The Poetry Marathon

(#2/12): “The Spider And The Roach”

 

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

 

When you’re not around (hour 3)

I’m here though you are not.

I feel so empty your all I got.

This horrendous void I feel is starting to tear me apart.

Not being with you gives me knife stabbing pain directly to the heart,

I hope she is ok, in good hands, the thoughts  drive me insane.

I’m so alone and from the crippling thoughts I can’t abstain.

Dear God your not here and my life’s not the same.

You are my balance, my soul, you are the only channel thats on in my brain.

A very large part of me dies like a flower out of ground.

I miss you more than words can say when you’re not around.

Hour 3

Hunter
Who could find serenity in hunt?
Is voilence not affront?
Yet the hunter is in a peaceful balance
Between nature and its absence
You may bloody the forest floor
You may be draped in fur and more
You may stand in silence amidst whispering ripples
And a rod in hand, a bait at the end of a hook and slightly tipple
You may be a humble fisherman
You will be a hunter as long as you can

The Old Man and the Sea

What do you say to a man who lacks
the makings of the sea?

“Old man, leave me be. Salao, you.
Haven’t caught a fish in… what, 84 days?
I am young, strong, sturdy. You don’t deserve me.
I will climb a boat that smells of morning fish.
You pull a line to break it. You’re useless, old man.”

But what if I am you, old man? What if
I become salao and that big fat marlin
prances around my boat and that big fat
marlin prances around my boat until my
left hand gives in until my left hand…

I love you, old man. And now you’ve
made me cry. I promise you that we will
fish together until either of us dies. I need you,
old man. I’m practicing self-actualization.

Until that time this is to be the story
of the old man and the sea.

fishing with you

i remember going fishing with you
of all the childhood things that I’ve retained-
how you would bait my hook
knowing i would never actually touch a worm
and even though you would growl and bark about most other things
you did that without word or sigh-
then hand me the pole and help me cast it off.
I would wait with baited breath
and though no conversation was ever exchanged
(at least that I can recall)-
there was something just between us that I’ve always held dear.
You would talk to other adults that were near
giving your expertise on any subject
and i would listen-half hearing, half not-
waiting simply for the pole to bend
to show the sign of something caught.
I’d wait for the rush, for the look in your eyes
just for those moments-
though i never ever said it out loud nor under breath-
i was proud that you were my dad.

Three…

I pull one out, she pulls out two.

Our favorite man baits our hooks and grins.

I pull out one. She pulls out two.

A picture, smiling softly…drawstring hood surrounds her wrinkles as she poses heavy with fish. My fish are yellow, and they scream.

Who knew fish could cry like me?

(I miss them…)

#3 – The princess is upset

The princess is upset

She can’t stand wearing

Any single day more

She can’t stand wearing

This too heavy dress

Weighed by 12 generations’

Dramas and wars

 

A fairy comes to her

Announcing the great news

Of her pregnancy

 

In the fabric of her own dress

There is the most precious gift

A true jewel

A wonderful and shiny treasure

 

Not just one, but so many

She could never count all of them

 

She’s upset because she doesn’t know yet

That this day is the best of her life

Ever

 

She doesn’t know yet that

She will have just to dance in the garden

In the middle of the embalmed flowering trees

 

She’s upset and doesn’t smile

When she sees the musicians coming

 

But in a few minutes the music

Will enjoy the sunny garden

And make home in the sky

 

 

 

“ what was in the fabric of your dress, my dear daughter? “

 

 

Fishing

The bait is hooked on
The line is swung
with a gentle flip
out into the river.

Now we wait
and dream
and reminisce
and smile.
Happy, forlorn, grateful.

Hour three

Hour 2 — The Morning After

Early morning
I sit at the table
Groggy and hungover
from last night’s debauchery

My saintly roommate comes in
He screams “Good Morning!”
His words bounce around in my head
Painfully

I can barely look at him
The daylight blinds my sore eyes
“So, how was last night?” he enquires
I mumble, “The usual, we went around town,
drank at half a dozen places, who cares…”

My friend, a stranger to vices, looks at me
With merry wonder in his eyes, he asks —
“If you’re so miserable, why do you drink? I don’t get it.”

I look at him, the uninitiated simpleton
How would he even begin to understand
The sweet, relentless grip of temptations that call after hours
The soft moonlight’s spell, which brings out the Mr. Hyde in you
The bittersweet irony of living multiple lives

No, I decide, I wouldn’t be able to tell him
That it’s a lie vampyres can’t stand daylight