Life is hard, imperfect and fragile.
How we live makes us what we are--
no one can be perfectly happy
and that's a good thing--
if it were,  we would hardly grow

Night wrapped in silence
not a single soul in sight
but the wind's moaning

Today-
do I have
something
worthwhile
to write or say?

my heart
I must search
myself I'd demean
if from duty
and responsibility
I walk away

for too easily
ego takes the day's
centre-stage
and I in my folly
fall a ready prey

the day
ah, the grandeur
and splendour!
the self-becoming
the beauty-unfolding
what role should
I play
on the shore
of humanity
or to my shame
my puerile self
and callousness display?

I and the world
others and I
faces I encounter
as each person
I walk by
a mask
I should not wear
my heart
I should unlock
to breathe and take in
life as it manifests
even in its most minuscule
and humble is-ness

I shouldn't walk away
either in nonchalance
or derision but feel
the common pulse
of which I'm part
thereof or become less
of what I should be
for all life is verily
one heart beating
in the corporate symphony
whose every note
speaks of both
you and me
of our joys, our sorrows
our fears, our tears
our nobility
our common humanity--

and I can't but think
of Beethoven's immortal Choral Symphony
An Die Freude set to Schiller's poetry
and to myself I say
make this a day
of joy and thanksgiving
my very day
lest
I might not again
pass this way.

Napoleon was madly in love with Josephine
but could not write love-poetry
in desperation he rang to seek my help
I slammed down the phone: I don't need your bribery!

I choose to be empty--it purifies me, it's a process of letting go, of renunciation, of selflessness-- in being nothing, I find my true self, and the weariness and angst of living melts away like the dew in the sun and the dispersing of the clouds.

  copyright 2025

Those who are happy are not even conscious of it-
it's a state of inner freedom where they are at home
being themselves and are at one with the moments before them.
Life is in order--there's no disarray, doubt, anxiety or fear-
only a state of grace, calm, harmony, being in tune with self and others, as well as with the universe-- it's the experience of completeness beyond the pale of words--even poets and artists can't describe this dimension which, to me, borders on the sublime , the spiritual, and even, the mysterious.  

Here is the epiphany of love and beauty, of worship, of acceptance of life in all its indescribable wonders and splendours.Yet, happiness isn't blind to nor does it turn away from suffering--
only that, just as it recognises life's sunshine, it, in equal measure,
accepts such suffering from which none is immune--it is prepared to walk through its darkest shadows, in utmost humility, without any sense of loss or bitterness.

That there's pain and sorrow doesn't demean life nor does
it blemish happiness-

indeed, in the acceptance of such, happiness takes on even more meaning as this  ennobles life and bequeaths a spiritual dimension that strengthens rather than weakens the self.

Those we recognise happiness and suffering as not mutually exclusive are truly enlightened.

Returning to the past?
         but not too much
        lest you only half-live
       and lose the present's vibrant touch

        there's more gain than loss
        if you will care to unlearn
        seize all you can from the moment
        what went before is no longer for you to yearn

I am not vicious
regard me ridiculous!

WINTER MIST

The woods are half-hidden
By the winter mist—dense and grey-
Renoir would have loved this sight, or Monet-
Sluggish is the sun—even at mid-day.

No bird-song, the flowers look pale
Cold winds drift towards the dim distant hill
I am sitting on the rickety old wooden bench
But my thoughts would not stay still.

Is it the winter or my heart
That is stirring something within me?
What it is, I try as I may but cannot say--
Only some vague feelings ---not akin to melancholy.

Is old age but contemplation and resignation
An old song, once so lustrous, now dull and pale?  
Have I lost the dreams of my youth?
Is this a chapter of life that is dull and stale?

Then suddenly a voice seems to whisper to me-
‘  Glorious and mellow is old age---contentment
Rewards in every turn and its paths are well-trodden
Like the finale of a symphony---magnificent!’

And then,  the woods are lit with the sun’s first strong rays
The mist disperses, dissolves and soon disappears
  I hear the twitter of birds flying past me and this I think--
  ‘Old age should still be champagne ----not love’s regrets or tears’.

Time
condensed
in a flask
terrifying
threatening
tantalising
unrelenting
compelling

fate hangs
on moving sand
who invented
this monstrous instrument?

imagine
the person
with death-sentence
counting
the second
waiting
for his ending

and this
I'm thinking
is more humanising
namely that
as soon as
the sentence
has been passed

the execution
should be carried out
the immediate following moment

who
tell me who
was the inventor
of this torturing instrument?

CONFESSION

Your love I can’t claim
it’s not my right
I should not beseech
that would be self-serving
one-sided
inconsiderate
with nothing
left for you
(don’t you soften your heart
it’s not worth it)

and pity from you
would be my worst affliction
for I would be tearing your heart
with my deceptive tears and pleading

you shouldn’t say
in a moment of weakness
‘  I’ll meet you half-way
   or three-quarter way’

this softening of your heart
it won’t stick
vulnerability is a trick
it would make you sick

a single drop
of dark ink
makes pure water
murky
it blemishes
its beauty
(I would rather
drink hemlock
than be
that dark ink)

no, oh no
I would never want
to make you suffer
on account of loving me

no, oh no
you do wrong
if you should sacrifice yourself
for the sake of another
out of pity or compassion

look away
look far away
as
that which is *******
is not love
you would merely destroy yourself
and regret
in perpetual imprisonment

love
must be free
free like the wind
to travel where its heart chooses
to be its own
without any boundary

its raison d’etre
is to live
to grow
to blossom
to beautify
to embrace
to cherish
to share
in the fusion and convergence
of two true hearts
as
the bow is to the violin
as
the sun to the sky
as
the moon to the night
as
the flower to the garden
as
the water to the sea
as
the song to the singer
as
the poem to the poet

that, that purity
that perfection
that miracle
that devotion
that faith
that beauty
that sublimity
which outshines
the grandeur of all eternity

ask yourself then
before you reply
do I fit
do our hearts meet?

Life would not be an error
if you greet it daily with humour

Blue waters between

long verdant stretches of field

nature in best dress

None did share
your lonely sorrow
in your darkest hours
your poignant words ne'er ceased to flow

drawn from the furthest depth
of your pierced heart and bruised mind
the darkness that haunted your days entire
with all reason long left behind

but the green fields
the flowers and trees
among which you laboured
every moment you did please

where were those who
once loved and did treasure you?
they became more strange
than strangers--not even a few

were willing to remember
you as a long-lost friend  
as you lingered hopelessly in the cell
where for two decades you did spend.

Language states
music suggests
between the two
the latter has greater depth

No time for lament

to the heart beauty beckons

flowers smile in fields

When I was young

the word 'shame' was loud and strong

in middle-age I began to realise

such mindset was wrong-



now in my 'soon to say goodbye' days

with what my conscience says I can easily go along

life might not be all joys and grace

yet to myself I've every right to belong

The end of the road
I've reached but am no wiser
I'm weary and have grown older
it seems futile to walk farther--

no more will I go searching
it's time for my heart to rest
all that the journey has taught me
is: love yourself, be content and you will be blessed.

If in the wrong place
  you place your heart
  virtue you would have lost
  even before your start

You wore red roses on your shining hair
at the meadow's end I was waiting there
love was all over the radiant summer air
you were the fairest of the village-fair --

all the village-laddies knew you well, dearest Clare
your radiant eyes no other lassie could compare
I'd love you till the world's last sunset, that I did swear
but you loved me not---your heart was somewhere!

Into endless beauty I will die
music to the end does keep me
to a happier realm I will fly
what there is, is mystery upon mystery

beyond the feel, the touch and sigh 
there's no throe  at all of  known misery 
I will dwell among the stars in the sky
amidst the flowers and the silent wavelets of the sea

Not you
nor anyone
but me
the last person
who would ALMOST
come close enough
to knowing
my real self
for to live
is to doubt.

Poetry is much closer to music than prose, however lyrical the latter might be.
The latter impinges on the immediate senses while the former is of a much more subtle, profound, sublime and transcendental nature.

People don't know me

    I can be dreadfully lazy

    it's a state that makes me happy

    do I have to be busy?

Sunshine there is
but not always
I'll create my own
to light up my life in all ways.

THE PAST

The past      etched in time's memory
engraved in my mind-scape  
          faces    places
colours    sounds     smells   moments

undercurrents of emotions   of feelings   of images
glimpses of joy   of sorrow  
of laughter    of  tears   of love   of tenderness
of   resolutions    of doubts   of regrets   of remorse  of loneliness
of what had been    or could have been
everything had evaporated like dreams

but all seems so dim  now    neural debris    
weakening dendrites  
the past is but shadows     an illusion  
  a shadow-play    

the essence was then --  
most memories have vanished or  faded at the present hour
the past   what are its uses    
what are its abuses

time measures all    swallows   all  

it takes no sides    neither a friend or foe

the past     I was    
the present   I am  
the future   I don't know

Passion--   a lesser word would blemish
The glory of an autumnal afternoon
The melancholy of Schumann drifted through the music room
It made the heart weep and swoon

And life's poignancy never seemed more real
Than every celestial note from the master's quintet
That which is beyond the limits of words
Is the soul of music: this , this was a moment in time I would not forget.

Dreams too many
they create misery:
the person is drowned
in his whim and fancy

give me one only
I'll work on it diligently
I'll wait patiently
for its maturity

It's not for me- poetic  magnificence-
I'm merely a lover of words which I weave
together in moments of awakened inspiration
hoping what's written makes sense in every sentence

Freedom in the air

early flight of birds in cheer

heralds in new day

I don't wish
to be wiser
only to be
gentler
kinder
warmer
humbler
calmer
and quieter

I see better

when I walk away

from the self

I was yesterday

VALENTINE’S DAY 2014


Have I not said and written enough?
Every day is to us a Valentine’s Day
I shall not buy you red roses-
They will just wither away

While the love that ever
In our faithful hearts dwells
Outlasts the last sunshine and moonlight
The most beautiful story it tells.

Our love should be quiet, gentle
As mellow as the chords of the cello
What a sacred word love is----this
True hearts which love truly cherish and know.

Time is fleeting by, my love, draw nigh
The songs of bygone days let us sing
In sweet remembrance of every moment we shared then
So fondly still I recall that day when we met in sweet spring.

Little bird, sing, oh sing
though  sad and plaintive is your song
what has caused you pain
who has done your wrong?

but this
you should know
the human world
has much more woe

It seems to me the feminine Japanese mystique is more intriguing than its Western counterpart's ---it lies in its grace, naturalness, humility and demureness, depth in self-restraint and sobriety.

On personal cultivation and development, also on duty, responsibility, altruism, service to the community/society/country, leadership and governance,  none in the world, even now, can match the wisdom of Confucius 600 BCE as expounded in his immortal classic THE ANALECTS.  



Book 4

Virtue attracts others and never stands alone


Book 7:

These things cause me concern-

if I fail

1. to probe deeper into what I have learnt

2. to reform myself when I have defects, etc

Give me a few years more so that I might still study when I am fifty

and as such free myself from my major errors.

Book 13

If a person has succeeded in making himself correct,

what difficulty would he face in governing?



There's a short chapter on this in THE GENTLE ART OF TAO LEADERSHIP-- A 21ST CENTURY PERSPECTIVE, Nov 2020, distributed by Simon & Schuster, published in Melb, to be republished in US this year.


At a Nobel Prize Writers' Conference held in Paris in 1988,

the following statement was declared:

' If mankind is to survive, it must go back 2,500 years to tap the wisdom of Confucius'

The world needs to be reformed
but by what and whom?
words run into hundred--millions
memoranda signed in some secret room

mountains of papers over time
pile to the ceiling one upon another
handshakes exchanged and freely flows
the champagne--none cares to remember

wars and conflicts proliferate
in every nook and corner
ammunition factories run overtime
rushing to meet the latest order

homelands destroyed and starvation pervades
families are displaced and loved ones are split asunder
day and night shells and bullets deaden every hour
every dream and hope for peace they shatter.

We repeat-
it's our sanity's very seat

Forgotten old home

facing cool autumn water

reflection of trees

With regard to nature
the scientist dissects
the poet gazes in wonder
and such beauty it adores and respects

Colours,  such wonders
they speak-- listen, do listen well
each offers itself in unabashed nakedness
hear, oh hear what tales they tell-

yet, their voices, so tender
(they seek not to impress)---so demure
how they sink into your depths
your inner eye wakes to explore

your own life, the present and past
for you have chosen one of your own
what you are and the love you feel
is a colour---unknown to others, only to you alone--

a thought, a feeling, a joy or sorrow
is coated in colour and from the spectrum
one arises to console your heart or your hand to hold
what is the colour that dwells in your sanctum?

Falling is not surrender
everyone slips on life's slippery floor
an issue not related to error
for redemption there's no need to implore--

from the ruins of chaos and disorder
the portals of renewed hope I'll explore
beams of sustained beauty and wonder
shall follow-- I'll resurrect and love life more.

I can't guarantee
my words shall stay
as fertile tomorrow
as those of today

inspiration
is a queer thing
it's miracle now
but next be nothing

ah,  this is the sad lot
of the lonely poet:
he can shine one day
or drown in nought

as his muse diminishes :
words, oh words--the grief
when away they hid
and such void it does leave!

Poetry old and new--all types
I read and feed on by night or day
verily it grows on my skin-
it's the sunshine, I'm the hay

time the insidious and mindless invader
surely and without warning will put me away
but I'll still write my last line
and unreservedly have my final say.

I am a humanist.

Like John Keats, I don't have a religion
but these words of his touched me profoundly:

“I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart's affections and the Truth of the imagination.”

He died in spiritual doubt but seemed to believe in immortality.

I prefer a biological extinction---
all that I have felt and experienced in my life is enough--
why would I need another life?

My last 6 words will be:  It is just this---no more

Give him
the mike
that's what
he does most like

Hardly do we realise
the shine that meets others' eyes
does not from our face arise
its true home is that which in our heart abides.

It's 2019-
not 1920
which means nothing
to me

in 2090
I won't be writing poetry
but this poetry-site
will live on--minus ME!

The wise
could be stupid
the stupid could be otherwise
thus, they equalise

Avoid the trivia
    your success will go far.