Dream

What is a dream
Something you conjure up when young
You've always hoped to have
Once gotten you sigh
For it's never quite the same
Or something you cherish
Close hol to the heart
Even when
En you are mad it and rail at it
You hold it close

Guilt

Jubilant she exercised for an hour
That night she binges
On chips and Netflix
Empty calories empty mind

The next morning she wakes
With the taste of salt in her mouth
Guilt and self loathing twinning inside her
She stares at the mirror and says today only fruit

Jubilant she only ate fruit that day
That night she binges again
Again.

Wish

I wish my kids had time at school
To play ball and
Hang upside down from bars
Read for pleasure and
Write poetry
Act out plays and
Draw comic books
Paint the sky and
Make music
Feel the grass under their feet
Run water through their fingers
Toss their hair in the wind
Learn to swim, cycle, skate and dance

Not spend their time noses pressed
To worksheets and textbooks
And formulaic writing

But we are in the 21st century
And this is how we
school

Be a woman

Be a woman
Walk past
A group of men
Feel your heart thump
Avert your eyes
Freeze your face
No shadow of a smile
Should flicker
Any signal

Be a woman
Feel safer
Walking with a child
Than walking
Alone
Fool yourself that
Being a
Mother
Will protect you

These men may mean
No harm

But they may
So beware

Feel the fear
Be a woman

Be a girl

Be a woman
Walk past
A group of men
Feel your heart thump
Avert your eyes
Freeze your face muscles
No shadow of a smile
Should flicker
A signal

Be a woman
Feel safer
Walking with a child
Than walking
Alone

Being
A mother
May suggest
You are taken

These men
may mean
no harm

But they may

so you
Beware

Experience the fear
Be a woman

About trump

Great content eloquent about my own feelings about the man

This about sums it up:

"“Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?”
Nate White, a witty writer from England wrote the perfect response.

“A few things spring to mind…

Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem.

For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed.

So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever.

I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman.

But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty.

Trump is a troll.
And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.

And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness.

There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface.

Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront.

Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul.

And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist.

Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that.

He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat.

He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.
And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully.

That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.

There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless – and he kicks them when they are down.

So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think

‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’

is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:

Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.

You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.

After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form;

He is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit.
His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum.

God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid.

He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart.
In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.

And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish:

‘My God… what… have… I… created?

If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set.”

https://worldofwonder.net/quora-nate-white-hilariously-answers-the-query-why-do-british-people-not-like-trump/

Reading the sidewalk

Paw prints on the sidewalk
Tell the story of a cat
Who walked here once

Bird footprints a little ahead
Say a bird too walked here
Unaware of the cat, likely

Whimsical little footprints
On a sidewalk make me smile

To think of the feel of wet cement
On those tiny feet,
(were they surprised or indifferent at the feel of the less than stable ground)?

They didn't know
they were leaving their mark
When they walked by here

So we leave our imprints
On the paths of our lives
Unaware who sees them
who is touched by them

Draft 2

Paw prints on the sidewalk
tell the story of a cat
that walked here once.
Tiny footprints a little ahead
say a bird tottered here too.
(Was it aware of the cat?)

The feel of wet cement
on those little feet...
(Were they surprised
at the less than stable ground?)
They never knew
they left their mark.

So we leave imprints too
never quite knowing
who sees them,
is touched by them

Sidewalk stories

Paw prints on the sidewalk
Tell the story of a cat
Who walked here once
Unaware it was leaving a mark

Bird footprints a little ahead
Say a bird too walked here
Unaware a predator
had walked the same path

Whimsical little footprints
On a sidewalk make me smile
To think of the feel of wet cement
On those tiny feet,
(were they surprised or indifferent at the feel of the less than stable ground)
They didnt know
they were leaving their mark
When they walked by here

So we leave our imprints
On the paths of our lives
Unaware who sees them
And who is touched by them

Akshaya days

This week 11 to 15 Feb 2019
She finished at
430 on mon
530 on Tue
530 on wed
330 on thurs
330 on fri

Sigh

My sweet valentine 2

My sweet valentine
I love you
More than I ever say
When we first got together
I recall marvelling how
Every day I loved you more than I did the day before
Who would have thought
15 years and three kids later
I'd feel the same way still
You make me a better person
You love me flaws and all
You look out for me and us
With you I know i am safe
I love you
My sweet valentine
I love you for the big things and small
The way you massage our kids
And listen to them
Dry my hair and hear me out
For planning our holidays with such care
For loving your parents and mine
For just always being there
I love your hair, your smile
Always your deep set eyes
Those lovely lashes that sweep me away
I love to look for you in our kids
In our son's curly hair
Our baby's sleeping face
Our daughter's soulful eyes
In their playfulness,
creativity
sense of responsibility
You show us how to be
Just by being you
I love you
My sweet valentine

Story

10 years later with kids in tow
The 2 visit each other.
They look around

One's house is clean of all past remembrances. A fresh slate.

The others house is filled with keepsakes from their relationship that lasted but 2 years

Who is the more affected?
The one who can't bear to let go
or the one who can't bear to keep a single thing?

Life's drama continues

My sweet valentine

My sweet valentine
I love you
More than I ever say

When we first married
I remember marvelling
How
Every day I loved you more than I did the day before

Who would have thought
15 years and three kids later
I'd feel the same way still

You make me a better person
You love me flaws and all
You look out for me and us
With you I know i am safe

I love you
My sweet valentine

I love you for the big things and small
The way you massage our kids
And listen to them
Massage me and listen to me
Even when you are tired

For planning our holidays with such care
For caring for your parents and mine
For just always being there

I love your hair, your smile
Always your deep deep eyes
Those lovely lashes that sweep me away

I love to look for you in our kids
In Ashwin's curly hair
Aishu's sleeping ace
Akshaya's soulful eyes

In their playfulness,
creativity
sense of responsibility

You show us how to be
Just by being you
I love you
My sweet valentine

Home draft 5 tree tops flutter

Tree tops flutter
with our call
at dusk.
Twenty on a branch
we jostle for space,
coo our news.
Each of us knows
which tree to fly to,
which tree is Home
If
my feathered friends
choose other trees
on other shores,
if I'm left,
one bird alone,
can I still call this tree
Home?

For me you were

For me you were
A promise
of heart stopping plunges 
Head spinning rides
And delighted laughter

But oh ,
Universal Studios
In the end you were just
A snaking Queue
Of long faces and tired legs
Punctuated by a minute's
Elation every 3 hours
And a yearning
For the day
to be over

Green draft 2

A copse of trees at dawn,
along Sungei Punggol
reflect the infinite shades
of Nature's green.
Light and dark,
lemon and olive,
words can only go so far.
The colours I see span
the worlds in between

A copse of trees at dawn,
along the river
reflect the infinite shades
of Nature's green.
Light and dark,
lemon and olive,
words can only go so far.
The colours I see span
the worlds in between

A copse of trees catch
the light at dawn,
along Sungei Punggol,
reflecting the infinite shades
of Nature's green.
Light and dark,
lemon and olive,
words can only go so far.
The colours I see span
the worlds in between.

To teachers

To teachers out there
I give you my son
Rough and unpolished
But a gem nevertheless
Take care of him
Handle him kindly
Tread gently
For you tread on his dreams

Green

Natures first green is gold
The hardest hue to hold

Such beautiful lines

Today I saw or felt some of it
Sitting st the park watching the trees across the water
So many shades of green differing minutely and yet visibly
So many shades if  green for which we have no names
Other than dark green and light green .
Maybe olive green and yellow green
But these colours compartliase and the trees are in the hundreds of shades in between

Such subtleties in nature that words can only fail  and accept that failure graciously
We bow down before you

A copse of trees at early dawn
Lining the river bank
Highlight the infinite subtleties
Of Nature's green.
Light and dark,
Lemon and olive,
Words can only go so far.
The colours I see lie
in between