memories are
indeed
the most beautiful thing
one can keep in a luggage
along the journey
however,
at times
the luggage gets lost
in transit
memories could also be
the most dreaded thing
that lurks in one's mind-
a luggage that refuses
to get lost
in transit
along the journey
we called
life
created after reading an email from a good old friend
what does it mean
to say good-bye
twice in a week
every step
leaves behind
a trail
for the tears
to water the flowers
that once have blossomed
a neighbour left
on Friday
another colleague left
3 hours ago
when every boat
has sailed away
when the sun has dropped
beneath the evening line
and even the moon
has not slept in the night
with sunken eyes
will someday say
the final
good-byes
one, a neighbour, the other, a colleague, who passed away on the same week
a garden frog
bewitched by the harvest moon,
a sculpture
resting on a moistened rock
echoing familiar songs
from a forgotten well
Hilda found this poem i gave her before i left Nagoya and she sent it to me to have it it included. it comes with an analysis: the garden frog is a symbol of the 'at-homeness' we ought to be acquainted with in life, the harvest moon symbolises recurring hope - a certainty of the days to come, the word 'sculpture' encapsulates the state of rest and stillness which anchored itself onto the moistened rock - the element that speaks of things which are both firm and refreshing; and the last two lines refer to the reflection of the beauty of the past, and the present, a reminiscence to be kept for the future.
i am a pink man
walking down the street
passing by an ice-cream seller
bidding me to choose a flavour
i tell him
"i'm a pink man
walking down the street
nothing in my mind
with no intention to buy"
he looks down
and tries to hide his frown
I can see it now
because i'm a pink man
it's not easy to make a living
with melting ice-cream
perspiring ice box
crying out for rest
he says
"i'm a boy
making a living
i know no pink
my sky is grey
mr pink man
won't you choose a flavour
from me"
"give me a pink
the flavour that i like
because i'm a pink man
walking down the street"
inspired by a man in pink who took the same lift
addiction
it consumes the soul
sucks dry the bone marrow
drains the spirit
invades the mind
diverts all thoughts
and evaporates the zeal
to live a life of
passionwritten during a seminar on anxiety disorder in children and adolescents by Prof Cecilia A. Essau
between my dad and mom -
brokenness,
late nights and drunkenness
between my dad and I
is but a magical moment:
the day
he made me a wooden boat,
a white, unfinished wooden boat
between my mom and I,
a separation of 15 years
and a killer
between my mom and dad
is a strange happiness,
a moment of contentment
by the hospital bed
and a 333-metre tall Tokyo Tower
between us,
a distant intimacy
written the next day after watching with my wife 東京タワー:オカンとボクと、時々、オトン, a movie based on the autobiographical book by Lily Franky, which is about Franky's family and the time he spent with his mother
in the passage of time
there have been many exchanges
of letters and postcards,
gifts and conversations
till late into the nights and
till the dawns call it a day
we wrote of the Black Bird or
the Yellow Bird
of which age has not permitted me
a vivid image of them both
we wrote of the English Patient,
the French Patient, the Swan Feather,
and many other objects of our focus
carry a symbolic element
of the ‘self’ the resides beyond the daily grind
or should I say
the extension of the ‘self’ that stretches from reality to fantasy
and memory is one of such content
memory cannot and will not
exist in the absence of time
and time is a scale
that finds itself
anchored on the rising and the setting of the stars
with the rising and falling
memory evolves into new meanings
it is able to reach into the inner recesses of the past
although the past does not evolve and
it cannot evolve
memory continues to do so
for one simple reason:
the present
is capable of shedding light
into the past
hence between life and death
time finds its meaning
and such meaning is often registered or lost
in a stoic drift or confusion between
memories, dreams and reality
based on the correspondence with a friend in Toronto between 1998 and 2000
limits are everywhere
every now and then
every here and there
you see the sign
green and white
every exit spells
a limit
but
the limit
is unreachable
when you have
an exit
to heaven
a shot taken from the place i work at. enlarge the picture to see the green and white
for winter
has stripped
them bare
in bitter cold
they stand
as
giant feathers
against the blue
and white
awaiting
the promises
in springthis shot was taken at Hakuba, Nagano in March 2004, during snowshoeing
whatever is raw
is pure
whatever is pure
is beautiful
whatever is beautiful
has to be simple
life is like a moth
caught in the casing
of a fluorescent lamp
trapped in the light
waiting for the days
to be consumed
for freedom is between
the pair of wings
frozen in space
inspired by the dead moth which was not removed from the lift I use at work
in looking for a future in my past
i conceal the past to hasten the future
and in the midst of it all
i lose the present
the directions i seek
come from the voices
around me
they speak of confusions and illusions
so i stable my mind
by fixing my gaze
on a boat which i hope has it's
anchor sleeping on the ocean bed
it bobs gently
on the sea of ignorance
subtly and hypnotically
like a spell
i am drowning within myself
directions no longer hold any meaning
my zeal has died
i am lost
shot was taken in December 2006
The cup with a print of four puppies 
and a bee,
half-filled,
was on my working table
over the weekend.
After the weekend,
the same cup
was left on my working table.
I emptied the cup.
And start the week afresh.
the cup I use in my office
