queer creature of white stone:
the spirit of the island in the head of this lion,
the soul of the natives in the body of this fish,
spirit and soul, lion and fish, mingle together by
mere wry humour of evolution’s word

we revere this beast, (it watches over us
from nine metres above), we bow down our backs,
(worship it as our exemplar): for many of us,
unknowingly, we emulate the spirit and soul
of this queer white creation of stone.

standing tall (unshaken!) even as jaundice bolts of heaven’s
creep tip-toed behind its scales and strike:
its cemented steadfastness of stone we emulate,
for through the towering grey waves of crisis, and
the threatening dark clouds that foretell our very fears,
we too, have floated and transcended and appeared
unscathed.

mutated monster – child of bad genes,
they despise such unfavourable antagonistic features
(shall it rule like a lion or flail like a fish?):
its unlikeliness of surviving, of thriving we emulate:
for this dotted smudge of red pen ink on the globe,
destined to bow down to fate – bowed down not, and
flourished.

beams of white water spouting out in a
perfect shape of a quadrant’s circumference, endlessly,
its majestic spewing action we emulate:
this island of expectations, sterile smell of success,
fate of our future in the setting of an exam hall,
(in there do you not think we resemble the merlion,
our mouths the hoses, the papers our well?)

but, oh, the merlion – so many of it –
the merlions, same-maned, same-scaled,
fluttering and bursting with imitation across our home:
such congruity, conformity we emulate:
for years of yearning to swim in the mainstream waters,
of being goldfish, instead of losing the waters for flight like flying fish,
have made us very much, about
the same.

queer creature of white stone:
do you see not how we resemble your very self,
how we offer you praise (by
lifting our human arms, arching on our mere knees,
hoisting our lowly mortal heads, surveying your colossal royalty,
camera in hand)?

A certain beauty is always withheld
Until the most unfavourable time,
And then presents itself for all but those
Whose eyes can see what beauty none behold.

A certain beauty never understood
Can fleet through anyone oblivious;
Can hold itself in clearest forms, and should,
Yet never can be seen or grasped for good.

The one with all the eyes sees only black
And cannot look the brightness in its face,
But when a certain beauty steals his eye,
All the beholder does is watch and cry.

A certain beauty tears the hearts of men;
No eyes but his behold, not even then.

Clouds, Clouds, Clouds, Clouds
Calculated Clouds
Interesting Idioms
Physical Phenomena
Spiritual Symbolisms

Cloud seven
Completely happy, perfectly satisfied, wholly euphoric
Cloud eight
Befuddled by drinking too much liquor
Cloud nine
Jumping for joy; walking on air

Have one’s head in the clouds
To be out of touch with reality
Every cloud has a silver lining
Difficult times always lead to better days
He must be under a cloud
People have an unfavourable opinion of him
There’s a cloud on the horizon
An omen threatening to happen in time
To live in cloud-cuckoo land
Believing those truly impossible things will happen

High-Level Clouds
Cirrus and Cirrostratus
Mid-Level Clouds
Altocumulus and Altostratus
Low-Level Clouds
Nimbostratus and Stratocumulus
Vertical Development Clouds
Cumulus and Cumulonimbus
Other Cloud Types
Contrails and Billows
Mammatus and Orographic
And Pileus

An arc in the clouds represents God’s promises
A pillar of cloud symbolised the Lord’s guidance
Do you understand the balancing of the clouds?
He that considers the clouds shall not reap
In OT times, the cloud filled the temple
Jesus Christ will return on clouds of victory

And a personal one
Black clouds one afternoon covered the Salève
Hiding a most beautiful rainbow
And despite the clouds’ efforts to confuse
His promises are forever true

Which cloud are you under?

I am a criminal,
So you and the papers say.
They would put me away
For countless nights and days.
Tucked away "safe" in jail,
All for the choice of herbs I inhale.
That they would only have their way...

Yet I am no marauding mobster,
No gangster for hire.
I smoke in the evenings
When daylight is fleeting
And withdraw to my rooms to retire.
I am no plundering pirate
Pillaging your private property.
I go about my day,
As right as I may,
You will find no evil protégée.  

I am spoken in the same breath
As delinquents and undesirables.
The infamously unfavourable,
Mire on our tireless society.
Well I am tired now,
Fatigued.
I've grown weary of living
In your narrow minded
Make believe.

Yet I leave you be.
Keep to mine and own.
It is you who lights the torches
From high deluded throne.
It is you who crafted and rounded
That perfect stone,
Hurled with such indiscrimination
Always many, never alone.

Each night now I wonder,
When I cross that imaginary line.
Such fools we've been,
The waste obscene,
Who really commits the crime?

I have seen the blood of my loved ones, spilled on a dusty road;
Seen the fall of kings, powerful warriors and the bold;
The skin of mothers and little children, broken by cold;
The ancient landmarks of the fatherless, siezed and sold.

I have heard the cry of the homeless but no one there to save;
Heard the wailing of the deserted, seen the tears of the brave;
Many driven from their homelands, now hiding in caves;
And a father toiling night and day, treated as a slave.

I have heard of dreams of many, still unrealised;
The ****** daughters of priests, lured or defiled;
The goals of youths, swallowed up by pride;
And the future of generations, poorly discerned.

I have read government policies, unfavourable for the common man;
Heard of national resources, expended without concrete plans
Communities connive to eliminate a defenseless clan;
And a nation sold into modern slavery, by reckless polititians.

Many tears have droped, sweat and blood everywhere;
Many races have been run but the end seems nowhere near;
Many have waited hopelessly for a better year;
Many have stood up but crawled back for sake of fear.

A day will come when the oppressed will arise;
Like Martin Luther King Jr. did,though his blood was a price;
Like Nelson Mandela did, even though his act was termed a vice-
For the freedom of the enslaved and oppressed but the wicked's sudden demise.

Shine or shower, we bend forever
Bend to see if the path talks to us
Bend to earn a nickel with a foreign face

Oh! How it bleeds, to walk on the gravel
The stones are crushed to confess their stories
they could be frozen tears of
my colleagues and my fellow countrymen
Who tramped here before!

How it pains, to sleep on flour, which is not mine
Lack of family affection makes us half humans
It has been an infinite urge to
Fly away on the wings of breeze
Just to escape the scorching sun’s torturous smile

We extinguish the fire of anger
No fire, but the flames in the breast
Endure between ambition and desire.

We see light in soldering electrodes everyday
But can’t see the bright eyes of our children for ages
Oh how it torments, a faithful heart that’s broken
To avenge the sad tale of labourers on a foreign soil

For us who experience all the ravines of Life
Night returns with dark chocolates
We continue to lift and bend ourselves
With fragrant bosoms near our feet

Theme : We get to see many  labourers working in the Middle East and East Asian countries like Singapore, Brunei etc. These workers, as construction labourers or as grass cutters, toil a lot on the road exposing themselves to Sun and shower. Most of them are from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka etc. It pains to see them working under very unfavourable conditions. This poem is an appreciation of their commitment to look after their family back home.

1
in the fourth book of the Peloponnesian War
Thucydides tells among other things
the story of his unsuccessful expedition
among long speeches of chiefs
battles sieges plague
dense net of intrigues of diplomatic endeavours
the episode is like a pin
in a forest
the Greek colony Amphipolis
fell into the hands of Brasidos
because Thucydides was late with relief
for this he paid his native city
with lifelong exile
exiles of all times
know what price that is
2
generals of the most recent wars
if a similar affair happens to them
whine on their knees before posterity
praise their heroism and innocence
they accuse their subordinates
envious colleagues
unfavourable winds
Thucydides says only
that he had seven ships
it was winter
and he sailed quickly
3
if art for its subject
will have a broken jar
a small broken soul
with a great self-pity
what will remain after us
will it be lovers' weeping
in a small ***** hotel
when wall-paper dawns


Zbigniew Herbert

I am inside a room
It is so wonderful
Seated on a complaining bed
"Kiki kaka kiki kaka"
The bed is complaining
On it is a three inch mattress
It is shrinked to one inch
Before me is a table
Full of complaining books
Others lack hard cover
Others pages were used as tissue
Others pages were used  as insulators
On top of one is a Brocken pig pen
It ran short of ink
And it is complaining
Working under unfavourable conditions
To my left is a stove
"Chululululu"
The rice it a sufuria are complaining
The gas is smelling
At the furthest corner is a radio
Complaining, shortage of power
........................................
Life cannot be such promising
Seated alone and talking with apparatus within
I am spending today
To renovate them all
That next time
They praise not complain !

"Be good" they say, without realising they're setting us up for a
Fall. What do they mean by good? What is good?
When we're little, we are told to be good and behave. It's simple.
When we're a little older, we're left torn in English class.

It is drummed into us that words like good, like nice, like okay are
Dull. Why would you say something is good when you can say marvellous?
We'd refrain from using the word nice simply because it was uninteresting.
We'd refrain from even thinking of using okay to describe a feeling.

If these words are not to be used, then surely they wouldn't exist at
All. Whose decision was it to deem them unfavourable in stories or poetry?
What if the only word that is appropriate is 'good'? Short, simple and precise.
What if the only way I can finish a story is with a word I shouldn't use?

I always wondered what was so wrong. Of course variety appeals, it is
Bright. I was told not to use the word 'good' yet my work was marked as such.
How should that be taken? I daren't tell the teacher the marking is wrong.
How about we use these words regardless and forget the fear of being average.

I paint my face
covering the flaws

Heavy sockets cradle the sleepless hours
unfavourable blush  and uneven creases
tell stories of worry and woe

map out my mind across my face
pieces drawn to disguise.

      Where                                                                              from
                                       the
  thoughts                                                   ­      sprouting
                               are           across                                                    a
            planted                                     like                        
                                                                ­          weeds                  muddy field


A field thats walked across and trodden on
journey with care across its banks

because others have left marks
I cannot un trace.

What do we learn from the teachings of flowers —
That one does not grow in poisoned soil.
In unfavourable conditions, we wilt.
But we can heal from the root,
When cared for and place in nourishing spaces.
We grow, sprouting new life.
The mighty stem, building stronger cells,
Your bloom becomes brighter,
Opening up to the welcoming sun.
We learn a lot from the flowers
One just need be observant of its teachings.

There was nothing that made him want to leave the house. The world seemed hostile and uninviting; waiting to trap and mock him. A life of action seemed to evade him, no matter how much he willed it into existence. There was nothing but his own mental landscape and how it quickly it turned on him. Unfavourable memories returning like they were on loop. He slept as much as possible; awakening only to eat or to chat with people he barely really knew on the internet. When he wasn't in his bed he could smell his bed inviting but sour. He distrusted those close to him, waiting for them to prove his paranoia to be true. He spent days pondering things of zero consequence and comparing himself to inconsequential  people.

If he bothered to wash at all; he sat in the bath looking at his kneecaps, trying to produce a thought that would change his circumstances. Transcendence and an existence outside of his own body and mind didn't seem possible. He was suffocated by the vividity of his own imagination coupled with his inability to overcome his own anxieties. When they came, social invitations were quickly turned down; the act of interaction and fostering relationships seemed superhuman. The task of leaving the house seemed herculean. He neglected his talents and watered his insecurities like plants until they were deeply weeded in his psyche. He ate infrequently; destroying a once taut and capable physique.

A Cherry blossoms in it's time
It's a beauty of times and seasons
But yours is ageless and timeless
Like a dazzling mirage.

Atmospheric conditions changes
As by-products of optical illusions
Like the moon usually waits
To reflect the glory of the sun
But yours is not serendipitous
Your spark is programmed to shine till fade

Mojekwu's probability can be biased
The urn can be unfavourable to a ball
But the ***** in your eyes are blazing
They tell the story of beauty with brains

The reflection from that BMW
That shone across that chariot
Owned by that Happy
A Pharmaceutical colosus
Revealed your perfect dentition
The type found on enchantresses

If the world goes numb
Your voice will be all that is needed to hear
If the lights world over goes off
The sparkle in your eyes
Will be all needed to see

When meeting friends
You always know the beginning
Not the end
That is how Divinity programmed life
Even Augusta can attest to this

The refraction of light
Blazing from the heated skies
Have all pledged their loyalty
To you, a beauty Queen
The way other principalities
Bows to the presence of a Lioness

This work, written from the purerst of heart
Is just to let you know that
If i were an ocean
You will be my only pebble
If i be an Accountant
You will be my only Audit
If i be a Pharmacist
You'll be my only medicine

Someone tell me this is not real
Before i wake up from my slumber
That a dazzling mirage
Somewhere in her sacred heart
Smiles at an Author and a Life Coach
Whose pen is worthless
Without her "Yes"

Organizations fortunes failing

Brain storming meetings to generate new ideas, daily

Every day ritual,

Samosas, chips, doklas, espresso, green, dark, sloppy tea brought in by pricenly looking servers

A swarm of useless mouths crunch the destructive stuff hotly, without break

Irritating crunching sounds

More Stuff show up, more crunching, more irritating sound

Not a word verbally expressed on  
organization's looming doom

Investors cash glutted by terrible money eating sharks

The day is curiously chilly  

Television is turned on

Shocking news!

Channels declare organization's doom as breaking news!

Money eating Sharks go into hiding as they experience a baffling shiver inside their stomachs brought on by undigested food.

Their heads swrling because abundance of bile discharged into their blood stream.

Hapless investors, money lenders rue their fate on unfavourable distant stars.

People in Society sleep like sheeps.

Money eating Sharks are enjoying their swim in a distant sea with gay abandon!

Able to survive in favourable and unfavourable situations.