Hall of Inspirations 2006
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By S-wordsman posted on 19 May 2006
I cannot stop but think...
I cannot stop but think about you every single day,
A second comes, a minute goes, the hours crawl away,
The rising sun gives rise to thoughts of smiles upon your face
And time belies your timeless mien, no feature out of place,
I wonder why in dreams I fly aloft upon the clouds,
Beyond imagination, high above the dizzy crowds,
I whirl around, and tumble down, ecstatic from the sound,
The thrill to wheel, to feel unstill when love is all around.
My mind cannot remember when this heart had skipped a beat
For thence the beats came strong and wild, repose was no mean feat.
As time flew past, this whirlwind gust, unsettles embattled mind
And rearranges, in gentle stages: "From 'lost' I came to 'find.'"
Its strange when we, fall in strange love, the stranger of the kind
You lose yourself until you meet the love you love to find. -
By S-wordsman posted on 19 May 2006
My wife, Siti
My wife Siti, she's so pretty,
Prettier than she, is nobody.
Soft is her voice, for lying down to sleep,
No need for sleeping pills, no need for counting sheep.
My wife Siti, graceful is her walk
Flowing, breezing, swinging, when her body talks,
Inspiring is she, inspired so is me
Prettier than pretty, is my wife Siti.
Nobody, is prettier than she.
My wife Siti, smiles a smile so shy;
A nightly blossom bashful, to the bright blue sky.
And when that sweet shy smile blooms brightly just for me,
Prettier than she, is nobody. -
By LinYu posted on 22 May 2006
Stressed
I don't know what's gotten into me,
can't do anythin' and it's killing me,
Don't like this feeling,
don't like this much,
What's more disturbing,
is that I can't feel a thing.
What's bothering me no one knows,
not even me, who's closest, knows.
I'm going insane, that's all i guess,
but what's really bugging me,
is that I'm stressed.
----------------------------------------
Fear
It's easier to run
that's true
running is my forte
but it's not why I run
cos' i fear nothing but you
---------------------------------------------
Cry
The tears that falls from my face
are not mine.
They are hers.
the past me.
She's dead.
but still there
lingering in my heart
Go away, the past me
and leave me be.
------------------------------------------
Mirror
I hate this world
that's true
But what I hate most,
is what's staring back at you -
By S-wordsman posted on 21 May 2006
I cannot cry
I cannot cry,
These tired eyes remain so dry,
And yet my spirit writhes in pain.
I cannot cry.
Why canÂ’t I cry?
When did impassioned eyes go dry?
Mocking the heavy rain.
I cannot cry.
I dare not cry,
These fears will fill this desert dry,
For tears will flood this helpless plain.
I cannot cry.
I want to cry,
I cannot let these cheeks go dry,
The rain must break these window panes,
I need to cry. -
This is a painting entitled Weeping Woman by Picasso.
I wrote the following about 10 years ago:
By S-wordsman posted on 21 May 2006
Upon Looking at Picasso's Weeping Woman
Your cries fragment my soul
Your weeping grips a silent hold
My hands they sweat as I
Paint your oily tears inside my eye.
Gushing feelings fill this void
A broken emptiness, a bloodless rush I can't avoid
The pale, shy crying your face beholds
Unashamed, the shame of tears he moulds.
Picasso, how came you saw my pain?
Black, blue, yellow, orange, and black again
Brought forth the rainbow in the rain
My rainbows more oft they go than come, again and again. -
By Aeolius77 posted on 22 May 2006
Dear JANE_23
>I wonder how you read my words with little sounds that flood the air;
>clickety click, clickety click.
>I hear the sound of information, thoughts, desire and lies
>flowing in and out of space;
>From the room to the server to the unknown face.
>I wonder, too, how your words become so true and earnest
>when it has been through cables, in electronic pulses.
>When it has been through so much intercession.
>I fall for your words, and in a way I fall for your person through the screen.
>Clickety click our heartbeats sound in peculiar harmony across vast distance;
>connected and conflated through our common hands and eyes.
>Now through the screen we love and know each other.
>clickety click
>clickety click
>thus our hearbeats, pulses, meanings move from one to the other.
>Do you love me?
>My fingers ask your screen.
>You smile and with your fingers show your heart.
>Then God decides to intervene.
>A lightning storm, a fused circuit is all there is
>in His revelation.
>Without electricity, we both die. -
By S-wordsman posted on 13 May 2006
The Flower Bud
The rushing tide removed so quickly
my footprints in the sand
I took another breath as I
laid conscientious eye
upon her tiny hand.
My baby gripped so soft yet tightly
the finger I laid in her palm
as it unfolded soft and pink
unfurled a flower bud in spring
and soothed my nervous calm.
So insecure, so frail, so new
I held her hands close to my face
I drew a breath of baby skin
like flower petals, soft and thin
the floral fragrance I did embrace.
Each digit is a living thing
A part of something bigger still:
No, not the palm, which unites function,
nor the wrists, where hand is junction
but purity of love and will.
And now as moments passed into each other
and consciousness floats on a cloud
her hands grew still within mine own
her curls caressed by breezes blown,
into a slumber Iffah curls into a floral shroud. -
By peebrain posted on 22 May 2006
Goldfish
Speak not of me, I am heard poorly
like a goldfish, round-eyed, 'loft in brackened spit.
Mediocre fins, familiars to Neptune,
nap in certain seas; not bright, but gleaming,
the first waves of light, dancing in striations,
bathe sands merged in sub-meridian.
I have but one fin and one tube, I am compelled
to a swift delivery, a thief cavalier riding
the hour of a stellar tide's decline.
Here I trace sound paths along cracking glass,
the lub-dub of the ocean, this way or that,
the prodding beak of groupers keen so nearly
the cracking plod of an unexercised heart.
Speak not of me, if you were to say
that I am a goldfish, round-eyed and swollen,
unelemental, expiring in a somnolent flood. -
By ^spidee^ posted on 22 May 2006
The artist and the writer
She was an artist, he was a writer.
She painted paintings so beautiful, they would shame a radiant rose.
He created literature so brilliant, they were admired by audiences far and wide.
They were lovers.
One painted with passion, the other wrote with zeal.
Both inspired by love.
The love they shared was pure and beautiful.
Alas, she was met with a great misfortune.
The doctor diagnosed her with an incurable disease.
He was devastated, but he stood strong.
She needed him most and he could not afford to falter.
She painted him a final painting.
A man and a woman sitting at the beach, the sun setting.
It was a painting of them, the love they shared.
He wrote her a final prose.
“Fate brought us together”, he wrote.
“It will never keep us apart”.
The inevitable came.
She appeared peaceful, a smile formed on her pale lips.
He knew this day would come.
But he wept all the same.
He went away, taking the painting she painted of them.
Some said he found new love.
Others rumoured he met with an accident.
They were lovers, the artist and the writer.
He held her in his arms, watching the sun setting.
Fate brought them together once again.
It never kept them apart. -
By fudgester posted 24 May 2006
The Working Day
Why am I doing this
Why do I give myself pain
Sitting in front of my computer
Letting my eyes strain
VIP is what IÂ’m supposedly doing
Or so thatÂ’s what they all say
But IÂ’m being treated nothing like a pop star
Or even a king for the day
My matric card proclaims me an engineer
A master of machines and pumps
But IÂ’m handling filing and menial work instead
My brain is entering a slump
The telephone is screaming at me
Demanding that I give it my attention
My, oh my, who could it be?
A client company asking for my affection?
Upon the wall do my eyes gaze
Praying for the clock to read five-thirty
But alas! ThereÂ’s still hours more
The working day seems to last an eternity. -
By Mirumoto posted 24 May 2006
Neither here, nor there
Taste. Flavour, my dreams have texture
Food. Banter, the train ride home.
Have you asked for your place under?
In the four by four
Inked in his own cell
The splintered creaks together with the tattered flooring
A quarter to give. none to savour the return trip.
Lies in the dreamlike trance beside the tranquil lake
How many secrets does she keep?
Untie my bonds to misty perfections
Looseness , undercover. -
By Aeolius77 posted on 27 May 2006
1740hrs Jurong Point POSB
I am flowing
ever so sluggishly
with a ribbon-like river
of mud and clay.
It is amazing how many people,
squeezed into a room, can be made
to coil and squirm within a restraining maze,
their free will at once forfeit
the moment they decided to put their
trust in a bank.
We all spontaneously
anaesthetize ourselves with a book, with conversation
with a poor martyr of a friend dragged along,
with our electronic playthings, and here,
with a pen and paper hoping for transcendence
from this claustrophobic situation, by
surveying all like a pretentious king:
I am the surveyor and the observer, detached
from the mortal coil as I examine
the idiosyncrasies, smugly.
But am I not also
the deserter, escaping into
the veritable cinema of human drama?
The bored face, the vacant glassy stare,
the ceaseless chatter and animation;
If they are signs of ennui or elan
I know not, because we are all
flowing ever so sluggishly
in a ribbon-like river
of mud and clay.
Oh, but can the river flow slower still?
Apparently so, the closer I get
to the counter, to relief, to paradise.
My legs ache, those are nice brests*
wrapped snugly in a shrunken tee
What's the time?
Oh, I'm next. -
By Bluesky_Liz posted on 31 May 2006
Keeping Hungry
To write when one is famished,
is a reminder, a connection
to a savage past where our present
was just a dream.
We must keep ourselves hungry,
if only to drive the inspiration to hunt.
.................................We hunt
herds of rumor that wander the space
between mouths and ears; we'll trap
stumbling words, bend them into
metaphors, so that they can catch
the sun and reflect on a canvas of lines,
a rainbow of overlapping memories. -
By preya posted on 3 June 2006
unremembering
Back, to the cold
air-con room, and hot showers
Leaving behind a million lessons
in (soulheartmindlife) creative arts, over a week-long camp
and Us
Saying goodbye cheerily, and forgetting-
accidentally-on-purpose
to take down all your emails
in a bid to not hold on
too tightly to good memories
fated to fade
in time, with time
It hurts less, I know, this sad
way
of looking at things
or life
In this world of overmuch relationships and lost
faces and names
within the tidal wave of MSN and email
Ironic (literary tool, we learned together
how to exploit it, and us, and technology)
that all that is left of us is
an exchanged piece of adolescent prose and a
T-shirt
We Are One (such a cliché
DidnÂ’t we learn to avoid
them? but it was the soul of
Us) I...
...t proudly proclaim
s
Unremembering
Too early mornings and too late
nights, spent on creative tasks
And so we spread our myriad lives
and hearts and souls
like peanut butter and
sweet-and-sour
jam, onto canvas
Our food for thought
before breakfast
Our laughter spilled onto paper
from borrowed pens and shared experiences
Within those five short days
and Endless Moments
(Past tense
expected,
like v knowingly sucking on a lemon
the taste of
losing touch on purpose
So We are reduced from carefree laughter
and understanding
and frie---
---d rice and cheery soulsharing for lunch
To an odd sickness within me
in the vicinity of my stomach (perhaps it was the sorry excuses
for food that we had, or something else)
or a little bit higher
Like a photograph under too little light
We fade
Blurring into the background of Life Goes On
And I won't remember Us much at all, only with
every word I say -
By peebrain posted on 5 June 2006
"But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you" -- Sharon Olds, in a letter to Laura Bush
Overlap
Now our worlds have lapsed into silence,
undone by discursive thought.
(like a child weaned from bottled milk)
we unplant trees, shake dirt off
from flustered roots, and sink gently
into sudden insight. Sodden, a hole --
crumpled and broken, by the second,
widening, swallowing, stiffed and stifled.
Soon, coral lips will curl in hurt,
bleached white, left immobile -
uncanny coercion made sour
and heavy, your plus and my minus
burrowing into nothing,
a giant thumb-tacked void.
No longer are our worlds wrapped in fancy ribbon,
stamped and addressed to the same postal code,
then split apart into packages of meaning,
Instead, you are now a paragraph,
flushed left, edited into severe frames,
like fragrance, ambient and indistinct,
at the most inopportune times, stirring --
no less valid (just simply so),
in ending we failed to o'erlap. -
By expiringpoet posted on 9 June 2006
Untitled
Falling
and rising as waves under mute skies, we
open, expand and unfold,
thudding hearts suspended
in protracted
semi-flight as we clasp and unclasp
with the evening breeze
brushing
upon uncaring
dry leaves. -
By S-wordsman posted on 10 June 2006
Deoxygenated
Through the canopy and down the trunks
I swoop into the heart of the rainforest -
Musky mist meets moist mush.
I grab a fistful of earth, and listen -
A silent scream comes from within
The dusty wings of the butterflies,
The broken horns of the giant beetles,
The jaded eyes of the jaguar,
The muddy rivers meander through
Like veins - the bluish brown water
Deoxygenated -
Seek to replenish with life-giving gas, but
All of a sudden, another scream is heard
This time it sounds metallic,
Grinding, raging with vengeance,
Shearing through trunks
Loudly, dangerously.
From a distance
We feel no pain, until
It comes to plague us,
We pant and purge the air in our lungs
But dioxide meets monoxide,
Our faces turn blue,
Our eyes cloudy,
We do not see
The suffocating grip
We hold
On the lungs
Of
This
Earth. -
By Bluesky_Liz posted on 11 June 2006
Being told to act natural
A handshake; a smile, not too wide;
say a few kind words to the camera;
remember to mean what you say,
and hold back the tide of vomit
rising in your disemboweled insides.
If somehow, something slips out,
play it like that plastic 9mm
in the top drawer of your desk,
the one with the rubber bullets;
they wonÂ’t hurt, or kill anyone.
They bounce off balding heads,
just like the things you wanted to say. -
By peebrain posted on 12 June 2006
For Lena, who is gone too soon
Leaving and Grieving
There is leaving for the living,
and grieving for the leaving.
The have-left, well, they do not hear,
for they have sprouted wings and flown,
faraway beyond the grace and dark
of unequivocal night. Somehow
it is cold, the very air we breathe,
heavy like cold cream, even colder inside.
Beyond which that has ended,
in great reluctance, bruised hearts clutch
warmed stones to their bosoms, searing
anguish on their shouldered shores,
watching and waiting. Still the living grieve.
On black water, the cool trickling between their toes,
watching and waiting, and nothing comes back.
There is leaving and grieving,
between the twain a baffling divide
that is grey, bruised, threadless.
We empty ourselves of hope,
spend it all on graces, hoping
that one fleeting thought could
follow you downwind, and fly away with you.
But the cold turns greyer, our gazes
bleaker with despair. For nothing comes back.
Not even the clocks, with their jewels and
chains, could rewind time, the final flowing of cold.
The night would not end. The music is over
but the night would not end. Blacker and deeper
grey shadows loom, their fingers ensnarled.
cradling as we seat on collapsible chairs,
the white lake where your body rests.
Between leaving and grieving,
I close my eyes, waiting and wanting;
but the leaving has left, and flown,
faraway from unequivocal night,
into heavens of dreaming;
I close my eyes, dreaming of angel wings:
oh how they gleam gently, where warm roses reside. -
By Bluesky_Liz posted on 20 June 2006
Dust
You can see the sinister
crooked micro-fingers pointing
at your lack of housekeeping.
Bits of you falling apart
inside,
mingling with the wastes
of a world falling apart
outside, that enters through
an open window from
where you watch
homebound crowds bargain
for right of way with traffic lights
and yellow boxes.
Ignore the rapping on the door,
pretend
no one is in;
you will not want a visitor
to see the dust you breathe. -
By HENG@ posted on 20 June 2006
Gullible
Sweet honey-ed sugar-coated words,
They sway me so effortlessly, my achilles heel.
I don't even know it, and suddenly I am,
Plunging,
Plunging.
Deep into this dark lonely well,
This hole in the ground of trust misplaced.
Surprise, shock, a double blow,
A precious gift I give so easy,
My nature so fatally susceptible
.
Perhaps when all is said and done,
I'm just a deluded fool in a padded cell -
By expiringpoet posted on 23 June 2006
Looking Out
Consciousness
Can be freed
From the body
And with it
The pain which ploughs
ItsÂ’ course
Through this
Too-tiny, constricted shell,
Slashed wrists
gapes blood rivulets
Flowing down
In heavy plops
Like blessing
Look at the cadavers
Empty of pain
They gleam
Pale and luminescent
With divine insight -
By Mirumoto posted on 27 June 2006
Write on the dotted line. Please.
Missives. Always sinister
Always meaningless
Always missing
latent emotions touch.
Mix into ungrateful pot luck
Sandy legs with sediment sentiment
Always sinister
And as the cameraman sets contrast.
Prison Clothes adorned. Black and White.
Lately, the clouds have only sung sadly.
Always meaningless
With a mad toothy grin
Purged and heavily sedated
His eyes linger through the haze.
Pot luck. And he drinks happily.
Always missing. -
By meriss posted on 3 July 2006
The Last
Every word I say,
I think.
For fear it may be the last.
Every move I make,
I think.
For fear it may be the last.
Every thought I surface,
I think.
For fear it may be the last.
Everything that's done,
I know.
One day it'll be the last. -
By meriss posted on 3 July 2006
My past, my present, my side
The times we sat side by side.
Sharing about all that came & went.
I took his picture,
which remained for so long, even now.
Blinded by who I was,
I split the oak tree in two.
From there our world was destroyed.
You don't know how deep it went.
I need time to reflect.
Time to think about what was said.
About how those lies are truths.
About how I've felt all this while.
You don't know what it was like before.
The impact of those words penetrated deeply.
He told me everything I wanted to hear.
Now I'm at a loss of how I should feel.
So just give me one good reason.
Tell me how it's supposed to be.
Cuz I don't wanna spent another moment,
Saying things that was never meant to be said.
We both know the truths of our hearts.
Here's mine. I'm not over him.