The Poetry Marathon

“I want it, I want it, I want it!”

My child’s incessant cries,

Try my nerves.

“Well, I want, I want, I want,

I turn and scream,

“You be quiet!”

Shocked into silence,

The little brat whimpers,

“I don’t want it anymore.”

In the stillness, I whisper,

My quiet apology.

“Well, that’s all I want.”

A bygone era,

Mother’s stylish fashion sense,

Rooted in the past.

Sweet red beans fluffed in

The skin’s soft sheen of texture.

What joy it brings me!

The pitter-patter of falling raindrops,

Harkens the arrival of a bounty.

The summer’s harvest of lush green crops,

In the plains of Somerset County.

The happy farmer’s cheerful jollity,

Well deserves a hearty celebration.

There is a place for joyous revelry,

That seemingly spreads across the nation.

Expectations once tempered in years past,

Can now give reign to a golden future.

Hope prevails for these good tidings to last,

What lies ahead may they always nurture.

May all their humble prayers never fail,

Happy circumstances always prevail.

Minutes, then hours.

Her winsome ways are a test.

Patiently, I wait.

When the keys are turned,

And all is silent,

Alone in darkness,

Solitary confinement,

Is an absolute solitude.

About the Esplanade,

The country’s premier arts centre,

Opinions are divided.

For seen from above,

It does resemble a giant housefly at rest,

With huge eyes open.

Curiously though,

At ground level,

With steel slats all over the glass roof,

A seeming afterthought,

Against the blazing tropical sun,

It looks more like a durian.

The popular nickname is certainly apt,

For this “King of Fruits”,

Succulent though its flesh may be,

Akin to a chemical WMD,

Its notoriously pungent aroma,

Aptly describes some of what it passes off as culture.

All is silent at midnight,

And dim is the light,

In the absence of inspiration,

Can there be any resolution,

And an end in sight?

The hesitant knocking

Disturbed his slumber.

Opening the door,

He looked at the woman.

“Can you help me?” was her plea.

“I just need someone to talk to.”

In astonishment, all he could say was,

“I’m sorry. I cannot.”

He closed the door on her tears,

Surprised at his callousness.

Recalling his decision years later,

He always wondered what became of her.

On that hot, humid night,

He walked slowly to the inn.

Halfway across the street,

He paused.

The faintest nauseating whiff

Of week-old cloying sweat,

Tinged with palpable fear.

He smiled.

And then, the slightest whisper,

Of steel being drawn

By a trembling, uncertain hand.

He grinned.

The taste of excitement

Coursed through him,

With the prospect of another duel.

He laughed.

Anticipating the side attack,

He quickly spun.

Battle-scarred sword in hand,

He thrust.

The fusillade of arrows soared down,

Spearing him instantly.

Collapsing in agony,

He died.