The Poetry Marathon

Mater lies before me.

Her earthly torments ceased.

No more half-breaths to take,

Eyes closed, in peace at last.

And yet, my tears do not run,

No wellsprings of regret.

Or mourning I perceive,

This curious absence of grief.

I never listened.

I never understood.

I never empathised.

I was never a good son.

You may think me cold.

Unfeeling, ungrateful,

The heart of a beast.

Yet Mother, I mourn thee.

© 2015 Silvester Phua

A journey yet to commence,

This riotous cacophony,

Of sound and fury,

Buzzes all around me.

Jotting down half-thoughts,

Humming long forgotten songs,

My excitement is hardly contained,

For in my mind, I am already home.

© 2015 Silvester Phua

Limbs that once were limber,

Mind that once was nimble,

With youthful insouciance,

Inexhaustible energy,

And boundless enthusiasm,

I stormed through time.

Now I look in the mirror,

And it stares piteously back at me.

The lines time has sanded across,

Furrowed with decades of thoughtless concentration,

A traverse of inconsequential tracks,

My tapestry of life.

The truth can be hard to bear.

© 2015 Silvester Phua

You saw me as your little prince,

Firstborn, oldest scion, eldest grandchild,

Cosseted and spoilt,

Never in want,

Acquainted with all courtly privileges

In our fine family.

From little lullabies of derring-do,

To bedtime stories and sagas,

Where brave knights avenge the enslaved,

Slay dragons, strike fear in tyrants,

Save damsels in distress,

Heroes for all ages.

But did I ever tell you, dear nanna,

My secret wish,

To be the one that was saved,

Swooped up in his arms,

Kissed by the handsome prince,

The fair princess?

That secret wish I kept,

A door unopened,

My own counsel,

Baring none to all,

Unspoken through the years,

Never to be shared.

And today, I cradle,

My own firstborn.

With eyes of hope and innocence,

He looks to me for counsel.

What shall I read to you, my son,

Those daring tales of old?

Or do I say to him,

“To thine own self be true”?

© 2015 Silvester Phua

Bare trees green in spring.

Anniversaries that mark

Each passing season.

© 2015 Silvester Phua

Sensing me, it pauses.

Uncertain of what I will do.

But I am certain of my mercy.

With overturned pill cup and stiff card,

I trap it, carrying gently,

My little arachnid,

Out into the garden,

Releasing it to the wild.

Sensing me, it pauses.

Uncertain of what I will do.

But I am certain of my justice.

With canister of ‘Baygon’ (“Be gone!”),

I spray away, implacably.

This loathsome pest,

My chemical warfare,

Now reduced to writhing agony.

What is compassion, and justice, and mercy?

Is it what it does, or how it smells, or (shudder),

How it looks?

This is the way of the world.

© 2015 Silvester Phua

The long dark road ahead beckons.

It calls out for me.

No light to see.

Do I sense

A bitter

End?

© 2015 Silvester Phua

Back for my sophomore season in the Poetry Marathon but will be tackling just the half-marathon this year as it was really physically and mentally tough doing the full 24 last year. May the muse be with us all this weekend!

Who am I?

I hardly know.

A writer to be,

I want to grow.

To create,

And let the words flow,

And inspiration strike,

For all to show.

My poetic muse long gone,

The hard day’s labour almost done.

Yet, a craving for crepes I will sate,

Before I rest my heavy head.