Patchwork of Poems: November 2024

Saturday, November 30, 2024

In My World

IN MY WORLD

In my world old men can be seen in parks performing tai chi; that's how they stay fit and alert.

In my world old men can be seen sitting in kopi tiams, sipping kopi cham and teh tarik between chatter; that's how they keep in touch with friends and make new acquaintances.

In my world old men can be seen praying in mosques at least five times a day; that's how they repent before Allah and prepare themselves for eternity.

In my world old men can be seen entertaining their grandchildren; that's how they inculcate familial bonds of love and build happy memories for their offspring.

In my world old men can be seen having lunch with their "old lady;" that's how they still cherish their time with that special love in their life.

In my world life goes on even in our twilight years, and so it shall with our children's children's children.

Matutina Gloria

MATUTINA GLORIA

as morning comes

you bathe my spirit

in showers of sunlight

that moisten in my eyes

as your golden streams

suffuse the sky

like the sea's tide

risenn by your beams

to imbue my far side

in showers of sunlight

you bathe my spirit

as morning comes

Compadre

COMPADRE

ox and farmer

dragging plough

trudge across a field

keeping just a step ahead

of the horseman's scythe

generalissimo and landlord

sowing promise and praise

usurp the labourer's grain

tilting in time

the horseman's scale

guerilla and guardsman

exchanging gunfire

rend the land

harvesting carrion

all and only for the horseman

Dinner Guest

DINNER GUEST

(Smokey The Persian Cat)

As nightfall cat-crawled,

a black Persian parked

himself under a lamplight.

Like a sentry atop a lofty tower

he kept watch,

searching for me,

knowing I would call him for dinner.

And I did.

And he came down.

And we chatted.

He, a meow.

Me, a howdy-do.

Minutes later, fish dinner done,

he wandered off,

melding into night.

What's that? The title sounds suspiciously like a sequel to Sir Alfred Hitchcock's movie classic, The Birds. Well, okay, I suppose it does. Honestly though that is not what I had in mind. It's actually just a flight of fancy, that's all.

Had he intended to film it I can well imagine the set. Kota Mahadi would have been littered with cables, cameras and lights. The film crew would have mingled about this former hilltop fort. Crows would have squawked and dallied amidst the tall trees. And the sun would have wandered into the western horizon, beyond the Klang River, which flows just a few hundred meters away from the fort.

About the time Sir Alfred would have cued for action, these huge black crows would have displayed their Notorious disposition. A horde would have swooped down, and not only bombarded the site and actors with poop and feathers, but would have inflicted a sufficient number of pecks to the head and body to create a bloody mess.

Anyway, you get the picture. They are absolute pests, just the worst kind imaginable! Almost as bad as the insects they were meant to exterminate. Seems in the early 1900s pestilence had become quite rampant. Many plantations, particularly those on Carey Island, an island located in the Straits of Malacca, were ravaged with insects.

So, some of the colonists managing these estates got together. You know? "Birds of a feather flock together," and decided on a natural predator -- THE CROWS! Mind you, these were no ordinary crows. They were Ceylonese bug-eaters.

Can you imagine it? Ceylonese bug-eaters. Why just the thought gives me Vertigo . Here's Malaya, a country rich in wildlife, and these folks had a non-indigenous bird flown in...er, imported into the country.

I dunno. Far be it for me to say it was a bird-brained idea. Near as I can tell, there is very little pestilence these days. But then, that's probably because the crows out number the insects.

One thing is for certain, some travel writer should inform prospective tourists about Klang's infamous crows. After all, we wouldn't want these foreign visitors to fly North by Northwest thinking Klang was the site where Alfred Hitchcock spent his hours Spellbound . Now, would we?

The Road to Malaya

THE ROAD TO MALAYA

Oh, how we rode the waves on "The Road to Malaya". You were more lovely and exotic than Dorothy Lamour. I was Bing, sometimes Hope -- campur as the Malays would say.

Oh, how we rode the waves on "The Road to Malaya". What a sight we must have been -- the cinnamon girl and the orang putih , strolling hand in hand along the shores of the South China Sea. We had a great time until those lads tailed us and traded jibes. But then, how embarrassed they were when I entered the mosque and you turned to scold.

Oh, how we rode the waves on "The Road to Malaya". You taught English at that old bungalow across the street from Restoran Bismillah. And I pounded out stories on a second-hand Underwood from a kampung house near Sungai Klang.

Oh, how we rode the waves on "The Road to Malaya". Every few months we would board a train for ol'e Siam, past jungle and padi . An Alsatian dog and soldiers would come aboard at Padang Besar. Visa stamped, we would travel on to the Pearl of the Orient. Take a ferry and stay at that Hermann Hesse hotel -- the E & O.

Oh, how we rode the waves on "The Road to Malaya". Once we played pat-a-cake with Immigration in Singapura. Heckle & Jeckle hassled us; didn't want us to get home. But with your cajolery and chatter, they let us cross over the border.

Oh, how we rode the waves on "The Road to Malaya". Most of the time with baby, pram and bag in tow, we made our rounds by bus and train. For hours and hours, we walked about from shop to shop. But we were young, strong and plucky, way back then.

Oh, how we rode the waves on "The Road to Malaya". The film Paramount never made. The one we lived. The scenes we acted out with nothing more than a song, a hope and a prayer. It was our life, our adventure.

Oh, how we rode the waves on "The Road to Malaya".

Oh, how we rode the waves...

Musings

MUSINGS

Perhaps it is in humanity's "fight or flight" DNA. Our species is no different than any other. It is how we have survived through the centuries, nay millennium upon millennium. History, not just biology, points to it. That being the case, Republican v Democrat, conservative v liberal, fascist v parliamentary-rule, communism v capitalism, etc define only political ideals and affiliation, not the reason for humanity's seemingly irrational and destructive behaviour.

To what extent is it a learned behaviour? We may learn to hate, to anger, to fight, to kill, but ultimately only those with a brain to override that emotion can correct the primitive urge. Love, also an emotion -- not the romantic kind of love, but altruistic love -- can be learned too. One, however, must have the capacity to want to learn; and that assumes one will take the time to rationalise and ultimately to realise love is among the best of our emotions, which is also in our DNA as human beings. Unfortunately, for most, that takes an evolutionary leap.

A neuro-scientist might take it a step further and say our brain chemistry is just as critical in our behaviour -- the choices we make in lifestyle and politics. That is not necessarily so; psychiatrists and governments have tried to change people's behaviour, i.e. with brainwashing, drugs, lobotomies, and not always exactly to their desired goal. Is gene replacement therapy the next step? The result would probably be just as inconclusive. It sounds like science fiction or pseudoscience, even a page from the conspiracy theorists.

Whatever may be the cause of our seemingly irrational acts, i.e. political posturing, destroying our planet and killing one another, is a tug-of-war that will most certainly continue to be an eternal struggle in the survival of who is the strongest, the smartest, the richest. It is ironically what drives us, societies and governments, without which we might be too passive and ineffectual in perpetuating our species.

That we might learn not to be calculative and cunning in the practice of deceiving one another could be a step in the right direction for the preservation of our species; and moreover, that we might learn not to deceive ourselves to the point that we believe it is the only alternative in life. Only 'IF' we could make a genuine and concerted effort to work towards learning how to love one another, might we then ensure a better world for us all.

Leaves

LEAVES

Leaves, so many leaves, you would think it is fall in Malaysia. I rake them up, and a few hours later all my hard work is covered over in leaves again.

So much of life seems like this. You try and you try and you try, and then you just get tired of it. You realise nothing ever leaves.

Leaves Leave

LEAVES LEAVE

though I will never

see your eyes again

nor hear your voice

nor speak to you

of things that matter

it is clear from my window

the wind leaves yet a few leaves

to dangle from the branch

nothing escapes completely

not the windswept leaves

that swirl and gather

in the corner of my room

nor the moon that shines

through the shutters

tapping out shadows of your face

and the world you once shared with me

beyond me

beyond this winter's night

I believe

there is and always will be

a wind that brushes back

even the curling leaves of paint

to reveal all that you gave me

and all that was once you

Faerie Lilies

FAERIE LILIES

In the onslaught of a thunderstorm, a small bouquet of pink faerie lilies yielded to the forces of wind and rain, bowing to sustain each blow.

Perhaps they prayed. Perhaps they simply hunkered down. Or perhaps they did both.

Whether it be one or the other, they remained in full bloom, intact and more lovely dappled in raindrops. Surely in their steadfastness is a lesson on the resilience of life.

Fig

FIG

Purplish teardrop fig,

born in the Mediterranean,

weep not for your homeland.

You are not alone in this foreign land.

You bring such sweetness and joy

to those who are also far from home.

Generations

GENERATIONS

Imagine you meet yourself:

the old you,

the young you,

face to face,

and you strike up a conversation.

The older you shares with the younger

the knowledge of what you will become,

where you will travel,

who you will meet,

how you will live,

when you will die.

The younger listens attentively,

curiously, even incredulously,

as each life-affirming moment is revealed.

The younger knows not what to believe:

whether to follow the counsel of the elder

or to pursue another course.

As the elder looks at the youth,

the younger looks to the horizon.

After a long pause it dawns on them.

Soul and brain conspired long ago

to let youth and age be just that --

to live in youth;

to learn with age.

Immigrant

IMMIGRANT

your s.o.s. was sent out

over the wireless

long ago

funny how

the ansar heeded

the message

of the muhajirun

and you're still standing

with visa forms

and passport in hand

guess you're

no different than

the russian thistle

on the farmlands

of your native colorado

your diplomas

and expertise

might as well be static

on the airwaves

the immigration policy

in this foreign land

changes as often as

a mutated microbe

and all your

knowledge can't cure

your dilemma

you're still

tumbleweed

on the plains

uprooted and windswept

never mind

your petition

for permanent residency

was intercepted

and jammed

Allah knows no one

gives a damm

your wife and daughter

can still live on

in their tropical homeland

better you

thrash about

in the barbed wire

than drift around

the borderlands

your mayday

will be heard

in the end

poetic justice

will prevail

as surely as

the israk miraj

your progeny

will flourish

in the spring

amid this new land

and they will emerge

the hybrid

generation

among the weeds

Kosmikpoietes

KOSMIKPOIETES

o soul

come and commingle

this gypsy's ashes

with an air

the aspen leaves

whisper of

go and scatter

him heavenward

from the branches

with a breath

the songbirds

wing home on

gently come and wed

this dreamer's ashes

with a desert snow

the terra

roots unto

then go and harbour

him earthward

from the clouds

with a soil

the seedlings

dawn in slumber

o soul

come an dcommingle

this lover's ashes

with a spring

the grazing fawns

suckle from

go then and turn

him heavenward

from a brooklet

the salmon

swim after spawning

gloriously come and enshrine

this poet's ashes

with a light

the fragrant flowers

flourish about

then go and praise

him earthward

from the blossoms

with a beacon

the butterflies

seed daylong

Merbuk

MERBUK

All around a darkness

settled across a hospital compound.

Perched against a starry sky,

a caged songbird sang

her soulful, mellifluous tune.

Although her a capella

carried clearly on the wind

from her lofty psychiatric cell,

few cared to flock

around the window screen.

Through much of the night,

she serenaded the ward

and would-be audience,

not unlike a busker.

On and on she warbled,

unrequited,

as if consoling or contesting

a dark and deep secret

within herself.

Whether the black flame that burned

in her brain was ever expunged,

whether her angelic dove wings

ever carried her home,

I know not.

All I know is what was heard,

a voice soaring far beyond,

free from the walls that held her,

free...

The Awakening

THE AWAKENING

Early one morning the Muslim's azan awoke me from my sleep. Strange it seemed, exotic even to one who had never heard it before. It came like a dream, this faint voice from a kampung mosque, two kilometres away. It alone roused me from my sleep. Neither the nearby rooster's crowing nor the motorbike's droning caught my ear. Only seconds later did I notice them. By what design I was summoned to hear it, if any, I do not know. But ever since that time I have risen each day, before dawn, to hear the call to prayer and listen in awe.

Time

TIME

Days, months and years seemed to take almost forever when I was young. Now, in old age, my life seems to pass more quickly.

Question: If we knew not the concept of time would it really matter? I am reminded of the ancient Greeks who believed humanity originally had the gift of clairvoyance. When they realised the cause-and-effect of their actions, they became detached and less motivated to perform day-to-day tasks. As a consequence, the gods revoked this gift.

Conversely, 'time' does not care what we think, nor what we do. It cares not any more than do the rocks, plants and probably animals of our world. And I doubt all the stars and planets in the universe care about time. It is only us, we humans who measure and care about time.

Why? Well, it's like this. As the human brain evolved over 'time', our neurological development of the cerebral cortex, basil ganglia and cerebellum, together in tandem, facilitated the 'time perspective'. Or, more simply put, when our brain has more details about memory the longer the moment seems to last. And the more familiar the world becomes the less information our brain writes down, thus the more quickly time seems to pass. That's why we think childhood summers seem to go on forever, while as we grow older time seems to speed up.

Time. It's a mind game.

Grandfather's 100 Year Old Pocketwatch

Into the Light

INTO THE LIGHT

One step into the light,

one quantum leap

into timeless infinity and tranquility.

In an ever expanding universe,

we travel onward and beyond;

there is no finish line on this road --

only creation, only eternity.

In Sha ALLAH.

Metamorphosis

METAMORPHOSIS

With a prayer

singing from the prism

of my heart

i need only know

my song is in reach

of heaven's ray

and then I can see

the spectrum

of my soul

in harmony

High Country (Waldeinsamkeit)

HIGH COUNTRY

(Waldeinsamkeit)

half a dozen

snow crested mountains

beyond the uncompaghre

pierced the clear

blue skyline

a warm

mid-morning sun

glazed their peaks

in a golden hue

cold crisp

wisps of air

swirled in the ethereal

while we trudged

amid knee-deep snow

in search of blue spruce

what beauty

what serenity

what wonder

it was to be alive

in this high country paradise

with my father

so very long ago

Diving Bell Dream

DIVING BELL DREAM

Alone.

I descend into the deep blue sea,

deeper and deeper into the void

until darkness surrounds me.

I am conscious,

tethered to the umbilical of the mother ship above.

I exist in this cold netherland,

breathing, floating, thinking.

I imagine I am Jonah

trapped in the whale,

imprisoned in the depths of its belly

and bowels of the ocean.

I think

I must be dreaming.

I want to awake from this nightmare,

this foreboding isolation.

Suddenly I surrender my fear.

I realise Allah is absolute.

There is none greater than Him.

This is His realm, not Poseidon's, not mine.

And then,

I slowly ascend, into the blue, into the light.

I am free.

Alive.

Fish Tale

FISH TALE

once as a boy

fishing the mill pond

past the time

and if at day's end

no catch came

no real care

nowadays

between the nibbles

and snags

a mudcat looks good

even if it's not

the mermaid

i dream of

tomorrow

i'll wake and

cast my line

and maybe

just maybe

hook the whopper

once and for all

Driving Malaysia

DRIVING MALAYSIA

As an expatriate and long-time resident in Malaysia, I'd like to offer my expertise to new comers arriving in the country, especially if you intend to drive around this tropical wonderland. Let's call it "Road Tips in Malaysia." I think I'm pretty well qualified. I've been driving for nearly 50 years, and approximately 30 of those years in Malaysia.

Fewer roads canvased the Malaysian landscape back when I first arrived here. Fewer jalopies, sports coupes and luxury cars folded the roads too. Most first-time car owners drove a Saga, the national flagship car of PROTON (Perusahaan Otomobil Nasional Sendirian Berhad). Malaysian drivers tend to be more civic minded and courteous. Yet, speeding and automobile accidents ran hand in hand. To curb the problem, speed traps and roadblocks checked aberrant motorists.

Fast-forward 30 years, many more Malaysians now seem to ride with the devil. Not only do they drive like hell, they act in the most wicked of ways, at least on the roads. Outside the driver seat, they can be among the friendliest, most generous and hospitable people in the world. Hence, possession or a demonic sense of power seems to be the only plausible explanation for their behavior.

First off, Malaysians drive on the left side of the road. This is okay if you're a driver from 35% of the countries who do drive on the left. If you learned to drive on the right side like me, you might wonder why Malaysia doesn't too. I mean, after Merdeka (Independence from the British), nearly 60 years ago, you might think driving on the right side -- double-meaning intended -- would have been a first step towards true independence. Long story short, they didn't and still don't, not unless there is a traffic jam.

When this occurs one of the ways to get around a jam is to drive on the opposite side of the road. I am not. I've actually had a few inventive drivers surprise me with this devilish daring do. TIP NUMBER ONE: Be a fly. Have eyes fixed at 360 degrees!

Okay, so this may not be an issue? Wait. It gets better. Malaysian drivers are Civil Engineers too, especially at rush hour. The real Civil Engineers with the white hardhats are forever widening roads to accommodate the increase in automobiles each year. Yet, jams still persist. This might be an obstacle in most countries, but it isn't for Malaysian drivers. They might not have the actual CE degree, but this doesn't stop them from engineering extra lanes. No siree. It's not uncommon to see a four- or five-lane highway turned into a six- or seven-lane highway. Or, more!!!

You can't blame them. The white hardhats who designed the roads created the chaos. I dunno. Maybe it was a Faustian minister. Mephistopheles promised him unlimited funds, only to tighten the purse strings later. Hell's bells! It could be anyone or a combination of persons and/or factors. The point is the bottleneck roads, both at exit and entrance lanes. And, it gets worse, especially around the multi-lane tolls, of which Malaysia has a vast network. God help you should get caught at one of these hellish bumper-car derbies during rush hour. If you should, remember TIP NUMBER TWO: Don't yield to the dark side. Be patient. Feel the strength. And go with the flow.

After you've driven around Malaysia a few hours, possibly less, you begin to get the impression some of these drivers are wannabe NASCAR and F1 racers. They tailgate. Ride the slipstream. Make slingshot passes. Weave between cars. It's then you realize these hell-riders suffer from visions of grandeur. They perceive themselves to be drivers on par with Richard Petty and Michael Schumacher. Highways and byways become Talladega and Monaco. Sadly, these Mat Rempit , or illegal street racers, are nothing but reckless acrobats on wheels with an invincibility complex. Their game of chicken is more akin to exhibitionism than it is to motor sport.

No one is more guilty of this fiendish stagecraft than the motorcyclist. Not that I have anything against bikers. The problem is these guys come out of nowhere, like mosquitoes. They buzz you. They swarm around you. And if you're not careful, they can bite you in a fender-bender. To avoid said event from occurring, the best repellent for these pests is TIP NUMBER THREE: Stay in your lane. Let them pass.

On occasion you may meet the Malaysian road bully. It need not be on the lone road in the dark of night. Like Satan, he is always present and ever ready to unleash his brand of evil. He lurks. He cruises. He can even strike instantly at the toot of a horn or the flash of a headlight. When his fragile ego is fueled, his adrenaline kicks in and all hell breaks loose. He and his vehicle become one synergistic, threatening Decepticon Transformer. Road duels, road blocks ensue. At which point you wish Mad Max would rush forth and terminate the bastard. Alas, there are no such heroic road warriors in Malaysia. So, it's best you follow TIP NUMBER FOUR: Keep cool. Avoid confrontation.

Oh, and beware of the syndicates and scammers. I know this from first-hand experience. I once had a wretched kamikaze driver torpedo my car -- a Proton Saga. Far from being a divine wind, this bat-out-of-hell driver let his Mini Cooper roll down a side embankment and onto the highway. Like a pinball let loose, he bounced off me, struck another car and missed the intended Mercedes behind us. His love? To milk unsuspecting drivers, especially cash cows like the Mercedes driver. How do I know this? Simple. Mr. Kamikazi took me to a paint-n-body shop, not more than 200 meters from the scene of the accident. Secondly, and unbeknownst to him, my wife overheard and understood his Tamil conversation with a colleague, revealing all of the above.

Equally dangerous are the demonic drivers who ignore or deliberately violate traffic signs. Speed limit, no entry, yield and stop signs mean nothing. It's never a question of who has the right of way; rather it all has to do with who bullied his way more forcefully into the junction. This “Me First” attitude even applies to traffic lights.

Traffic lights in much of the civilized motoring world have a universally accepted meaning. Only here, the symbolism for green, amber and red has been lost in translation. A green light, normally associated to mean the driver may proceed, often means a driver should exercise caution and stop. Why, pray tell? Well, drivers in the opposite direction, five or more seconds after the red light has appeared, might be racing through the intersection. One would think the amber light would be sufficient to warn a driver of an impending red light, and, it does. However, in Malaysia, an amber light merely serves to advise the driver; that is, he should speed up and try to beat the red light. In this case, TIP NUMBER FIVE, is pretty obvious: Be careful or follow TIP NUMBER ONE.

When all else fails, resort to the power of the hand. It can be pretty persuasive. And I don't mean flipping off fellow motorists with the middle finger. Certain ruffians undoubtedly deserve it, but this gesture will only incite an expletive deletive discourse and quite possibly fististicuffs. A more effective way to express oneself is to carry the hand and say “Hello.” It can halt and thank a fellow driver simultaneously. Pedestrians can use the gesture to equal effect as well. So, when all else fails, try TIP NUMBER SIX: Use the power of the hand.

One might think a day of judgment reckons. And it does. The black-and-whites in motorcycle boots, the Trafik Polis Diraja Malaysia (or Royal Malaysian Traffic Police) do bring these hell-riders and fiends to justice. On occasion they can be avenging angels and nab the nasty beasties. Make no mistake. They do catch them, be it in the office, in the home or in the car. Enforcement goes beyond the conventional roadblock. There is no escape!

Sure, there was a time when the black-and-whites seemed like Mack Sennett's Keystone Kops. The well-connected, even not so well-connected, could grease the legal wheels and evade justice with dare I say it, a snatch. On other occasions, Special Ops to round-up drivers of delinquent summons were given a generous grace period to pay up, only to be waived after X millions of ringgit had been collected, letting X number of violators drive away unprosecuted. This stick-and-carrot incentive set a dangerous precedent. It merely reinforced the tidak apa (or so what) attitude prevalent among many Malaysian drivers.

In the event a black-and-white uniformed officer does issue a summons to you, hold onto it. You have X number of days to settle the offense. Don't resort to the maxim "When in Malaysia do as the Malaysians." Don't even think about it. Rather follow TIP NUMBER SEVEN: Don't panic. Keep your passport, national IC and/or license handy. Pay the summons.

Really folks, there is only so much law enforcement can and should do. The key to exorcising these demons lies with each of us. When we step into the car and put it in gear we should be in control of ourselves. We should not let anger, greed and impatience possess and temper our judgment. We must practice the rule of law and order. Without it, all hell breaks loose.

Above all else, don't let the bad habits of these devils drive you crazy. Malaysia is truly a beautiful country. Enjoy the landmarks, the scenery, the natural wonders. Above all else, berhati-hati di jalan raya (drive carefully).

Horsin' Around

HORSIN' AROUND

The American West. Have you ever wondered about it? What is it like to ride in a rodeo? Or how to bust broncos? Well, take it from me, a Colorado cowpoke. It's a little like riding a mini bus around Kuala Lumpur. Now if you think I am, then may I suggest you saddle up to one of these steely steeds.

One go around the Federal Territory should convince you it's every bit the four-legged critter. Because nothing snorts or fumes, or for that matter, bucks like it. But then, I should give the cowboy at the wheel his due.

Why, were it not for his ability to spur the accelerator, gun the gears and tighten the rein, this mechanized stallion would be nothing more than a nag rusting outside a scrap yard.

He really is quite the horseman, the mini bus driver. I tell you not many folks could dodge the pedestrians, bicyclists and motorists at the speed he does and still live to talk about it.

His dexterity is simply amazing! It's so finely honest you'd almost swear he took lariat lessons from Will Rogers, grin and all. I know some folks don't hold kindly to that notion. They've been jostled from their seats. Or they've nearly ended up in some dude's lap.

All I can say is this. Just because some mustang's knocked you to the ground, you don't go crying about it. Shucks, no! you dust off your Levi's, pick up your Stetson and get back on. That's what the "Duke," John Wayne would've done. Gary Cooper, too.

So remount pilgrim! You paid that cowpuncher (the driver) your fare. That 60 sen should at least entitle you to a ride, be it to Pudu, Chinatown or Kampung Karamat.

Take me for instance. I've been corralled into Trojan horses between Damansara and Cheras Yulik. I've been stamped at the Klang Bus Stable...er, Stand. Yet, in spite of it all, I continue to work the rodeo circuit.

Soon in fact I'll saddle up another horse and head out again. Not anywhere in Kuala Lumpur, mind you. But instead to some frontier town called Klang. There, on the advice of Encik Harun Ghani (aka Mr. Horace Greeley), I'll "Go West" and ride the range.

But before I do blaze a trail into the sunset, amigos, I'd like to leave you with this sharing thought. It's not much actually. Just something I remember Dale Evans and Roy Rogers (no relation to Will) telling me. And that is, “Happy trails to you until we meet again.” Happy trails! Yahoo!

Minding the Store

MINDING THE STORE

Not far from our home stood a three-storey shophouse. It was fairly modern in comparison to those around it. A middle-aged Chinese man had a small grocery store here. And it was one of the best stocked shops in the neighbourhood. He had a variety of goods, including imported groceries, clothes, small appliances to children's toys.

Any outsider seeing this small, bespectacled and stocky man for the first time would never have suspected he was the proprietor of this successful little store. He rarely if ever rang up a sale at the cash register, was never visible for stock inventory, nor present for any of the myriad tasks one would suspect of a store manager.

Instead, he would busy himself in the most unusual of entrepreneurial ways. He was a master of the arts, so to speak. He would sit behind the checkout counter and play a melodious tune on a flute. He would slouch over a box of tin goods and sketch a remarkably detailed drawing. Whenever a festive event was nearing, he would be crouched at the staircase of his shop, painting either a Hari Raya, Chinese New Year, Deepavali or Christmas themed mural. He was an amazingly talented man!

At the time I wondered whether his actions were those of a madman or a dreamer. To the frequent shopper, he was most certainly the keeper of their goods. To anyone who studied him -- and I include myself -- he was above all else a man who had mastered the art of mind over matter.

Still Life

STILL LIFE

There is something foreboding in the walls of Pudu Prison in Kuala Lumpur. Although you may not notice it at first, it is the mural painted on the walls of this colonial era prison. Should you give it a second look, you will recognise it is more insidious than first perceived.

It does not strike the senses the way the guard towers or swirling strands of barbed wire do. Even the zinc roofs and white-washed walls of the compound, for all their drab and sterile appearance, does not capture the horrible imprisonment. Nor does the corner depiction of the hangman's noose and the dadah caption on the prison wall: "DEATH! That's the mandatory sentence for dadah drug traffickers in Malaysia."

While potent and sobering images, they do not begin to address the horrible sentence handed down upon these walls. You many suppose too the artist did not realise it when he painted the mural. Surely his was not a work designed for deep impressions. It was not intended to be a DaVinci, a Picasso, a Warhol.

Yet, here, at what has become one of Kuala Lumpur's busiest intersections, stands an image just as profound as any monument ever sculpted, ever painted by the great masters. Still, no one seems to really take notice of these walls. Not the motorist. Not the pedestrian. Not the inmate. To them, and perhaps even yourself, they are perceived as nothing more than that. They are prison walls, embellished with lush greenery, colourful flowers and flowing streams. Nothing you might consider out of the ordinary, unless you stop and study the mural.

And should you choose to do so, you just might detect the cruel irony. You may discover these images are all quite motionless. They are trapped in a two-dimensional world. They are imprisoned, if you will. They are bound to a still life with no reprieve, no hope of release, so long as the walls stand and the images remain.

Madrigal

MADRIGAL

once, once

in seeing zephyr hands

strum woodbine strings

while you and i

stood on banks apart

I watched rings

echo out and touch

the watercolour

of you and i

you and i

Poema

POEMA

out of the land

of my feelings

sail caravela leaves

bearing my song

across the water

to your land

in hope you

may harbour

my words

and launch

your ships

with a song

to bridge

our worlds

Fantasia

FANTASIA

morning

misty

a doe

a buck

near stream

they wade

they sip

time passes

quiet calm breaks

a twig snaps

they dart

draw back into the forest

woodland air

leaves falling

a woman

a man

shed their clothes

they lie down

and embrace

they caress

they writhe

together

a bird

a wind

they fly home

heaven

a dream

an angel

a soul

side by side

lightly breathe

his head warm

rests upn her breast

her wings soft

enfold him

and born as one

they consummate

the moment forever

Mirage

MIRAGE

your island spring

should quench

my thirst

with a sea of sand

then

all palm date trees

for me

will wither

from the desert tide

Narcissus

NARCISSUS

spellbound

crystal gazer

stares into his soul

another day comes

it ebbs and flows

his madonna appears

she stands once more

atop a fortress tower

ivy spirals

and white doves sail

about her sanctuary

his don quixote though

may never reach her

he sits and casts

bottled notes

into an ocean

soon he sees himself

a monk

lighting a candle

with her in mind

hanging still

from a lover's cross

knowing some day

his fisherman

must brave water

Harlequin

HARLEQUIN

come on

chaplinesque

quixotic

storyteller

croon a tune

and jive

jive jive

tell how

a whisky glass

a bitch's ass

made a hobo

out of you

oh laugh

laugh laugh

put on

a general's stars

a cowboy hat

and football pads

be a silly dilly

just dream

dream dream

Pet Shop

PET SHOP

tom went down

to a pet shop

on the outskirts of town

he walk around

admiring the pretty

persian, bengal and siamese kitties

they purred, pranced and preened

in their individual confines

as he admired each one

satisfied after a stroke here

and a stroke there

he went on his way

all the while a cock-a-too squawked a mocking refrain

"lookin' for love...lookin' for love"

(in all the wrong places)

Transfigure

TRANSFIGURE

only you and i know

your secret longing

to be a cover girl in vogue

you hide it all the while

like da vinci

behind a mona lisa smile

you've tried for years to quell

the mind games behind

the fairy godmother's spell

still you fancy going to town

dressed as cinderella

wearing a versace gown

you've closeted the stick horse

you jockeyed about for pedigree

as an intrusive curse

what you really wish

is to sashay the catwalk shaking

your tits and touché

you worry what others

may have to say

but why be bothered

why be troubled about the cost

of your makeover

when it's what you want most

to go on acting epicene

is far more painful

than being a beauty queen

Nightfall

NIGHTFALL

leaving the magic theatre

the mannequins and marionettes

you trudge home

a reeperbahn flat

inside you

finger broken

violin strings

until late in the evening

you play out

some novel scene

you empty the bottles

the moselle and muscatel

your jinni gone

her gossamer nightgown

now swirls and drapes

the bedpost

you fumble

to light an el pablo cigar

and only white grey

smoke fills the room

there you lie

half awake

weary and sleepless

a neon cracks

through the window shade

splintering the ceiling mirror

and for a moment

you see the spider

the prey

the piecemeal man

1931

(Slideman Blues)

on a speakeasy night

under the spell of moonshine

you let the trombone drag

waaah-wah-wah...waaah-wah...waaah-wah

while satin dames and tuxedoed gents

shimmied in the crystal ballroom

to dream a little dream

what an evening you had

coppers raided the joint

and an underaged kid trumpeted away

waaah-wah-wah...waaah-wah...waaah-wah

couldn't carry a note

but he beat the rap

under his parents' prohibition

back at the hotel

you tripped a bedside switch

and some preacher's daughter

lit up a slender cigarette filter

she pulled down the sheet music

and invited you to play

waaah-wah-wah...waaah-wah...waaah-wah

on that mellow horn

after two years on the road

you made your getaway

from those one-night gigs as a slideman

now scores of 78s from your twenties

drift in and out on the radio

waaah-wah-wah...waaah-wah...waaah-wah

like a '26 hudson fading into the night

"1931 (SLIDEMAN BLUES)" is dedicated to L.N. Wolf, my maternal grandfather, who inspired me with his jazz age tales, and at the same time, tried to offer some coming-of-age advice.

That said, imagine the 1931 hit song, "Dream A Little Dream of Me", performed by a jazz band with trombone solo, during Prohibition, in a turn-of-the 20th century hotel ballroom, in an Ozark resort town. That's my grand-dad in his element

Magic Theatre

MAGIC THEATRE

Coconut oil lamp burns through the night.

Shadow puppets dance across a linen screen.

The steady tintinnabulation of gamelon,

the occasional drum roll and rattle

accentuate the dalang's storytelling.

Step behind the curtain,

into the light.

The characters from Ramayana and Mahbharata stand out.

They are no more than leather cut outs,

colourful and intricate figures.

Musicians and storyteller are dressed in batik.

Beyond what one sees and hears,

what tales one is told,

what moral lessons one learns,

what entertainment one enjoys,

lies another truth.

It is one which one alone must discover and act upon.

But only when one sees beyond

the frivolity, the triviality, the materiality of this world.

Shoelaces

SHOELACES

(Family Ties)

As I tied my shoelaces I suddenly realised it was my mother who first taught me to tie the laces.

Strange how this thought should come to mind. It's been easily more than 60 years. Yet, I still can recall how she patiently sat with me, as we formed a loop with one string, then wound the other string around it to form another loop. I fumbled with the strings at first. Made one loop but failed to form the other. With repeated practice I eventually mastered the art of tying my shoelaces, and I was happy.

Only now with age, my hands are at times stiff and fingers do not always bend as wished. Still I keep at it, just as I did all those years ago. And I smile to myself, thankful to my mother for this and so many other skills she passed along to me.

May Allah bless her soul.

Zeitgeist

ZEITGEIST

7:15 am

rancid steam sweeps

around a downtown bus

arkansas democrat

lies curled in its rack

the curbside clock-tower

hands out the news

i am but a traveler of time and space

passing through

on my way to school

7:40 am

python roots entangle and crack

the pawpaw strewn sidewalks

that mark my passage

a soprano sings

from an antebellum mansion

in a ghostly trill

locked behind a wrought-iron fence

i walk on freely

yet an aura of magnolia lingers

8:30 am

high mass at saint eduard's

specks of infinity

toss and tumble like dice

in a stained-glass light

saints stare into space

with wooden eyes

from their vaulted niche

almost heaven to my german ancestors

i see another faith more relative

12:00 pm

an altar boy rides a bell pull

and the church bells clang

at mac arthur's park

a transistor radio's tuned

to the yankees in the world series

i slide into a gum tree and

kick up a 1911 lincoln head penny

every minute seems to be

one big game

1:00 pm

show and tell time

rocket man

circumnavigates the earth

my grandfather's indian arrowheads

in the dutch master cigar box

make an impression

with the girl in the front desk

she thinks i'm great

and i learn the world loves a hero

3:15 pm

school day ends

protestant schoolboy

sets aside the taunts

echoes the headline news

president assassinated

the drive home

on the segregated bus

will take a little time

to reach the interchange

Penny

PENNY

In 1911 I was shiny and new. Philadelphia, PA was home; I was minted there, as were hundreds of thousands of copper Lincoln-head coins that year.

Over the years I passed along from one pocket or purse to another pocket or purse. I traveled far and wide. So much so that I eventually made my way to the Southland, Little Rock to be precise.

I'm not sure how I arrived, or for that matter, what year it was I landed there. It might have come by car, coach or train, or a humble traveler who had exchanged me while passing through Arkansas.

At some point I found myself lost. One might even say penny...less. I can joke about it now. At the time, however, I must have fallen from a purse or slipped from a pocket, onto the ground, partially buried beneath the soil, near an old gum tree, in MacArthur Park.

How long I lay there I cannot recall. This much I do know. A young boy, not quite yet nine years old, found me. He was a school boy from St. Edwards, a nearby parochial school. His classmates and he had come to play in the park during recess, as they did every school day. He happened to walk by the old gum tree and caught sight of me lying in the soil. He picked me up. Dusted me off. Looked me over. Tucked me into his pocket.

Fortunately for me, as I discovered later, the boy was a coin collector. He took me home, cleaned me up and placed me among his treasured keepsakes. I was scratched and battered, terribly worn and faded, yet he kept me. It's fortunate I was minted in 1911 -- a coin he did not have in his collection. All the more fortunate because he like most boys his age could just as easily have exchanged me for a penny licorice stick or gumball.

Well, that was a very long time ago --- 1963 to be certain. The young boy has traveled well beyond Little Rock, and worked and lived in myriad places further than he could have ever imagined. Yet, in all those years, he never once considered letting go of me, nor do I believe we shall ever part. So, I am indeed one very fortunate penny.

The young boy, of course, has grown old. And so have I, but then I have always been older than the boy. What shall become of me when the old boy is gone I do not know. I could still end up in a smelter, melted, recast and minted anew. I should, however, like to think I will live on. His children's children will keep me in the family like a great-great grandparent. And if that is my fate, then I am by far a remarkably fortunate penny, far richer than the one cent I was ever intended to be.

Sailboat

SAILBOAT

I'm sailing, sailing home

to a time and place long ago.

It was on a sailboat

we, the three of us, built.

Father carved the beechwood hull.

Mother trimmed and starched the cotton sail.

I finished it with glue and lacquer.

It was a lovely rig,

all the more so when afloat,

this little boat,

this scouting project

that won an award for its fine craftsmanship.

It could weather slashing waves.

Beat back any foe.

Sit peacefully harboured,

safe from harm.

Alas, it is no more,

this sailboat.

Nor is father, nor mother;

all are gone.

Only I remain.

Only I remember

this seemingly make-believe world,

this nearly forgotten time.

But wait.

What's that I see on the horizon?

Is it a sail?

Is it a mirage?

I think not.

Perchance it is the captain,

come to take me home.

Where father waits, mother too.

Yes, I am sailing home.

I am sailing home.

Watchman's Lament

WATCHMAN'S LAMENT

Alone I walked,

along the dark and quiet hospital corridors.

A sentinel in the night,

I looked on into the cold, cloudy grey.

I saw the transience of passersby.

A solitary traffic light pulsed outside.

Apparitions of red, yellow and green

skated across wet asphalt.

I continued my beat

and found Dickens in a library,

leaning against a shelf.

I looked him over,

knowing all was not what it seemed,

even before he could say,

"It was the best of times,

it was the worst of times."

In the ICU I spied a freckle-faced boy,

not more than eight.

Tethered to wires and tubes,

he appeared to be -- without being comical --

more cyborg than human.

The miracle machines

beeped, clanked and whirred,

jerking his emaciated and pallid body.

Resistance was futile, what with death knocking.

Seven nights and eight days before,

his mother had caressed his red hair,

read to him "The Three Stooges in Space",

and he silently smiled.

That was before the cardiac arrest,

the brain damage,

the kidney failure.

It was then, he too was out of this world.

Many more days before

he had cycled for miles and miles;

he had kicked footballs;

he had run through fields;

he had fought would-be foes;

he had imagined himself a cowboy.

But, not this day or night,

Nor any time, ever again.

Uhrgeist

UHRGEIST

always always

at midnight

a ghost

mute

hands still

cobweb bound

hangs alone

in a dark attic

haunting

this black forest home

where time

never passes

hands never stir

the cuckoo never sings

anymore anymore

(German version)

immer, immer

um Mitternacht,

ein Geist,

stumm,

Hände still,

Spinnennetz gebunden,

hängt alleine

auf einem dunklen Dachboden eindringlich,

dieses Schwarzwaldhaus

wo Zeit

geht nie vorbei,

Hände rühren sich nie,

Der Kuckuck singt nie mehr
nicht mehr,
nicht mehr,
nicht mehr...

Unendlichkeit

UNENDLICHKEIT

does it matter

what we leave behind

when the sea can sweep away

the sand sculptures we build in a lifetime

of what value are the great civilisations

and famous persons of our world

if in a billion years or more

all is turned to sand in the hands of Allah

when we wash upon the shores of infinity

and the soul tells on us

then all that was said and done

may well make a grain of difference

Ubi Sunt

UBI SUNT

the memories of my youth are

scattered afield and afar

as distant and varied as the stars

the constellations I can name

as well as any childhood game

yet neither can I reach nor claim

only in that dream within a dream

shall I catch and glimmer and gleam

of all I once held in esteem