Running Still...Like a Child?

My thoughts running

A myriad thoughts flashing
no particular direction
some are crystal clear
most are blurred and confusing
'tis like a journey into unknown
sadness wells up when a familiar face appears
but all is lonely and questioning
among crowds of strange people
and nameless ones

I wake up in a daze
not knowing reality from a dream
what journey am I embarked on?
It's a journey running
Still.

The above poem was composed one afternonon quite long ago when I think my memory of
certain events was confused and unkind. Some of those incidents in life that one would, if one could, have liked to wish away.

On such misty modes when you can't see the surrouns clearly, and one loses directions in moving forward, that's the mood. I used the plural form of "direction" because at certain crossroads, one is tempted to try moving forward, then step backwards with uncertainty; try one direction. Often it's one step forward, two steps backward. It's akin to a situation like a child left in a strange shopping mall, he wants to break down and cry. Because Mama and Papa - who represented familiarity and certainly - had wandered off. But when you're adult and face a similar landscape, you can't cry for Mama. And if you can't cry aloud for friends, then you're in a troubled state.

I did not get advice that by right I should just wander of for a break. Take a long holiday -- just be responsible to oneself. I realised I have had often taken too much responsibility on my shoulders. That realisation dawned after you saw throgh the facades of people -- "actors" so aptly described by Shakespeare in "As You Like It". By nature, I believe as a writer I take on the role of a Mentor to try to steer people (YoungOnes?) after us to avoid some of the mistakes we encountered. But sometimes certain lessons could not be shared, they had to be personally felt to make an impression.

Poets share their innermost emotions through verses. Essayists through their prose. Ideally one can write both so beautifully they two can entwine seamlessly so we cannot distinguish if it was Poetry or Prose. To the writer, it does not matter as long as his writing achieves its main purpose of entertaining the Reader, that the reader feels connected, indeed enters into the writer's world via words so powerful they paint pictures in the Reader's mind, and affects emotions in his breasts.

I wonder if my poem above connects with thee, my Esteemed Reader. I'm putting Reader in the "singular" because I'm asking of you personally, as you read me. I don't want you to be among an anonymous crowd.

This Sunday's INTER:LUDE explores some fellow poets' minds. And because I connect, I respond, almost spontaneously. Others I hold my thoughts, chew over the writer's creative work, later respond. Some works are so deep, Desi dared not respond -- just held his tongue lest he show himself a fool. But sometimes it's alright to be a fool -- aren't children like "fools" most times because they speak the unguarded truths? So it's alright to be childlike again when you reach 50, 60 or SE7ENTY like
Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad. Have a sen-se of humour, or satire, whichever is thy forte.

"Be yourself."
One important compass point in my sifu Max EHRMANN's work, DESIDERATA.

I recently mused on a nutGIFT STOLEN from abekamal.wordpress.com, OR isIT a NutCASE? My dear EstemmedReaders, you tell Desi!

From a blog named deliberately named for a reason:go and die

"I’m searching for the words inside my head. I stutter, I stumble, like I’ve got nothing to say"
The naughty lad told his story in verse:
I'm re-versing since I got no permit to reproduce his curse.


The naughty lad is woken up by a bird chirping on his window sill
No appreciating of the creature's meldious wake-up call,
As he wants to sleep still
The crooked lad hammers the bird to send to Heaven's mall
Because he's not a morning person
"That will teach the bird a lesson!"


Posted in Fun |

ylchong Says:

April 12th, 2006 at 12:37 pm


A gal came along, kissed
that poor bird on the sill
so still
It slowly op'ned its eyes
Chirped: thank you, thank you
Say hello to that naughty boy
May his next life be one of a birdie
Suffer the same fate
But ony half dead…

I wonder how many of my ER today can recite this?

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.
And they all lived together in a little crooked house


So out of the kindness of my heart,to prevent early death,
Desiderata gives the young lad some advice, hope he gives me kindness back!


I pray Go and Die don't grow up to be crooked
Otherwise, you would have to inherit the crooked sixpense,
crooked cat, crooked mouse and a crooked PC
But what good is a crooked PC, unless you have a crooked I
BUT I'm so youbg still, I don't want also to Go and Die.

The above are just spontaneous responses to some silly rhymes,
But they can prove challenging. Self entertaining too! (Some mGf say: Syiok sendiri!)

I read and enjoyed poems by K.L. TEO, a favourite Singaporean poet of Joe.Psc, who ran one again on April 19, 2006 called
AMOK.

I'm awaiting Joe's permission to reproduce the poem before it runs away elsewhere to kick up a ruckus. Romp? Pomp!

Meanwhile, care to seek Desi out in the Fu Rong Maze to have CON BF at about 10AM tomorrow? NO, it's today, as we are an hour into Sundae, o'lady!



UPDATE @12.20PM,
After CON BF with past DPM ~~~~~~~~


With Joe's permit in hand,
Desi steals the NUTgift from sin-land ~~~~~~~~
Flying above the crooked bridGe
I see no scene, just a pretty bride on a ridge.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

AMOK
by K L TEO


In a peaceful kampong suggling
In a palm grove by the sea
Lived a young man named Wan Puteh,
Handsome, friendly and full of glee.

And Wan Puteh was betrothed
To a kampong damsel fair
Who was known as sweet Salomah
And acclaimed for her beauty rare.

And Wan Puteh loved Salomah
More than anything on earth;
And the thought he was betrothed
Filled his heart with joy and mirth.

Now at length his waiting was over,
For tonight she was his spouse;
And the ronggeng drum was throbbing
Merrily outside his house.

And the kampong folk had gathered
In their gayest for a feast -
Women in selendang looked coy and modest,
Men in tanjak, smart and pleased.

Said Wan Puteh to Salomah
With a tender look of love,
"You are beautiful, Salomah,
Like the moon that shines above.

"I shall ever be so happy
With a lovely spouse like you;
I shall ever love you dearly,
And to you shall ever be true..."

Looking into his eyes, she answered
In a voice he loved to hear,
"I am now your bride, Wan Puteh,
Just to please my father dear."

And she saw the love-light fading
From the eyes of her bridegroom,
And his fingers gripping the handle
Of his kris as he left the room.

Crazed with sudden hate and vengeance,
He approached a wedding guest,
And without a sound or warning
Plunged his kris into his breast.

The he swiftly stabbed another,
And as swiftly stabbed a third,
"Amok! Amok! cried his father,
Dying without another word.

Women shrieked and fled in terror
As the cry of amok spread;
But their men unsheathed their krises
Lest another victim bled.

And they rushed at young Wan Puteh
As they would to meet a foe;
And they shouted, "Kill him! Kill him!"
Striking many a deadly blow.

For Wan Puteh was an amok -
Even his father couldn't deny -
And it was their law unwritten
That an amok needs must die.

And Wan Puteh died that evening
With his usual smile of glee
In that peaceful kampong snuggling
In a palm grove by the sea.

K L TEO(c)