Monotonous melodies
Permeating tepid atmospheres
Of meaning and mistakes
Big breaks, gargantuan falls
Grace, soft and tender
Lining clouds of thunderous tempest
Unheard, unseen
Angels aplenty
Unsteady, hoping
For better things
Brighter rays to illuminate faded portraits
Of perfection, perplexity
Animosity, confusion
Dilution of truth
If not for a tiny glimmer;
Undying truth
Amidst constant love
Faith to last
Emergent and extraordinary
Just faint reflections
Where, when, how yet unknown
Mysteries whisper
Eternal, unchanging realities
Enough to light skies ominous
Reach into hearts of stone
Just when you thought it’s an end of itself —
Hope reaches in
And breathes life once again.

*Dedicated to all who wait in hope and those who’ve lost the plot, but not the faith.


It’s been a really long time since I last wrote poetry. This one came about thanks to one of the weekly prompts that are posted on a Facebook group I am part of that’s called Malaysian Writers Community:

His tiny eyes
Scan his surroundings
A smile as warm as sunshine
Toddling across the room
He searches for a muse
Sticky, little fingers ever curious
Reaching out to a world of wonder
Stumbling, he remembers
Turning to meet my gaze
He contemplates the distances between
Adventure and freedom;
Comfort and familiarity.

How to catch a cloud

With your eyes tight shut and your arms outstretched,
Hopes held high, though not a dream in sight just yet
Open wide your mouth and rhythmically swallow
Before long you’ll catch some
A wind of change,
A path to follow; 
That’s yours, that cloud
So wait as long as you need for it
It will surely come soon 
Today or perhaps tomorrow. 

Been awhile since I wrote poetry. This title seems worthy of converting into a short story. Perhaps if I manage to conjure a plot, I shall. Someday. 


tiny tears in woven strands
callouses in weathered hands
harsh realities here to haunt again 

don’t break
just bend 

wound round the clock and spent
bones creaking in awkward places
spaces, renovated, up for rent
a change, a chance
that upward glance 

just cracks
not crushed 

cheeks tanned, and slightly flushed
words haphazardly falling, hastily gushed 

just crushed 

bleak, weakness
not built to withstand
swaying in the breeze
this way and that, then back again

*     *     *

It’s been awhile since I’ve done poetry. I suppose it’s nice to be back at it. Can’t seem to help that it somehow always ends up tinged with an ounce of melancholy. Is happy poetry possible? Perhaps not for me. But I should try some time, maybe.