A Cold Heart v02

(Another version of the poem I submitted yesterday to MyWriters Poetry Prompt. This version appears only in this blog.)

When empathy vanishes
helpfulness fades
and kindness flies away,

Sympathy is no where to be found.

All that goes on in the mind will be
Cold heartless calculation
Of benefits and advantages,
Of what it will cost,
And how much will be lost.

Where the only matter left
that matters anymore will be
Whether it is absolutely necessary,
Whether it is really required,
Whether it is that important.

"What's so difficult?"
"Can't you do it yourself?"
The cold voice scornfully asks.

"Don't tell me you can't even
finish such a simple task"

When sheer argument
Displaces and
Replaces
Kindly love and affection,

All that remains is
A cold heart.

20191221 1658 hr
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang

Cold

A Cold Heart v01

When empathy is absent,
As helpfulness flies away
Along with kindness,
And sympathy is no where to be found.

All that is left will be
Cold calculation
Of benefits and advantages,
Of what it will cost,
And how much will be lost,

Where the only matter left
that matters anymore will be
Whether it is absolutely necessary,
Whether it is really required, or
Whether it is that important.

And about the only question left,
And posed by way of sheer argument is
"Can't you do it by yourself?"
Followed by the scornful
"Don't tell me you can't even
carry out such a simple task."

When cold calculated
cunning considerations
Displaces and
Replaces
Kindly love and affection,

All that is left is

A cold heart.

20191220
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang

Submitted to
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt (35 / 2019)

Cold

Hello?

" "Hello?" asked Shanti hesitantly, startled by the sudden ringing of the phone, only to be greeted with sinister silence at the other end."

20191217

Submitted to #MyWriters1stLiner
52 / 2019 (16th - 21st Dec)

Who's next?

"Who's next?", Hisham asked himself, brush and palette in hand, as he stared at the blank canvas before him.

20191209
Submitted to #MyWriters1stLiner
51 / 2019 (9th - 14th Dec)

Fruit of labour

Slices of fruit, in colours yellow and red,
a sight so appetising to behold.
Fruits of goodness before our eyes are laid,
waiting to be picked, eagerly from the bowl.

A platter of fruit, neatly cut, arranged,
we see in them occasion for relief.
After a meal, we seek a welcome change,
sweet and tasty, cool respite they give.


And yet we see not all the toil and labour
that was put in through many months before,
From ploughing, sowing, transplanting with much fervour,
through weeding, pruning, watering and more.

Then harvesting, packing, transporting from the farm,
until they reach the grocer, our friendly neighbour.
In neat and tidy crates, they're such a charm,
that we forget they are the fruit of labour.

20191206 1613 hr - 2225 hr
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang

Fruit of labour

The life of spice

Spice is not taken as a food, 

yet it's an item much sought after.

It does not satisfy one's gnawing hunger, 

yet brings much satisfaction to the eater.

A spice may be discarded after a meal, 

yet it cannot be left out of the cooking.

It may not taste good, taken on its own,

yet brings to life the food we're taking.

The spice goes to work subtly and quietly,

yet it turns dishes into objects of praise.

It's rarely recognised, hardly celebrated,

yet brings fame to cuisine of fine taste.

Such is the humble life of spice,

an unsung hero with much to give.

A selfless life that ends in sacrifice,

it dies that good food may live.

20191205, 2242hr

#Poetry

#PoetryByHaroldHuang 

#MyWritersPoetryPrompt 

34th / 2019

The Life of Spice.

Little Beng sat up

"Little Beng sat up with an uneasy feeling when he saw a sunbeam shining in through the bedroom window."

Submitted to:
#MyWriters1stLiner
Week 50 / 2019
2nd - 7th Dec 2019

20191118 2152hr

Burn

We burn with anger

when we read roaring remarks
     that rage against our race,
when we are witness to words by people worked-up
     to wage war against our ways.
when we peruse pages of hate
     and passages of humiliation.
   
When we experience hatred and despise
    from people who think we don't belong here,
we burn with disgust.

Our burning anger is of no use.

It is not helpful.
It brings no relief from
     nor the removal of
all the fiery hatred and disdain
     stirred up continually
by power hungry politicians.

Instead,

Let us burn with desire to see better days
Let us burn with enthusiasm to stand up
     and be counted for our country.
Let us burn with passion to work together in hope,
     standing together in comradeship.

Let us burn away our lazy inaction.
Let us burn down our self-centered conceit.
Let us burn off our haughty arrogance,
     and our prejudice against others.

Let us burn malicious words,
     and remove them from our speech.

Let us look forward to the day
     when we live as a people
     burning with love for our mother land,

a land belonging to all of us.

20191201
#Poetry
#PoetryByHaroldHuang
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
33rd prompt of 2019

Burn.

Bean and Nut

20191127
[A thought that came to mind while having tea three days ago.]

Bean and nut,
dark and pale,
deep red that's almost black,
light earth that's nearly brown.

Each satisfies differing tastes,
of different people,
in different ways.

Yet both are served
in bowls of porcelain white.

Some of us may be beans,
others may be nuts.
Some behave dark and deep,
others bright and shallow.

Whichever our colour,
whatever our nature,
each of us brings fulfilment
in our characteristic way.

Let us all dress ourselves
in attire of pure hearted white,

reaching out to others
in spotless bowls of respect,
with many spoonfuls of courtesy.

Whether
bean or nut,
dark or pale.

Started:   20191124
Finished: 20191127 10:53
#Poetry
#PoetryByHaroldHuang

Beans and Nuts
(Wisma Menjalara, Kuala Lumpur)

The clock struck midnight

"The clock struck midnight as dogs began to howl in the dark deserted lane."

Submitted to
#MyWriters1stLiner
48/2019

20191126 14:55hr

The Living and the Lively

[A poem prompted by a photo of a person posing next to a painting, with the person mimicking the character in the painting, posing with a deckchair, with hand resting on head]

One is clearly a living actor,
the other appears strangely alive.
One stands there a smiling character,
the other steps forth with drive.

One is greeted with a "Good Morning"
the other with a "Wow!".
One raises a hand, on the head resting,
the other raises eyebrows.

One is seemly in appearance,
the other a colourful sight.
One stays still, keeping one's distance,
the other, with carefree delight.

One is a living breathing being,
alive and full of thought,
the other, non-living inanimate painting,
of life it has naught.

Yet it's not the living that seems more alive,
alongside that which is dead.
It's the lifeless painting that springs to life,
becoming so lively instead.

20191126 05: 21hr
#Poetry
#PoetryByHaroldHuang

The Living and the Lively.

Dance of the hoops

20191124
[A poem about the "Petacloud", a kinetic sculpture installed in Terminal 4 of Changi Airport, Singapore.]

Shining triangles with their rounded corners,
skeletal hoops bent into uncircular shape.
A dozen of them, hanging loosely together,
they form a giant hollow metallic drape.

Glittering hoops of gold, they proudly dance,
a muted rhythm, silently but strong.
To a melody each golden hoop does prance,
guided not by music, nor by song,

Each hoop goes on a journey of its own,
a different way from any of its neighbours.
Yet all of them move together, not alone,
like a sleepy giant awaking from its slumber.

A "petacloud" it is called by its creator,
It floats around, slowly in the air,
deliberately gliding hither thither,
rising up here, settling over there.

The massive cloud, its shape gradually changes,
sometimes, for a moment it does pause.
It lumbers along, high in the air it dances,
as every hoop lends credence to its cause.

20191124
#Poetry
#PoetryByHaroldHuang
#Petaclouds

Dance of the Hoops

The blank stare

20191123
A rude encounter at the air pump of a petrol station in town a few days ago.

"Hello," I called the driver of the van
to let him know I've finished with my task,
and handed him the air pump hose and nozzle,
"Would you like to use the pump?" I asked.

He had been standing just beside his vehicle,
waiting somewhat impatiently for his turn
to use the pump on tyres low on pressure,
watching, for me to finish and return.

I thought I'd save this driver time and trouble,
by handing the reel of hose over to him,
instead of putting it back onto the pump,
"He'll be happy that I do this," to me it seemed.

To my dismay, without a word he took
the hose and nozzle away from my hands.
Giving me a stern expressionless look,
leaving me puzzled, I couldn't understand.

To think that I have tried to show some kindness,
it left me feeling annoyed, standing there,
Instead of hearing a simple word of "Thanks",
all I received was only a blank stare.

Started: 20191120
Finished: 20191123 12:41hr
#Poetry
#PoetryByHaroldHuang

The Blank Stare

Fly

What will I do if I can fly
like eagles in the sky?
If comes a day when I can rise
high up, to my surprise,

Will I soar up till heartbeat stops,
over the mountain tops?
And hover like a giant kite,
to everyone's delight?

Will I climb up to touch the clouds
and feel so glad and proud?
Then dive down to the waves below me
upon the rolling sea?

Would that I could carry out
all that I've thought about.
I will never do it right,
for I have a fear of heights.

20191122 17:05
#Poetry
#PoetryByHaroldHuang
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
32nd / 2019

Fly

Mirror of the sky

A mirror of the sky lays on the ground
quietly, with a distant, longing gaze.
She waits to catch the blue sky looking down,
to meet her perfect image face to face.

Mirror of the sky, a flawless pond
of water motionless, serenely still.
The sky arrives and stops with feelings fond,
his grand and lofty clouds the mirror fill.

Longing mirror stares upward with glee,
a perfect copy of the clouds up high.
The mirror mimics all that she can see,
each time she meets the vast and cloudy sky.

The mirror hopes the sky won't tarry long,
for soon, unruly gust of wind may blow
to stir up waves and many ripples strong,
then mirror of the sky will have to go.

20191119
#PoetryByHaroldHuang
#Poetry

Mirror of the sky

Tap, tap, tap

"Tap, tap, tap", the slow, deliberate knocks on the door made Moorthy freeze in his seat.

20191118
Submitted to
#MyWriters1stLiner
Week 48 / 2019
18th - 23rd Nov 2019

Remember, Remember . . .

(Reminders from my three-year old grandson)

Remember to put my car on top,
not buried under other stuff.
If not,
when we come home from the shop,
taking it out will be tough.

Remember to go quickly and buy
the blue truck,with a white stripe.
If not,
When the same truck other people spy,
we'll be left with other types.

Remember to come back early
from meeting with your friends.
If not,
This evening it may rain heavily,
a long wait for a taxi then.

20191118
#Poetry
#PoetryByHaroldHuang

Remember, remember . . .

Green field by the foothills

Early in the morning ere the sun
peeks over hills in subtle shades of green.
Alone I stand amidst a grassy field
with drops of dew refreshing, cool, and clean.

Fresh morning air my quiet soul surrounds,
pleasantly soothing every breath I take.
A silent wind sweeps gently o'er the field,
neither rustle nor a ripple does it make.

Its a green field 'neath the shadow of the hills,
a sea of grass spread o'er a deserted place.
Alone I stand in silent sea of green,
with drops of dew on blades of grass I face.

20191117
#Poetry
#PoetryByHaroldHuang

Green field by the foothills

Con

Con

A convocation is the coming together,
of people, partaking in the same vocation.

A confluence is a point of coming together,
of two rivers flowing in the same direction.

A conjunction indicates the coming together
of sentences, clauses, or words within a clause.

A concatenation is the coming together
of letters or words without a break or pause.

A concurrence results from the coming together
of two or more like-minded opinions

A conjugation simply means coming together
whether of verbs or of human union.

Let us make a habit of coming together
when duty calls and work beckons,
where none can accomplish without help from others,

Let us con-together.

20191114
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
#PoetryByHaroldHuang
31st / 2019
Con

My Ringgit goes Shalalalala

Written in 20161113, posted here today, a parody about the shrinking Malaysian Ringgit, sung to the tune of Shalalalala.

My ringgit goes shalala lala . . .

There's a ringgit in my purse and its value has been sinking,
All the way to the day and the night till dark clouds surround me.
He's going down for some time, now that started me thinking.
And I'm singing a song, hoping he'll bounce back when he hears me.

[Chorus]

My ringgit goes shalala lala,
going down in the morning,
Oh oh oh, shalala lala,
when will it ever see sunshine.
Shalala lala,
losing its value in the evening.
Shalala lala,
making life hard for you . . .

#PoetryByHaroldHuang

Siti opened the door

"Siti opened the door to go out for her morning walk, not knowing that the sun would not rise that day."

20191111
Submitted to #MyWriters1stLiner
Week 47/2019
11th - 16th Nov 2019

The Walk

From home I set out early in the morn

for a long walk, of which I'm very fond.

My feet are shod with shoes of sturdy soles

the firm and solid ground they surely hold.

A hat my head does shield well from the sun,

while on my face a gentle wind does run.

Foliage of green trees tower high above

still higher up the sky the white clouds move.

Each step I take along the endless way,

brings me nearer to the venue for the day.

On and on, my walk becomes hard-fought,

"Oh! A long way to go" is all that fills my thought.

Clouds are scant, skies turn blue and clear,

The day gets brighter, the sun begins to sear.

I trundle on, keeping my spirits high,

knowing well the end will soon be nigh.

At last, I cheer up, I have won the fight,

my destination appears within sight

My strength I summon, my body forward send

with a spring in my steps, I make it to the end.

20191110

#PoetryByHaroldHuang

The Walk

Gone

20191107
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
#PoetryByHaroldHuang

Gone

Baby cries in her cot
Mummy is in the bathroom
Just for a while
"Where has mummy gone?"
The infant's unspoken question
To himself
Anxious over mummy's absence
Uncertain whether she'll return.

Toddler cries at the door
Mummy has gone to the market
Just for an hour
"Why is mummy gone so long?"
The toddler's repeated question
To the baby-sitter
Anxious over mummy's whereabouts
Uncertain about when she'll return

Child cries in the classroom
Mummy has gone to work
Just for the day
"Why did mummy go away?"
The child's unanswered question
To himself
Anxious and scared
Uncertain whether she'll come back for him.

An adult cries at the funeral
Mummy has gone to heaven
Leaving him alone in this world
Just for the rest of his life
"Why must she leave?"
It's an unanswered question
For everybody
Mournful and sad
Certain that she'll never return.

Hello Mr Ko

20191104
Submitted to #MyWriters1stLiner
46th/2019, 04 - 09 Nov.

"Hello! Mr Ko Ka Yu?", the delivery boy called, amused at a name that sounded like "You piece of wood".

Wind of Change

Wind

A strong wind does blow
from one end of the sky,
it rushes to the other,
passing everyone by.

It neither howls nor whistle,
none hear it come their way.
Not a green leaf does it rustle,
No branch does this wind sway.

Yet we know it's in the air,
this silent ominous wind,
we see it moving everywhere,
and feel it deep within.

The wind makes some worried
about what their life will be,
It makes others excited
about things that they will see.

Nobody can explain the wind,
you'll find it rather strange,
it's not like any wind you've seen,
it is the wind of change.

20191101
Submitted to
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
29th of 2019

#PoetryByHaroldHuang

Ripe

The best time to do something
is when time is ripe,

Not sooner,
for then you may not be prepared for the task,

Nor later,
by then the opportunity may have passed.

The best time to say something
is when time is ripe,

Not sooner,
for then the listener may not be persuaded,

Nor later,
by then your words may no longer be needed.

So the best time for work to be done,
and the right time for words to be spoken,

is when time is ripe.

20191031
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Ripe

Catch

Let's play "Catching"!
all my friends would say,
during recess time
on a typical school day.

"Catching" is a game
 that others often call
tag, tips, tiggy, chasey,
or simply "it", that's all.

We use neither racquet,
nor stick, nor net, nor ball,
other than tagging
a friend to chase us all.

Running for dear life
when nearer the chaser comes,
for anyone who's tagged
the next chaser becomes.

Let's play "Catching"!
Happily we would say,
each day at recess time,
it's the only game we'd play.

20191030
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Catch

Injured

Mother took us for a walk,
my elder brother and I,
We strolled along Ipoh Road,
Maxwell Camp passing by.

Surrounded by dense jungle
full of undergrowth,
With monkeys high up in the trees
peering at people below.

Somewhere by the roadside,
a post office pillar box was made,
With its daily letter collection times
engraved on black metal plates,

It was my habit to run to the box
and tap and rattle those plates,
"Tap tap tap" I was wont to go,
"Rattle rattle" in reply they would state.

That evening there was something more
than just noisy tapping and rattling,
For suddenly from behind the box,
out jumped a monkey, very angry looking.

Its claws were sharp
Its canines strong and pointed,
Its front paws grabbed my left leg
on my left thigh its sharp teeth landed.

My mother and my brother shouted
and frightened off the jungle goon,
I was left shocked and crying in pain,
with blood flowing from deep wounds.

A kind old man stopped to carry me up
in his arms, all stained with blood.
Another passerby flagged down a taxi,
to the hospital to be brought.

I was carried into the taxi
by the kind-hearted old man,
Telling the driver, "Send them there!"
"As quickly as you can!"

At last we reached the hospital
Accident and Emergency zone,
The doctor on duty rushed out from his room
to attend to me alone.

Forty stitches did I get
that evening in surgery,
My left leg was in a bandage
my eyesight became blurry.

I grew up the rest of my years in school
with long and ugly scars
"What are those on your leg?"
my classmates would often ask.

Now more than fifty years have passed
since that night near Maxwell Camp,
"What's that on gong-gong's leg?"
my grandson asks his gramp.

20191029
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Injured

Ride

A little toddler on a kiddie ride,
hops on a locomotive,
colourful and bright,
with music playing, lights blinking,
rocking back and forth,
swaying side to side.
is thrilled and much excited,
though it remains in the same place,
not going anywhere.

A lively kindergarten child
climbs into a kinder train,
in the crowded fun fair,
going choo choo choo
moving along a circular track
around and around,
loves its every turn and rumble
though it returns to it's starting point,
not going anywhere.

A happy family on their vacation
boards a shiny express train
at the busy railway station,
then speeds along a winding track,
swiftly passing endless sceneries,
until they reach their destination
hundreds of miles away,
they love their pleasant train ride
though they remain earth-bound,
not going anywhere.

Each of us is on a train,
we boarded when we're born,
we've left the station behind us,
and journeyed on and on,
climbing hills, rolling through valleys,
in fine weather, through thunderous storms,
until we breathe our last,
we love our unpredictable train ride,
though we are, by consciousness bound,
of no other realm aware.

20191028
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Ride

Look, the water is rising!

"Look! The water is rising!" Atan exclaimed, as his mother stared worriedly at the raging river before them.

Submitted to

#MyWriters1stLiner
Week 45/2019

20191028

Dark

Dogs can detect smells
up to a hundred thousand times
better than we can.

Snakes can feel our footsteps
vibrating through their skulls
while we're approaching on land.

While the moth and the bat and owl,
and the elephant
and the horse,
not forgetting the dolphin too,
hear more sounds
much more clearly
than any of us do.

The eagle's eyesight is so keen,
its four to eight times better,
and far more powerful
than that of a human being.

Whilst cats,
and many nocturnal animals,
and the snake
and our neighbourhood frog,
can see well in dark places.

We human beings are feeble
compared to animals around us
for we neither hear,
nor see,
nor smell,
as keenly as they do.

Our world is dark
and restricted,
in contrast to theirs,
we move about in a narrow realm,
Living in sensory darkness.

20191026
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Dark

Tasty

An oven a splendid meal may bake,
A sumptuous dinner grill.
A perfect roast it may even make,
for us to eat our fill.

But to cook a dish that's much desired,
more is to be done,
than merely heating in oven fired,
or any stove under the sun.

For whether we sautee, grill or roast,
tasty food it will not cause.
To make a dish enjoyed the most,
the secret is in the sauce.

20191025
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Tasty

Dizzy

"What dizzying height!"
I mutter under my breath,
as I begin to walk across.

The long rope bridge,
hanging between two towering trees,
is constantly

swinging,
swaying,
sometimes bouncing,
with each step I take.

Gingerly,
I inch forward
on the canopy bridge,
suspended hundreds of feet
from the ground below,

gripping the ropes on each side
tightly,
trying to steady myself,
as I take my hesitant steps
towards the other end,

swinging,
swaying,
sometimes bouncing,
with each step I take.

I look down
briefly,
as I am about halfway across,
I feel the blood drain off from my head,
feeling as if
I'm falling off the bridge.

My knees become wobbly,
my head, dizzy,
the ground far below,
seems to be spinning slowly.

My mind tells me
that I am safe,
I know I'm holding on tightly
and on the planks
I'm stepping firmly.

Yet my heart tells me otherwise,
for I am

swinging,
swaying,
sometimes bouncing,
with each step I take,

my knees become wobbly,
my head, dizzy.

20191024
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Dizzy

Pawn

Pawn

We've been taught in school by teachers
to love people and use things.
But in this world we live among others
who use people and love things.

Those who use people for making a sum,
in turn are used by others.
Pawns they are, their pawns we become,
in earning our bread and butter.

The worker who slogs day and night,
the manager who carries out plans,
the executive who tries to get things right,
are but pawns in hidden hands.

For right at the very top sits One,
great satisfaction does he savour,
For whom everyone beneath has done
the best and biggest favour.

20191024

Submitted to:
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
28th / 2019
Pawn

Ancient

Rama found a dusty book

under an old rain-tree.

He opened it to have a look

and wondered what he'd see.

The book was full of drawings

labelled with many words.

Rama thought he was looking,

at pictures of strange birds.

He took it to a wise old friend

who many books had read.

The old man browsed with look intent

through the pages torn and bad.

He told Rama that he had found

a book called The Ancient Word.

In it was knowledge much profound

of things they've never heard.

Those strange drawings that looked like birds

were actually machines

with sides that spinning magnets gird

they're weightless from within.

The Ancient Machines ruled the sky

without the lift of air.

They rise with ease, away they fly,

magnetic fields they bear.

Rama rejoiced upon learning this,

happily he remarked,

"I'm going to make a machine like this,

for the skies I will embark"

20191023
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Ancient

Ghost

There is a house in forest green
that many say is haunted.
The locals warn against going in
Lest you become afflicted.

For in it's dark and eerie chamber
lurks a horrible host.
Whoever enters will encounter
a fearsome angry ghost.

Against such warning I went one day,
to see if it is true.
I wanted to prove that what they say
is just a tale or two.

With trembling hands I opened its door
and slowly stepped inside.
Suddenly before me on the floor
I saw a frightening sight.

Unpleasant scenes appeared one by one,
memories from my past.
Scenes of bad things I had done,
at which I stood aghast.

A ghost indeed that day I saw,
it struck me with much fear.
Like no other ghost you've heard before,
It's the ghost of yesteryear.

20191022
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Ghost

The Sound of Ignorance

Written seven years ago as a personal note, on 20120523 0043hr.
Posted here today 20191022.

The Sound of Ignorance.
(Sung to the tune of Simon & Garfunkel's Sound of Silence)

Hello, students my old friends,
I'm here to talk to you again,
Because a thought is slowly rising
In my mind it's not surprising,
That the ideas that are carried in my thought
Will not be sought
. . . amidst the sound of ignorance.

In sleepy class I teach alone
To blank expressions cold as stone.
'Neath the shadow of a fluorescent lamp,
I am talking to a mindless camp,
When my words are stopped by the ringing of your phone -
A startling tone
. . . it breaks the sound of ignorance.

In the fluorescent light I see
Thirty people minus three,
People chatting while I'm speaking,
People sleeping and not listening,
People sending texts to others everywhere,
And no one cares
. . . about the sound of ignorance.

There's something you do not know:
Ignorance like cancer grows.
Hear my words and let me speak to you.
Take my hand and let me lead you.
But my words - flow like water from the rain,
Into the drain
. . . drowned by the sound of ignorance.

And you students laughed and played
With the avatars you've made.
Then your phone flashed out a warning,
as its battery charge is waning,
But the warning of your teacher you ignored,
And you're bored
. . . amidst the sound of ignorance.

(by Harold Huang, 23-5-2012 0043 hr)

As Lee was getting ready

"As Lee was getting ready to go home, she suddenly remembered that she had left her little child in the back seat of her car."

Submitted to
#MyWriters1stLiner
44/2019 (21st to 26th Oct 2019)

20191022

Treasure

A treasure of things we have in a trove,
Along our journey in life.
Land and houses, with gold that we love,
For such we work and strive.

We labour, we struggle, we devote our lives,
to gather, store and keep,
A mass of fortune we proudly call
our hard earned treasure heap.

Single-mindedly, we live our lives,
to build up more and more,
Our treasure grows, its value increases,
Until we can build no more.

Then,

At the end of life, we run our last mile
and take our final breath,
We realise we can't take our treasure in style
across the chasm of death.

Alas! The truth stares us in the face,
we realise we have lost,
That the wealth we have built in life's race
aren't worth what they have cost.

For the treasure we hold, those precious things,
are all but vain and worthless,
While things we've ignored, those we should have treasured,
are truly loved and priceless.

For what's really dear, the kindness of loved ones,
and of friends sincere.
Are the only treasure by our side
when the shadow of death draws near.

20191021
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Treasure

Tread

"Tread quietly",
the soldiers were told,
As they moved out to capture
the enemy stronghold.

"Tread slowly",
the hikers were reminded,
To keep close to their guide
so that they will not be stranded.

"Tread cautiously"
we should ourselves remind,
When going forth on paths unknown,
lest we end up in a bind.

"Tread wisely"
in many books we've read,
That fools are wont to venture
where angels dare not tread.

20191020
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Tread

Sling

I'm going on a holiday

some baggage I must bring,

Some change of clothes along the way,

and my blue bag on a sling.

I make my way from place to place
trying new food and drinks,
Sundry manner of customs I face
with my blue bag on a sling.

Many vivid scenes I see,
flowing rivers, cooling springs,
I'll always bring along with me
my blue bag on a sling.

My heart is happy, and full of cheer
with a smile a song I sing,
As I carry on my journey here,
my blue bag's on a sling.

20191019
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Sling

After picking his last piece

#MyWriters1stLiner Week 43/2019
14th - 19th October 2019

After picking his last piece of firewood, Ah Chong got up, turned around to go home, only to run into a pack of stray dogs.

Submitted on 20191018

Misfit

Pussy and melons,
Prick and balls,
As a child I've learnt them all.

Decent words
they've always been
Until some changed the way they're seen.

You are a misfit
if these you use
as harmless words, you'll sound confused.

They think you shouldn't
use such words,
in ways other than they've always heard.

A happy merry word
like gay
Is now understood in another way.

You are a misfit
if you don't say
it in a homosexual way.

Cheeks and lips
are now seen by many
as hidden parts of the anatomy.

So are tits,
a slang for teats,
Those baby birds won't find it neat.

Of all the animals
we've been taught,
the cock and the ass are most distraught,

Following closely
is the bitch,
who hates the way her name is pitched.

You are a misfit
if you use
such words carelessly in your muse.

For they have changed
from what they've been,
from what they always used to mean.

20191018
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Misfit

Ornament

A ring on a finger

    serves no useful purpose,

Save to adorn the wearer

    and be part of looking pompous.

Yet it can be highly prized,

    it's sought after by many,

Greatly valued, though small in size,

     it's worth a lot of money.

           It's an ornament.

A pendant on a necklace

     when worn around the neck,

Brings no helpful benefits

     save attention to attract. 

Yet it may cost some pieces of gold,

     afforded by only a few

To the most discerning it is sold,

     for looking bright and new.

          It's an ornament.

Like pendants, necklaces and rings,

     many such things we love,

We're willing to pay a price, to bring

     home to our treasure trove.

          Such are ornaments.

20191017
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Ornament

Wild

Animals foraging in the wood,
Fishes swimming under sea,
Birds flying as high as they could,
All are living wild and free.

The lion has no money to worry about
The dolphin no loan to repay
Nor parrot has any wealth to build up
Like humans do today.

Under sea, on land, and in the air,
Their abode is far from me,
While I'm burdened by many a care,
They're living wild and free.

20191016
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Wild

Sunrise

The sun arrives each pristine morning
      to mark the break of day,
She ushers in a new beginning
      in a silent intrepid way.

Ascending slowly in the sky,
      along an unseen line,
Going forth and rising high
     upon the land she'd shine.

On the days of equinox
      vernal and autumnal,
Sunrise comes at time o'clock
     when days and nights are equal.

During summer solstice day
      she rises very early,
Traversing skies for a longer stay
     and sets reluctantly.

But on cold winter solstice day,
      she loathes the early dawn,
Instead, she makes her own delay
      to bring forth a later morn.

Over and over again she appears
      each time at break of day,
We welcome sunrise without fear
     in every place we stay.

20191016
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
27th / 2019

Sunrise

Legend

The Legend of Words,
     is an extraordinary writer:

By a few simple words,
     many are impressed;

With short simple sentences,
     profound truth expressed.

In common phrases,
     deep meaning is laid;

Via concise verses
     interpretation made.

Through a few short lines,
     a clear image is drawn;

And within a paragraph,
     a vivid picture borne.

Many are thus smitten
     by this extraordinary writer;

For no one else has written
     in such legendary manner;

No other
     but the one and only,
     the Legend of Words.

20191015
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Legend

Overgrown

It's just a patch of vacant land
Overgrown with weeds,
And everyday the passer-by
Pays scarcely any heed.

But little do the humans know
That hidden deep beneath
The tall grass and thick undergrowth
A village you will meet.

In one corner a snake lays still
Sleepy from its meal,
Down a path, an earthworm creeps
So slowly through the fill.

A spider keeps watch in its web
Waiting for its prey,
To fly in unsuspectingly
From just a mound away.

The crickets in their happy mood
Are chirping loud and clear,
While bugs and bees fly through the wood
Buzzing in one's ears.

All this while the human thinks
There's not much underneath,
It's just a patch of vacant land
Overgrown with weeds.

20191014
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Overgrown

Switch

A switch is but a small device
That lets a current through.
We use switches everyday
To ease the tasks we do.

A switch is used each time we need
To make a lamp light up,
To make the TV come alive,
And drip coffee into a cup.

Switches exist everywhere
More widely than we think,
Without them we'll be in despair,
In every electrical thing.

Submitted to
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
26th/2019

Switch

20191014

Ash

There is a little kitchen
       where fire-wood is stashed.
The air is often smoky,
       the stove is full of ash.

Each day before the cooking
       some fire-wood is placed
neatly into the brick-lined stove,
       and slowly set ablaze.

When the fire-wood's aflame
      burning well and good,
The cooking starts to go ahead
      with sparks and ash and soot.

When at last the cooking's done
       and the wood is in a stash,
All that's left is smoky air
       and a stove that's full of ash.

20191013
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Ash

Dragon

Everyone of us
Have dragons to be fought,
A bad habit, an addiction,
A weakness we have got.

Some dragons are dauntingly huge,
While others are quite small.
Some appear so fierce and strong,
Others just annoying, that's all.

Like a giant dragon
When addiction we fight,
It's ferociously strong
It takes us all our might.

A little annoying dragon
A bad habit may be,
It takes some conscious effort
For us to make it flee.

We spend our lifetime fighting,
Weaknesses we blame,
For everyone of us
Have dragons to be tamed.

20191012
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Dragon

How Enchanting

#MyWriters1stLiner Week 42/2019
7th - 12th October 2019

"How enchanting!" said the little girl watching the drama on television, as a tall shadow loomed slowly behind her.

Submitted on 20191011

Snow

I would like to touch some snow
And see what it is like.
For in the land I live and grow
The days are hot and bright.

It's delightful, it is cold,
That substance they call snow.
Lovely to touch and to behold,
That's what I'm always told.

So one day I would like to go
To where it always snows.
To see and feel and really know
That substance they call snow.

20191011
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Snow

Pattern

Life is a pattern
Of moving forward
As soon as one is born.

From helpless babe
To restless child
To rebellious adolescent

Becoming strong-willed adult,
Leading to anxious middle age,
Slowing down
Getting old

'til frailty and illness set in,
'til life comes to an end.

Life is a pattern

Of moving on,
Of never going back,

From birth to death,
From cradle to grave.
The same pattern we track.

20191010
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Pattern

Swing

The swing has not much to its name,
nor beauty to behold.
It's just a seat hung from a frame,
with ropes for us to hold.

It stands quietly on the ground,
just waiting in plain sight.
Until at last a child comes 'round,
and hops on with delight.

We see such excitement and joy,
on the face of the happy child.
Almost as if a new-found toy,
it swings so free and wild.

20191009
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Swing

Frail

With trembling hands
he coaxed
the pair of unsteady chopsticks
to pick up a morsel,
bringing it
gingerly
to his mouth.

With shivering jaws
and chattering teeth,
barely chewing,
it was yet
another struggle
to finish up his food.

Day after day,
meal after meal,
the frail old man
perseveres
to satisfy
his constant hunger pangs.

20191008
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Frail

Enchanted

They say the place is bewitched,
that it has been put under a spell.
Some call it the enchanted castle,
for every visitor will tell

that no sooner have you crossed the draw-bridge,
and step in through its gatehouse,
than an eerie silence befalls
one and all,
from which silence none can be aroused.

This is the enchanted castle,
it leaves visitors spell-bound.
Having become the enchantee,
they leave without turning around.

20191007
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Enchanted

Husky

My teacher he has a husky voice,
his speech unclear and hoarse.
Yet he's well loved by us boys,
for he's earnest in getting across.


He teaches us with all his heart,
rising above our noise,
His expert knowledge he does impart,
we love his husky voice.

20191006
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Husky

The Spiral of Life

Life leads us
step-by-step
down an endless flight of stairs.

A spiraling stairway
where we can only walk down,
and only look back
but never climb up again.

It's an unending descent
into the unknown
called the future.

We are compelled
to keep stepping forward,
going deeper into the spiral,
getting lost in our pursuits of life.

Always looking for a better future,
yet never certain if the steps ahead
will prove better than those we've left behind.

For we are all journeying into the unknown
along the spiral of life.

Submitted to
#MyWritersPoetryPrompt
25th/2019
On Sunday 20191006

Build

A house we build with timber and nails,
A ship is built with anchor and sails.

We build an aircraft to fly the skies,
but for friendship that never dies,

we do it with much sacrifice.

20191005
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Build

Freeze

It's more than fearsome
when you freeze
in the midst of writing out your piece

When an idea that had
unfolded so vividly,
is now met with words that cease.

It's a stall, it's a block,
it's everything you'd not like to meet,
For a freeze in your writing
makes you frozen in your seat.

20191004
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Freeze

Bait

Like a bone for a dog,
and a worm for a fish,
It's always something you like,
It's been always in your wish.

Now, it's there right before you,
in front of your very eyes.
It's within reach and waiting,
your desires it satisfies.

So you reach out for it,
and grab it with both hands,
"It's a prize", you thought,
"it can't be found in other lands"

Alas, you're undone, my helpless friend,
For ere have you taken hold of your prize,
than it has taken hold of your hand,
and from it you can never
ever be prised.

20191003
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Bait

Mindless

Like a horde of mindless beasts,
the rioters appeared,
rushing out of a street corner,
a situation everyone feared.

They surged towards the police line,
approaching officers holding shields,
armed with batons, tear-gas canisters,
all ready for battle to wield.

A mindless battle then ensued,
with rioters stoning the officers in view,
who replied with tear gas rounds and baton charge,
to drive them away, and to capture a few.

20191002
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Mindless

Ring

A ring on your finger
shows your commitment for life.
It goes around and around,
There's no end to its life.

He puts a ring on her finger
to take her into his life,
to care for, love and to cherish,
through hardship he must strive.

She puts a ring on his finger
to receive him into her life,
to belong to him, to be always by his side
and be called his very wife.

20191001
#Poetry #PoetryByHaroldHuang #Inktober

Ring

Mind

"Mind your head"
The signboard says,
telling you to go through
the door with care.

"Mind your step"
Say the bright yellow words,
painted boldly at the edge
of the long flight of stairs.

"Mind your language"
The teacher warned,
telling the talkative student
from foul words to refrain.

"Mind your manners"
A mother reminded
her child at dinner time,
good behaviour to maintain.

"Mind your mind"
The writer quips,
while thinking of a plot
for a story
that's hard to find.

Submitted to MyWriters PoetryPrompt 24/2019
On 20190929

A Long Journey

A long journey

I am reading a long-winded story
As I travel onward bound
for a busy crowded distant city
from my sleepy little town


Across peaceful quiet valleys
and a vast expansive plain,
I'm seated in this sturdy coach
Of a rocking rolling train.

It is a book that I had bought
Almost a year ago
Which I have read but less than half
Of all there is to know

So at last today I'm coming back
To resume from where I left
I've made progress in six good hours
And will finish it all by myself.

Haze, Dude

The haze is all around us in Malaysia . . .

Haze, Dude, don't make it bad,
It's been so long, yet not gettin' better.
Remember who let all the fires spread,
Only you can start to make things better

Haze, Dude, we're so afraid,
You were supposed to put out the fires.
The minute you let them burn all your greens,
Then you'll never begin to make it better.

And anytime you feel our pain,
Hey, Dude, refrain,
Don't carry the fires upon your jungles.
For well you know that we're no fools,
Who asks you to
Start making our world a little cooler.

Nah, nah nah, nah nah, nah nah, nah nah . . .

I Wish - Malaysia Day 2019

I wish

I wish we speak Bahasa Malaysia
As much as we speak our own mother tongue.

I wish we sing our NegaraKu
As heartily as other songs we have sung.

I wish we raise our Malaysia Flag
As proudly as we raise our voice

To tell the world that we are one people,
Of one nation, in which we rejoice.

I wish I can tell everyone
everywhere
at all times
that we are all Malaysians,

As we stand up for one another,
we stand tall among all nations.

Selamat Hari Malaysia ke-56.
20190916

Submitted to star2 @ thestaronline
for #OneWithMalaysia feature column.

I wish - for Malaysia

I wish, for my country.

I wish we all speak the same language
when we go out with one another,
While we speak different languages
within our homes
with our family members

I wish we all stand for the same anthem
and sing it proudly with one another,
While we play and sing our own favourite songs
when alone,
with our friends at leisure

And I wish we all identify as the same people
when asked to what race we belong,
While our food and attire and traditions may differ,

We tell everyone,
everywhere,
at all times,

that we are Malaysians,
Forever.

20190916
#PoetryByHaroldHuang

Submitted to star2 @ thestaronline
for #OneWithMalaysia feature column.

He who jumps

Jump

He who jumps to conclusions
risks falling into error

He who jumps with excitement
will fall back into the mundane

He who jumps at an opportunity
may fall into disappointment

He who jumps through hoops,
leaping over hurdles,
and
skipping past hindrances

to make a dream come true

will be filled
with lasting satisfaction

Submitted to MyWriters Poetry Prompt 23/2019, 15Sep19.
On 20190916

Lost

MyWriters Poetry Prompt
22nd prompt of 2019
08 - 14 September

Some things are lost
because we had them
in our possession
at one time

A prized watch
A pen
A pendant for a necklace

that can no longer be found

Other things are lost
because they passed by us
before our eyes
in full view

An invitation
An offer to hold office
An opportunity to a better occupation

that can no longer be revisited

While one can sometimes be found again,
the other will remain lost forever.

Submitted on 20190914 1909hr

When cashless payment fails

20190914 1149hr

Mobile cashless payments in Malaysia: is our telecom infrastructure ready to cope with the rising demand?

I was queuing to pay at Guardian Pharmacy Station-18, when the cashiers encountered difficulties processing the Touch n Go e-Wallet transaction for the gentleman in front.

After a long wait, they told him that the transaction wasn't going through. He asked them if he could use Boost instead. I couldn't hear their reply clearly, but it had something to do with more difficulties of another nature.

In the end the gentleman politely moved aside and kindly allowed me to pay for my items first, while waiting to resolve his situation.

I had encountered similar difficulties using Touch n Go at Tesco near my home some time ago. After a long wait involving several retries, the poor cashier had to ask me if I could pay by cash instead.

A teenager's suicide, and her mother's grief

20190914 1238hr

A teenager's suicide: is it always the parents' fault?

I came across an article about a mother's grief over the loss of her teenage daughter through suicide, excerpt and link below:

"Published in 2019 by Ethos Books, Loss Adjustment is a personal reflection by copy-editor Linda Collins on her journey with her husband, Malcolm McLeod, after their daughter, Victoria, committed suicide in 2014. 

Collins, 60, works as a copy editor at the political desk of the Straits Times. McLeod is deputy picture editor at ST. 0 

Victoria was their only child. 

Three years after the incident occurred, Collins recounts her 17-year-old daughter’s suicide in this book, weaving in her daughter’s diary entries, personal memories and accounts from the people in her life"

https://mothership.sg/2019/09/loss-adjustment-suicide-daughter-book/ 

Some of the comments on the original post in facebook accuse Victoria's parents of neglect, and of not reaching out to her when she was in pain.

Was it necessarily so?

I agree with those who say that the bond between parent and child could have been fractured long before the suicide took place. And that sharing meals together did not help alleviate the pain in Victoria's hidden life.

However, at the same time, we have yet to ascertain the origin, the circumstance or series of circumstances that brought about the silent "wailing of a bruised and battered heart".

It may not be entirely the parents' failure to reach out,or should I say reach in, to her. Her decision to end her life could perhaps be avoided if she had reached out to her parents for help instead.

After all, her mother was kept in the dark throughout the years.

Blinding flash of lightning

MyWriters FirstLiner
Week 37/2019
09 - 14September

"A blinding flash of lightning nearby, followed by a deafening clap of thunder made Jeff desperate, as he held on for dear life."

Submitted on 20190909 1833hr

Bewitching witches be watching watches

20190905 16:18 hr

In response to a "Word Wednesday" prompt on a facebook page,

"If two witches watched two watches, which witch would watch which watch"

Which witch watching which watch
depends on
which other witch was watching which other watch.

For the witch watching over one watch
is a different witch from
the other witch watching over the other watch.

As the one watch watched by one witch
is not the same as
the other watch watched by the other witch.

Whatever the witch watches,
whichever the watch watched,
comes down to
which witch first watched which watch.

Press on, Press on

MyWriters Poetry Prompt
1st Prompt of 2019
21 - 27 Jan 2019

Press on.
Press on.
Her mind keeps saying,
As she summons yet another ounce of strength
to climb another step

Stop.
Stop.
I can't climb anymore!
Her limbs cry out,
Yearning for respite from the unyielding cliff
and inhospitable rocks.

The war must be fought,
The battle must be won.
She must yield only to the urging of her determination,
Never to the cry of of her desperation.

She must not turn to the crimson life-line that is waiting for her to give up.
She must not let go.


Submitted on 21Jan2019 2125hr

Sold Out

MyWriters FirstLiner
Week 1/2019
07 - 12 Jan 2019

 "Sold Out" the sign says to the crowd at the warehouse entrance, as their expectant looks turned into disappointed gazes.

Submitted on 09Jan2019 1427hr