Of girls and tea

Ephemeral is the steam rising from a cup of hot tea, going to where my eyes cannot follow.

It rushes into a nothingness as far as my senses can perceive, like the fleeting beauty of a girl I met on the bus today. She was all the more beautiful, radiant, because I know she will alight at a bus stop and her existence, winked out immediately. She was also the girl I met the day before, the day before yesterday, today, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. On a bus, on a plane, in a foreign airport, for a drink, for a date, for a while, for a relationship, for a dream of a relationship, for a nightmare of a relationship. She is the girl for good, the girl for bad, the girl for everything. Thinking further, I think she is the girl in me, the boy in me, and also me, while at the same time she is not. Would it be that she is who I want to be if I was a girl? It’s slightly disturbing but maybe not. Still, she is the girl of girls, the beauty of beauty, an existence to be stamped out and relighted, relighted and stamped out throughout time. She’ll die many deaths and live many lives throughout Time. After I die, she would live on in others’ eyes.

When the bus arrives at my destination, I would have forgotten about her, just like how I forgotten about where tea goes to as steam when I finish my pot of tea. I would like to think that the steam is another side of tea, the side which I’m not normally acquainted with as I can’t drink it, can’t grasp it, can’t taste it, going somewhere else. It could be nowhere else too, since I think it’s a place beyond my senses.

Yet there are reminders as each morning I repeat to make a pot of tea, to take a bus to work.

On another bus on another day, I would see another girl and think about how ephemeral her beauty is, how fleeting the pretty.

Ephemeral the steam
from a cup of hot tea
going to where the eyes cannot.

Fleeting the beauty
of a lady passenger on a bus
heading to where I am not

Repetitive life is
looped thoughts are
when you cannot detect it.


Draft: East Coast

We stand in our metal towers
argue over best practices and promotions
in pursuit of happiness
But our elders and children need just the
one-dollar ice-cream sandwich from the uncle on a motorbike
to smile.

A kite flies over the East Coast sea
its string cut loose
A family three separated
father and daughter tumble in the waves
the mother hangs back cautiously
content with her iPhone games
all she needs to get, she says, is a banana
to complete the current free play.

A kite stretches its string over the waves
further and further it goes
it doesn’t know when to stop

Another father steps into the waves with his three daughters
The eldest, already into the world, walks bravely in and guides the younger along
The youngest shrieks for daddy
when she feels the cold and icky seabed beneath
So the daddy heads back to shore and pick up a pair of shoes
Returns to clad the youngest’s feet with a layer of love


Copyright: Desireduser7

From down above I wish to burst

Through the evergreen view, in Casuarina’s dew.

Monster slayer

In a nursery dream I cry
I’ll go on a ’61 Gibson ride
Slay monsters in the System Drive
Paint a better sunrise to kindred kind.

Inspired by FLCL. A new effort at writing some semblance of poetry on my Twitter account. From now on, such tweets will be tagged as #140chars.

Marble kitchen top

A contortionist twists
her moonlit face
features out of proportion

Beauty blossoms
underneath that clingwrap

A gleaming crystal lying
on the marble kitchen top.


Quick to blame, to lift a finger

My pulse goes faster, breath turns fatal

The eyes absorb my surroundings and my brain wanders

Casts a mirror at the figures surrounded, crying or laughing there is no difference

Entwined in agony, these figures reach out, for me in the centre

They cast their thoughts to the sea, a net over saneness

To think of a path less travelled to balm their suffering souls

Perjure me to be the priest, the confessional and their Maker

Decide whether all their breath was for naught and

Perhaps hasten to meet their Maker

When all I am is but a simple person

Poetry that is not mine: hi(s)tory

softly love and to love softly
dew on the sycamore branch
by the creaking gate
where my heart hurries afterwards
through the path of wheat along the briar
to that stone under which I lie

credit: The Tudors