The Poetry Marathon

(Hour 13) 10.30-11.30am — #65 “Old age pension”

#65

The end of entitlement, or how to get a Newstart in life
the wisdom of Treasurer Joe Hockey on how to work the system

despite industrialisation taking jobs away &/or offshore
our beloved bumbler, believes we should now all work
til we’re 70 before becoming eligible for the age pension
free visits to a doctor, free welfare — no such thing
it’s a safety net, not a cargo net, unless you’re a whale

so here’s some steps to get ahead courtesy of Count Flappy

1. (obviously) don’t get sick, or if you must, don’t visit your GP

2. if you’re poor, don’t drive cars (that’ll save you plenty)

then all you have to do is

3.
get a good job that pays good money
in order to buy your first home

a politician is a pretty good one (if you’re up for it)
then you can charge taxpayers $1000 a month
to sleep in your wife’s $2 million home

Here endeth the lesson.

(Except no doubt Mr Millipede
will put yet another gaffe prone foot
in his mouth again, within a week)

#32. Whoop-de-do!

Hour 13–In Case the Bees

In case the bees should fail to please

I read in garden pamphlet

Could I Q-tip or tease

take the place of bees

in the fertilization process

Tomato blossoms

would never fruit

unless the pollen boys

could take root

in receptive female parts

so janes and joes were introduced

by means of gentle jiggling

with a little help

from this instigator

distinctly non-winged pollinator

a wondrous haul we made

that summer

no dumber

beginner’s luck than mine

Tomatoes galore

 

Eyesight

-Knowing when to let go it’s tricky
But the signs are always there. It’s important to recognize when they need the space to grow and also allow them to know the when they staring their journey we are always there. Let them know that it’s ok to fall, the whats matters it’s getting back up. Your child journey would always find their way Home.
—Marquez Meriyen. VII

Box (13)

I am having a superlatively
hard time looking at the
house we chose, knowing
it is no longer my house, that
it will never be my home.

I am awkward, a guest,
an interloper into the life
you are building, choices
push us apart, then forward
on separate paths.

I sob, catching in my throat
the “Stop – NO!” that wants
to leap forth as I drive away,
my possessions block the rearview,
I cannot say good-bye.

(#8/12): “Death Of A Founding Father”

 

His temper was legendary.

No fools he gladly suffered,

Nor tolerated, frivolity,

Despised by many, feared by most,

His word was law.

 

The colonial master unshackled,

The ablest of men by his side,

A master plan envisioned,

Single-mindedly executed,

Our nation shaped accordingly.

 

A half-century on,

Of “peace, prosperity, and progress”,

From “Third World To First”;

Much envied in the region,

This ‘Little Red Dot’.

 

Yet on this eve of ‘SG50’,

A departure untimely,

His people unready,

The nation mourns truly,

Our founding father Harry.

 

Now the murmurs of discontent,

Grow ever resoundingly,

His shadow hangs heavy,

His legacy unsteady.

So where do we go from here?

 

© 2015 Silvester Phua

 

The road less travelled

The fork in the road

The decision in life.

Each individual

but all divisible

to the common

denomination

of the fork.

 

You know your decision brother.

The risk of one road,

the reward of the other.

Maybe in your case

safer is better.

Risk not worth taking.

Too much danger.

 

Chances are it isn’t so.

Chances regretted most

being chances not taken.

To follow your heart

is the thing to do

and the road less travelled

is the road for you.

 

WYSIWYG

WYSIWYG: it goes beyond
Discussion of computer fonts,
And colour-palette editing:
There’s WYSIWYG in many things.

That boy that passed you in the street;
A charmer, nicest guy you’ll meet,
Or else a thug of darkest kind,
Based on what you expect to find.

The lady sitting in the park:
Mad biddy, or a right good laugh?
The children laughing as they play,
Hooligans, or just OK?

For What You See Is What You Get,
Depending on what you expect.

The Day We Pulled the House Down #12/24

The Day We Pulled the House Down

Dad had purchased the lot next door
and the weak old house that set on it.
Old neighbor Annie had lived there
and left her pieces of memories behind.
We combed the forgotten place and
found what we thought were treasures.
Two small green bottles with aged labels.
One for me and one for you.
Keepsakes of a day we’d remember
with vivid detail like a video loop
that repeats for an eternity in the mind.
We were all there, the family.
Dad, mom, all three siblings.
Dad and brother securing the thick rope
around the home and to the truck.
The truck’s grunting and pulling
until the house seemed to go up
in a puff of smoke, but it was dirt
and the house was falling,
folding in on itself like an unnatural bloom.
Five of us watched it die a loud dirty
long unsettling human-like death.
It left us each shaken in some odd way.
We couldn’t know then that it was a metaphor
for what can happen to regular people
like us in the huge crap game called life.
Our family became a house of abandoned
rooms, cobwebs hanging in dark corners.
Someone took all the trinkets we left there.
Nothing was costly; just precious to us.
It didn’t even feel like home anymore.
Then the house that was home was pulled
by the thick rope that surrounded it.
The foundation crumbled in surrender
and the walls gave up the good fight
It fell with the cry of a valiant, but tired soldier.
We all shed tears as we watched it happen.

Now, home is not a place we can go
by taking a particular road or certain turn.
But the house of the mind has countless rooms
full of lovely things to smile about.

#13 – The joy explosion

The joy explosion

Is at the end of the road

That never ends

 

Everybody knows

But nobody says it

We all keep walking

 

And even we run

To reach the end

To reach the explosion

 

The bliss of this deflagration

Is gently rubbing your toes

And your siblings nose

 

You are in the land

Where nobody ever

Comes back from

 

You are on the sand

Of the last beach

You’ll see in your life

 

No, you are not about to die

That would be too easy

For all the shits you did

 

No, you’re going to go to jail

For half of your life

Until you die, exhausted

 

Nobody can change it

You know, justice has given

The verdict about your deed

 

You’re going to rot on your feet

In your stinky cell, lonely

And forgotten by all

 

Nobody can change it

Even your angels let you down

And all your hopes drowned

 

In the deep giant ocean

No chance of any explosion

And not even a road to pretend

 

The joy explosion

Is at the end of the road

That never ends

 

Everybody knows

But nobody says it

We all keep walking

 

And even we run

To reach the end

To reach the explosion

 

 

 

 

 

 

final poem!! (poem #12) ~

I come from suitcases
from generations (three) of packing tape
lately book boxes from UTotem
filled with the detritus of a dissertation
Each move a chance to clean house
begin a new life unencumbered
a nautilus w/out her chambered shell
I am throwing away my childhood
the early years of love & marriage
stitched into linens from Hong Kong
teapots from Korea
and bronzeware from another life
Flipping to another page within a book
I haven’t written yet
the story of a woman and a man
and someone else’s baby
I tell myself:
It’s only one more time
One more house to make a home
One more map to learn
And one more utter dislocation
You’d think I would adapt
but something there is that doesn’t love
this kind of change
the suitcases the boxes the move
the goodbyes and the distances
that feel a bit like deaths
and send me in to mourning