Joy to a Pint
for Iris
for Iris
Over a pint or two we sipped & spoke
of night, its prowess at blanketing what
scars the day had left behind. Tessellations
of age on the wooden beer table - someone
had etched his name in deep strokes, a penknife
of drunken rage or mischief. Why he needed
of night, its prowess at blanketing what
scars the day had left behind. Tessellations
of age on the wooden beer table - someone
had etched his name in deep strokes, a penknife
of drunken rage or mischief. Why he needed
a penknife? We clinked our health to mystery. Light-
headed bantering. Cups clinking in chorus, good
company's cohesion. The bar’s lights' ceased to be
ordinary, you said. Soon they chased each other
like lovers across a universe: the ceiling, convoluted
as if someone had slashed the lights with a raised
headed bantering. Cups clinking in chorus, good
company's cohesion. The bar’s lights' ceased to be
ordinary, you said. Soon they chased each other
like lovers across a universe: the ceiling, convoluted
as if someone had slashed the lights with a raised
shard. Your finger traced that name now remembered
by candlelight. Your face a psalm over a pint .
Published in Marc Nair's 2016 Anthology:
"This Is Not A Safety Barrier"
"After the Haze"
by candlelight. Your face a psalm over a pint .
Published in Marc Nair's 2016 Anthology:
"This Is Not A Safety Barrier"
"After the Haze"
There. Leaves swirling like snakes
on the road,
rising, pinioned to strike.
Sky’s grey venom, fanged thunderclouds.
On the news, hailstorms pelt down Jurong.
Buildings and cars agonised by ice shards.
Beyond the windows, rain, closely falling,
distant
whiplash
of lightning
of lightning
–
flashes.
We’ve little
inkling what goes on beyond
the pale pane of
windows. Hear them rattling,
ghosts rapping,
about to come in.
We’ve little
inkling what goes on beyond
the mentality of
thick, weathered skulls:
Some colleagues jest, “Why no hail
our district?”
That frost of mouths could
bring the curses, invite in
the ghosts.
The snaking leaves
swept
nowhere by the
deluge. Our fortune
of not-yet hailstorms.
Published by the Singapore American Newspaper (SAN) in its 2013 issue.
"Latte Art"
Enter the cafe of quaint and cozy coffee.
Some black-clothed crew at the counter, uddering
coffee machines the look of time capsules.
Invite yourself down upon a wooden chair, dim
lighting -- listen to the slow & waltzing music. Let it
permeate soul. You're one of the few reserved patrons.
The matron of the cafe's a cup of coffee
of your pick and choice, served by smiling hands
that's sketched a mural upon the coffee-face.
A simple rosetta or leaf means the staff's busy.
A peacock or winking bear implies
the artist's a little cheesy with the moment.
That's nothing to do with the toast of sincerity.
Designs are merely cream that layer brown soul,
the sip of which rejuvenates your tired one.
Some black-clothed crew at the counter, uddering
coffee machines the look of time capsules.
Invite yourself down upon a wooden chair, dim
lighting -- listen to the slow & waltzing music. Let it
permeate soul. You're one of the few reserved patrons.
The matron of the cafe's a cup of coffee
of your pick and choice, served by smiling hands
that's sketched a mural upon the coffee-face.
A simple rosetta or leaf means the staff's busy.
A peacock or winking bear implies
the artist's a little cheesy with the moment.
That's nothing to do with the toast of sincerity.
Designs are merely cream that layer brown soul,
the sip of which rejuvenates your tired one.
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