocide, the pain I’ve caused my country…”

I wonder whether I can journey back
My sweet family could be waiting for me
I’ll join them beyond its harsh killing fields
On the tin creature that flies overseas

But that has now become a tasteless dream

In ninety-nine, I tried to escape
I only managed to make the front lawn
A shot in my heart told me: “It’s too late,
You better say put, or trouble will loom.”
I know my friends will try to rescue me,
But if they get caught, I’d surely die, so
I’ll sit on these leaves, under the autumn
Sky – dreaming of a place where I can be
In a valley where the rain never falls
And warm rivers flow with novel fresh food,
And I’ll keep to my livestock tenderly

a thousand years, a new age dawn, they painted
An image of death, destruction and fear -
An oversight of digital time, will plunged
Our world into anarchy, but we are fine
We faced another shock horror instead,
The voice of our teachers, our wise owls’ heads
They decide our future with their rulings
In class, regardless of whether they think
We should pass. A system that’s left to their
Discretion, to rule without bigotry
But as history goes, there will never be…
A day where we will have an impartial
View, because we are all different, at school.

Then one day when the clock struck half past 10.
Our story continues in present tense.