under the old meranti

 under the old meranti*
a young boy sat, weary
as his tears thicken to sorrow
he casted a quest of tomorrow

my dad took my girl
my mom slept with her dad
pride no longer lingered
i couldn't even see what's near
so, why should this ragged soul be here?

why not hang it on the neck of the old meranti?
to decorate the cold gray grave
to be written on the dead sign
of the dark peaceful coffin
the place where i could hide
from the light and from what might

old meranti, bow to me now
for i need to hurry
before my neighbors wake and see
all that happened in me
and throwing stones
judging me
for being poorly,
me...


*meranti= tropical tree, strong and big.        

storm in my pot

he brewed the storm

in my coffee pot

it spun like a top

and spilled what's inside,

out.... 

its a love poem, after all

i thought i began to write phrases

of red roses and purple haze

two hearts in one place

you called it love in a velvet case

young and fresh

as mint and lemon oil

burnt in an aromatic pot

filled up the air

with  the pleasant scent of love

you and i

side by side

perfectly abreast

they asked,

love at  the first sight?

no,

it just happened

at the last sight,

last night, to be precise…

i thought,

it was a blasted grace

a new phase for us to gaze

to write new phrases

phrases of love,

i supposed…

i thought,

it was love

problems wouldn’t be counted

no!!

not yet…

after  all, its a  love poem

was it not?

sorry, no lights

i stitch the moon beams

with my aching veins

and drag the gleams

with the pleated reins

i keep them beneath my feet

under the crackling beat

of those darkest lights...

under the colorless shadows 

of the time

moonless nights
sleepless brides
forgive me
for painting your light
in black...

old strumpet's limp epic

i met an old and limp strumpet
down in the damp alley
at the corner of the city
enchanting melodious madrigals
for only the night wind could bear

cigarettes smoke, heavy breath and
the smell of death
wafted through the air
thickening the ominous rage
of the old and limp strumpet

she waved her hands
to the lad of tyrant
wished he would be the sweet epilogue
of her epic route
the macabre episode
of her hackneyed soul

but the sweet young lad didn't lend his heart
he handed her a golden epaulette instead,
which belonged to his old dad
a medallion of the old-time lust

the time when he saw a girl being smirched
in the damp alley, at the corner of the city

like a hailstorm bit the harvest
nothing good was left
a girl of twelve
bellowed with pain
alone she moaned in the rain

no one estoppped the profanes
from torturing her body
and crushing her mind...
into the murky pond,
she was drawn
for so many years...
she couldn't count ...

the bloody memory etched her mind
this old strumpet still clearly saw
the man with the golden epaullete
joined the haemal festivity for another 20 years...

here in the damned old alley....