Moments Momentarily Momentous

Dear Readers, 

this Saturday was a very strange one, at least for theokwek - it was the first in a long time not going for YO rehearsal, and tkwek felt...strangely empty. But still, it's hard to feel empty for long when you've a Chinese practice paper and history practice essays to complete. Oh well. A game of (highly amateur) soccer helped, too.

Tkwek's decided to group the poems of the past two days in the same post. Which means a repeat poem from yesterday's post, because these two are more similar. Do remember to read the essay and the other poem in the previous post too! (if you've time amidst the mugging, that is)

and all's well that ends well.

and let us be kites,

silently torrential, where

the wind catcheth not.

The Straight Times Editor.

Reflections on Palm Valley

These unmoving trees –
Men that guard a valley in an
undulating land.

Banyan, palm, acacia, rain;
to each a special name
recording, remembering, not just what
manner of leaves grown on these branches
but who
has been here,
and done what.

Every slice
of laughter-silvered bark
a monument to
entrapped kites and
liberated souls.

Sometimes I wonder
if they know, and if
they remember, the
playmates who once frolicked,
couples who once kissed,
parents who once fought,
and poets who once wrote
in their benevolent shade –
or whether they even realize
that in this gentle stretching
of wooden arms
they have been an
unacknowledged blessing
to friends they
never met.

A ball rolls from beneath a canopy,
followed by a boy;
there is a suppressed rustling
like a chuckle.

Branches bend into smiles.
They know.

Rainy mornings

It is the season
of wet awakenings;

and as through the showers
I gently tread – footfalls
soft amidst the raindrops –
there is the beautiful peace
of being frozen in a
blessing.

Every
thought, moment, idea,
is crystallized into a sphere,
each a globule of wisdom
torrential in itself.

Elongated
by the reluctant tug
of a motherly earth, they
hang from the sky;
hanging in a way
so free and pure
that man can never
know.

As I look up,
inspiration shatters
on my glasses, blurring
the earth into a tangle of
lines that somehow do
not divide
left, right, up, down, right, wrong
anymore. It is a
realization that
taps me on the shoulder, and
as I turn, caresses me
on the arm.

A realization that falls
(like gentle dew of mercy)
on puzzled parchment lips.

Later,
squeaky shoes on concrete
remind me that a mere
schoolboy has touched
– or has been touched by –
a spring of life.