My consolidation of my poems.

Just so I know what I've written, I'm gonig to chunk all my poems here. They range from the most recent to the not-so-recent, in that order.

Desperately rhymed and rythm-ed

It was a night for artful poet's speech,
a greater night one just could not beseech.
A club, it was, where this event was held,
of poet's hearts, in rhyme, the audience felt.

It all seemed right, it did, when starting out,
McNiece did rant about American flout
of wars and squalls, the grunt's welfare's ignored.
"No wars," they pray, yet more often than not,
their cries turned blind, no one can see their plight.
What's left is seen in Ray's poem and pride.

But as the judges graced the bartop seats,
the poems' standard did begin to slip.
The stage was but a playground for the kids
that play with words and try to make them click
to rhyme in limericks, skits and aural tricks.
And even if the poem's point was dear,
the gimmicks presence can't but help to blur,
the meaning of it all, the poem's smeared
by childish stints to make them seem favored.

Of all the teams that did participate,
they most had salient poems to narrate.
But no! They pranced and danced and made a fool
of their poems, poetry's but a tool
for their own purpose, not to seek nor lead,
but as a mean to win five hundred quid.
Integrity is missing in this slam,
as poetry is now something that's 'glam',
and to participate is intellect,
when verily their poems do quite lack
respect.

Paraded like a clockwork monkey, no?
It's acted out, it's trite and all a show,
teams after teams repeat the same old thing,
poetry now has but become a fling
for these poets, if they can be called thus,
disdain for poems seen in every verse
as they with smug expressions take the stage
and douse the audience with contrived garbage.

I'm sorry I condemn and acting thus,
but poetry is like my papyrus,
to scribe my thoughts and other discontent,
in rhyme and verse, my frustrations are vent.

Yet of the rest, there were a few good gems
that brought out spice to this poetry slam.
Called Kueh Kuehs, they had points to bring across,
they didn't need tricks, they had plain discourse
of womanhood, of blithe society;
vagina; unrest; stark community.

I left the venue enveloped in stench,
of chimneys' exhaust, produced by the bench
that seated next to us, group of many,
had fags to burn, their intake was aplenty.

I left the venue quite at loss for words,
my virgin slam, I remain quite perturbed.


Concrete

The grain and gravel
that crunch beneath my feet.
Gray; unfeeling,
waiting to tear the skin
of uncovered knees
that trip over the gaps between,
raised by undergrowth, warped by time.

Walking down, the grass that grows within
boxed planters of concrete,
growing, without freedom
to expand out of the pruned boundaries.

The monoliths that line the sides,
rise up to impale the sky,
as it bleeds,
red and purple,
casting lengths of darkness below,
living behemoths that house the hive
of hundreds, thousands residents.

The flowers flourish on the sidewalk,
as spurned petals from trees grace the concrete.
The gray finds company from the yellows,
who fell from grace from the majesty of pruned rain trees.
The explosion of color (not colors) grant reprieve
but only till the sweeper comes.


A Pupil

The pupil reacts to life,
it takes in sights, both bad and nice.
At tender age, it has to strife
for laziness, they claim, induces slack eyes.

Eyes cannot speak, the pupil notes,
all glittering black and watery.
In schools, the teachers shriek
and pupils dilate in fear,
for fear of the hard edge
against their sides,
the pupil contracts.
Eyes crossed out.

The pupil now sees, with passing age,
from behind a cataract
of clouded vision, tainted views,
the pupil is myopic.


The Ideal Singaporean

The Ideal Singaporean,
is a global citizen.
He fasts on science, he mechanizes.
The perfect automaton.

The ideal Singaporean,
speaks what he wants to say,
only if it agrees with propaganda.
The perfect proletariat.

The ideal Singaporean,
is a fluent speaker
of many tongues, though fractured and twisted.
Ah, excellent communicator.

The ideal Singaporean
will never write this poem.


Speech

My poem lacks strength and form,
My essays in want of spirit.
My discourse dull and lacking,
for I do not know why I speak.

There is no reason, there is no right
as can and can'ts conflict.
I want to speak, I really do
But no! For rules and laws are rigid.

What is this freedom you peddle,
bonded with sloughs you've drawn with your hand?
I see dismal banters, waning colors -
Bland.


The Master and the Sea

No matter how it tries to keep him in,
No matter how the waves threaten to sink,
The Master rides, aloft the hefty seas,
Defies the tide, the Master reigns supreme.
Deluged in knowledge, tries to stifle him,
Pertubed with concerns of the Master's whims.
It scolds with torrents, briny watery sins,
The Master's weak, yet right he claims to be.

The bolt and shackle, ties me, tries to, it;
Establishment, vast, vague and yet vapid.
I am the ruler of my own true means,
No spilling grave shall lord me. For because
the might of power, parental loving
shall protect me from evil raging dints
on mine true pride and honor, tis too dear.
No one but me knows what for me is clear.

Poor little sailor, don't you see your doom?
Your whiny steerings, naught but bad will loom.
My churnings seek not to undo your will,
But only to ensure eventually you've learned.

I am the Master, I decide my fate.
Your piteous waves are weak and meek; stupid.
Do I not know my own true course in life?
Your meddling floods, bother others, not mine.

Hark my ebbs, young Master, you have no time
Tsunami waits to claim your worthless life.

Foolish sea, you should end ceaseless pleas.
Always adrift? Ha! Just you wait and see.

He is my Master, I, the sea have tried.

It tries to make me submit to its tides.


The Man

The man smiles into the mirror,
the reflection smiles back at him.
He sees true self, true feelings,
the replied grin's no hypocrite.

Beyond the mirror, behind the man,
Men sees man smiling into mirror.
They frown
for man's merry mirth appears on shiny screen.

The man turns around,
the reflection too.
No more mirrored smiles on the glaze,
Men's frowns disappear too.

The man ceases to be merry,
for Men are happy.
Man turns back to mirror, frowns,
reflection frowns too.

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Woah that's a hellotta shitload of poems I've written. I never knew I wrote so much.