a little note to the lord

you are beginning to whisper near the place
where i lay my head to sleep.
this language is new. a mix of invitations between my soul and you
a door is opened whenever a sharp and silent string
pulls

and swiftly makes taut the veins that nourish that bulb of pain.
there are strange days when i wanted to saw
my tender tendon nerves into 2.

lord, does pain engender greater trust in you?
once, your salvific acts brought me strength.
your bearing of cross, flagrum and hyssop were perfect metaphors
for my catholic depth. physicality was what i sought.
these consoling sacramental parts of gospel truth enabling
mere human handicaps to become extraordinary
long-suffering happy saints.
do you remember the naive volumes of notes i used to pen,
in memory of you?

i can now sit still and demolish in perfect peace
these old blocks of archaic theology.
i fold old (copious) diaries into paper boats and moor them away.
find delight in holy darkness as their white lights set
sail to indifferent seas.

saying this, i sense a storm would break and make me cold,
still nothing came forth. a somnolent sky stretches,
to stare on me.
i have become a subtle brute in the way i pray.
but i see your smile, lord.

and you return this evening

to carry me,

ruffle my hair

and kiss my cheek.

poem before bed

i saw an elegiac portrait of my(self) in these lines today...the transformation of what the two years have brought, not just the period of hospitalisation recently spent away from home...a placid read before bed.Nothing is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland. There, they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

noel coward (1899-1973)

son, brother, soldier

it was coincidental that my previous entry was written days prior to the news published in the main papers. our words echoed the same mercy. it concerned the sentence melted out on the serviceman who took a rifle out of camp and intended to use it to attack his girlfriend and others. i don't know if any more severe strokes of the cane are going to 'help' him; already a damaged victim himself from years of domestic abuse and acute rejection within his own family, traced from childhood. all the people dave ever felt close to have either left him or passed away. a poignant account stated how he kept a picture of his younger brother, (whom he was close to but was killed in a road accident when they were children), inside his camp cupboard throughout his depression. sadly, not a single kin appeared in court to lend support to him. dave teo remained a lone soul till the end. he seemed to yearn for connection to the irrevocable loss sustained from childhood. i shall not speculate anymore.
The sentence was too harsh and could have been lighter in view of other mitigating or humane reasons even though the possession of live arms is itself a serious crime. the rare words spoken by the courts hold meaning beyond the prison...the same if not adapted version of what is found in scripture...justice tempered by mercy, if only and possibly healed, with words.

"My heart hurts for you that so young a man will have to spend some of the best years of his life in prison and have to understand so many strokes of the cane, but i trust you understand a deterrent sentence is unavoidable in the circumstances.

dave, you have had a very hard life. i hope that this unfortunate and traumatic wrong turn in your life will make you much more mature and a whole lot wiser and that you will spend the next few years reconstructing your young life. I hope that you will pursue your studies, listen to good advice from counsellors and learn many skills while in prison and that, upon your release, you will have a life full of meaning and purpose to honour the memory of your grandmother and your beloved younger brother.

it has been written ' To everything there is a season.' There was a time when you loved, and there was a time when you hated. There was a time when you felt you wanted to kill, now is the time for you to heal. There was a time when you were broken down, now is the time to build yourself up. There was a time when you were at war in your being, now is the time to restore peace within."

seed of his word

lines from scripture which have stayed with me for a long time. they have been the stuff of my growing years...when simple ideals are tested by fire, a few becoming gold while others are charred away...exercising patience when plans do not go my way...letting go when it is easier to cling on...build a new window with God, when shards are all that remains...

Ecclesiastes




For everything there is a season,


And a time for every matter under heaven:







A time to be born, and a time to die;



A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;





A time to kill,
and a time to heal;




A time to break down,
and a time to build up;



A time to weep,
and a time to laugh;



A time to mourn,
and a time to dance;




A time to throw away stones,
and a time to gather stones together;



A time to embrace,
And a time to refrain from embracing;




A time to seek,
and a time to lose;




A time to keep,
and a time to throw away;




A time to tear,
and a time to sew;



A time to keep silence,
and a time to speak;


A time to love,
and a time to hate,



A time for war,
and a time for peace.



Ecclesiastes 3:1-8