Another Crow Poem

It was the Day After Christmas,
In Malaysia.

Blast the monsoons, I said.

And I looked out the window, a little bored, the surprise and business of
Yesterday,
slipping off.

It was dark, as the gray clouds gathered, and I still looked up,
Bored-eyed and emptylike.

The conductor was still there,
It's flimsy metal shaking in the wind,
(Which was blowing badly then).

And there was a crow on it.

Not that I should think so much of it,
Not that I should have bothered,
But I did.

All alone, standing there,
Its black body
Like a silhouette up there
Knowing that the gray clouds were gathering to strike,
Knowing that the lightning could strike right there first,
Knowing that the bitter wind was howling,
Knowing that the rain would fly down in torrents like arrows.
Knowing so much,

But laughing at risk,
Daredevil crow,
Laughing at time,
Laughing at luck,
Laughing at life,
Laughing at death.

I blinked,
And it was gone,
as a wraith.

sigh...

So today is the day. All the world rushes forward on Christmas. Christians trying to remember it for what it is; the busy masses taking full advantage of the long weekend... the little kids gathering around Mid Valley's very own, home-bred Santa Claus. And the glad/not-so-glad tidings of last minute gift-shopping.

And yet, I'm stuck, plagued with the blogging bug, servilly (did I spell that right?) trying to type out endless thoughts about Tyatora...sigh!

Of the Prince

The three men stood abreast on the tall precipice, looking down to see the city so far away. Their horses rested behind them. And behind them, was an empty dirt road scratched into the ground by years of creaking wagons and years of walking peasants.

The darkness uttered nothing on that night. There had been no bird, no beast, not even the sound of running water, to interrupt the long, complete silence. The foreboding fell heavy upon all who traveled that road, for the blackness covered all like a swath, except for the little lantern the three men had kept alive in the night.

“So,” said the man on the left side, “here we are.” Then he was silent and none of them said more.

It is hard to say how much time passed, but none of the three spoke for a time.

At last, the young man in the middle threw back his hood, revealing a circlet with a single jewel of brilliant white inlaid. His sepia eyes gleamed as amber against the light swaying lantern. He turned to the city.

A thousand lights twinkled from a thousand different temple-flames there, some had said. From a distance, it was almost believable, for indeed there were so many flickering lights that twinkled there, like as many far away suns.

The City, the City of the Flame, the Place of the Sword, the City of Towers, the City of the Higher, the City of the Greater. It was the greatest of all that was known to mortal men, the pride of all the world. Such was her magnitude, such was her pride.

And, like a crown over crowns, stood a great tower, gleaming white as the stars, taller than all the others, rising up in a great pillar towards the sky. Yet unlike the others, this one had no flame. But it remained there, tall and old and regal, without fire.

Then the prince, who had looked upon the great tower, turned to his companion on the right.

“Doralnon, what is that great tower there?” he asked.

Doralnon paused for a moment, then spoke, “My Prince, verily do you ask of me to speak of great things that I perceive not fully! For it is the Temple of the Bridge. It is old, and has stood there since the world’s foundations had been laid. No man is let to neither abide nor stand within its walls, and that is why no flame is lit at the peak of the tower.”

“And what does the temple stand for?”

“It has become the temple of desires, where all look upon its walls and call for the nameless desires of their hearts. They stand there, waiting, some cutting themselves with sacrificial knives, some by the slaying of doves, and yet others by unceasing weeping and wailing. Ever they stand before the entrance, and they wait for when the Lord of the Temple returns to fulfill all dreams and all desires and raise up the bridge into the skies.”

“You speak truly,” said the man on the prince’s left, and he was named Myakalos, “Ai, the sorrows of the Great City are great!”

The Prince turned his eyes down onto the ground beneath them, and said nothing, but closed his eyes, and stood attentive as if listening. He stood like this for a time, and the night endured the silence.

At last, Myakalos looked at the Prince and saw, as he had not seen before, tears upon his majesty’s face, and a hard crease of sorrow on his brow. His jaw tightened hard, and he almost seemed to tremble. Myakalos laid his arm on the prince’s robe.

“My Prince, what ails you? Your guardsmen plead you to speak with them of these sorrows, if only to ease the pain on your countenance.”

The Prince reached out for Myakalos’s arm, and said to him, “I hear many voices, and see many things, and my heart is heavy.’

“I see a widow, with a veil wrapped round her eyes so that she sees the world only through the black veil. She cries out for her husband, but he is gone, as is her son and daughters. She goes to places of the Great City where there might be men with gold and pity enough to drop a coin in her thin, tear-streaked palms.’

“I see a man, a priest, who dwells in the Temple of Gain, and ever offers slain goats and appeasements of gold to find peace and power, and invulnerability. But he finds none, though he chants for the dawn and prays over the twilight; though he does every good thing and deed he can do, he fails to win it. And though he does so much he gains nothing, for his road is not the way.’

“I see a young man, who rests upon his wooden bench in a dungeon darker than this night. He eats, but tastes nothing, and breathes, but feels nothing, for he is to die by the axe at first light for robbing a man of his gold ring. Much sin has he done, and he knows not how to purify himself, yet he awaits a death to end his two dozen years of this life. This is what I see.”

And on and on he went, telling stories of a thousand men and women ad children, of the hurt and dying and wanting and wounded. He cried and wept as if he had felt as they had. Hours passed, but neither Myakalos nor Doralnon spoke. At last, the Prince stopped speaking, and dropped to the ground prostrate.

The guards bent over to pick him up. He reached for their arms, but did not lift himself up. Instead he started speaking, in the tongues of the Great ones, calling out with a great voice like a dirge.



He spoke but a little, but it seemed like an eternity. Then he raised himself up, and said out in one last outburst, “May it be done!”

Doralnon nodded. “My Prince, then it is time.”

The Prince said nothing.

He raised his head, up to the stars, as if to glimpse the starlight one last time. The crown slipped down his head, the silvery wire vibrating from the fall at their feet. The prince seemed to take no notice, but even Myakalos knew how it must have been to wear a circlet of royal silver around one’s head all his life, and then to suddenly forsake it for a greater Call.

The prince threw back his cloak over his shoulders, and removed the sandals off his feet. Off went the golden arm-collars, and off went the tassel of purity worn by the High Princes.

At last, the Prince stopped, and then looked down to see all these symbols of his glory and power, lying dejected at his feet. He was ready…

“My Lord–,“Myakalos interrupted, “Your Father’s Ring.”

The Prince turned his eyes down upon the ring, inlaid with a single emerald, inlaid with a thousand minute flowing designs along the plated surface. The light was glinting off its flawless sides as a ray of stars upon it. His hand wavered, as men sometimes do when they shudder, but the deed was done. His trembling left hand had slipped the ring of the Emerald of the Emperor off of his right.

“Are you ready, my Lord?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you will do this, to abandon all, even if only for a time, to die and live again at the hands of rabble and beasts?”

“Yes, if only for all the voices of the lost that fall upon my ears as tears.”

“And you vow to complete your mission here, and not forget your purpose?”

“Yes, my friends. It is so.”

“Then go. But what shall I tell your Father?”

“Tell the King, that his son is here, in the Lost City, and will return, greater than when he left. And many will be redeemed!”

“It will be done, my Lord.”

The prince held their hands again, rose up, and turned down the road to the City, barefoot, exhausted, sad. But hopeful, for the dawn had come.




Myakalos and Doralnon saddled up their horses, along with the Prince’s rider-less steed, and galloped back up the road to the High Realms.

More philology. . .

I've resumed my efforts to build the Tyatoran language again. Oh help me. Why on earth (or why out of this earth) must I be so hypnotically drawn to Tyatora? Grrr...I can feel it beckoning me.

This language is different from Firk-Nott. That is the tongue of a specific race in Tyatora. The new language I'm trying to develop is the national language of the country.

The language is probably gonna consist of a lot of A's, O's, and E's, but very few I's. The idea is to restrict its variety to improve the character of the language.

I have no idea of the consonants yet.

Nothing but a foggy idea of grammar so far, so please don't ask much aobut it. I'm planning to make it a bit more straightforward than English. No past tenses, just run, run, or run.

No lie, lay, lain. Just "lay, lay, and lay."

But I could try making a bunch of gibberish now and see if my concepts work out:


Huonankalh! Lue-faloyn nol dansaruun en landelyn Narhu. Liem, landelyn diechlor vra, wue talmer mey'seren. Aun Huakh Beleyk-nan, bosrein! Oiy'e, sea matolh bosrein harek nakh huil. Desnan key mer' o waldvarey nuonan, kethan donorh landeleyn varthi'e!

OR

Look! Fallen are the leaves of the Narhu tree. Yes, the tree is dying indeed, and the fruit is not big. But remember my contempt, Enemy! Oh, sharp axe of my foes hack to no avail. This bark of mine is strong, while the will of this tree endures as life.

What do you think? Did my paragraph sound like any other language you'veh heard? Still trying to pinpoint some aspects of it. . . :)

Christmas Tree

WE set up the tree,
Last night,
Untangling the Christmas lights,
Twirling gold-and-purple beads round and round.
Laughing,
Joy to the World on the CD player.

And then the ornaments.
All the little twisty bits, and old homely decos, and mini-stars and pretty ribbons,
All merry,
And all the balls, gleaming red and yellow
In the orange glow of the lights.

And yet, one little b ll.
Translucent white,
Without any glaze,
Without any glow,
No colors,
No sprinkle of shiny dust fresh from the factory.

But I like it.
Even if it was so lonely.
And I liked it.

Because it was so plain.

And for its white, opaque-plastic innocence
Looking so pure (I lack a better word).

Like a Virgin moved by a God beyond Comprehension,
Like a Dove,
Like a Baby, wrapped in dirty linens and worn second-hand cloths.

Then the vision faded.

And we stood back to smile at the
Tree
We had set up.

F_ _EB_ _K

F-word, they call it.

FACEBOOK

INTERNETgamesSocialNETWORKfun
StatusReportGiftsFarmVIlleREstaurantCITYPLayfishZyngaFanships
BUSY-NESS

That's what it is.
Really.

It's funny,
To be a fan and friend of everybody,
And end up having nothing but a little internet tag to show for it.

It's funny, to play all sorts of games;
With cafes to run and farms to run and dragons to slay,
And try to get neighbors,
When you haven't said hi to the guy next door for the LONGEST time.

Ironic,
tHat we laugh when nuts say the sun spins round the earth,
and shrug our shoulders when we say that life turns round
Facebook.

And the smiley faces,
Riddling the status reports like chicken poxes.
Given like brochures at the mall,
Meaning nothing but 2 icons on the keyboard.

And we're all sucked in.
All careening like fools down
The

News

Live

Feed.

Falling

I was at the mall,
Leaning on the railings,
Right over the atrium.

And then I saw that used brochure
falling,
Its Binding wrinkled with creases
And subtle lines,
Leaves outspread like dove's wings.

And no one wanted you.

I thought I heard some strange,
Echoing shout,
Then some silent gasp from acrophobia.
Fear of falling,

falling,

falling,

Down the mall.
Two floors down,
And I heard no more.

Yay!

Hot on the trail for a short story...this may take a while. Hope my readers don't mind.

The News Came

The news came,
At our doorstep,
And Mom tells me to get the paper.

So I get it, and slap the inky, page-roughened
Slab of print and pictures
On the table,
Just like usual,
And then I lean over Mom’s shoulder (much to her annoyance)
To see the headlines.

The PM’s talking again,
Political jabber, you know,
New policies,
New warplanes,
New sex scandals that he denies.

And there’s prime news,
And you see crying kid in the middle of no-where,
No mom to bring newspapers to,
And the Terrorist, yelling threats and wild prophecies,
But we turn the page quickly,
And the tornadoes (or whirlwinds) and hurricanes (or typhoons),
And we sit shivering in our chairs, discussing which name spells disaster better.

Oh, and did I forget to say that that murderer’s on the loose again?

Then we all get scared,
Talking, sympathetic nods and sighs,
Silent for the moment –the day hasn’t gotten that busy yet.

Weeks pass, and it’s all over.
New things come, more headlines,
More scandals, more jabber.

And last weeks disaster?

Forgotten.

13th

So, the October baby turned thirteen yesterday. Ben teased me by asking if I wanted to be Westernized of Re-Asianified...depending on which auspice I wanted to incur (eternal life or chronic bad luck?).

I just laughed. God bless Josh and Tyatora!

All right, perhaps I should have crossed Tyatora out of that.

So now, here we are. We have passed the straits of Twelve, and I do not see the harbor that always has been in my sights since birth, and now, spyglass in hand, leaning eagerly over my longboat's bow, I stare out into nought but open sea. Ah, now the haven-harbors of birth are but a whisper, everly held in sweet memory, but forgotten for hte most part, and the high, tempestuous passage to hte Second Harbor is ahead. My mind clouds when I see the storms and wild waves before me, and the doubt of old returns to haunt me, but ever must I place my spyglass to true north, and I must find the Harbor, where the streets are gold, and Amentoris Baleyn Yahweh stands great upon his Holy en-throned Hill.

But I am afraid, in more aspects than one. Afraid that the winds will blow my ship and my mind will fly off-course, or my gaze will falter and I will float aimlessly, forgetting the hope of the Harbors, or that the sturdy prow of mine will bend beneath heavy waves and pirates' cannons.

But let the tests come, and may ever the God of the Earth and Sky and Sea guide my ship, and build in my spirit continuous growth in Him and His will, that I will not bend, will not fail, and I will succeed!

I cannot fail, I cannot step back now. I must fight, I must win, I must not bend to the wind or the sky or the sea or mortal man or demon or the terror of flames and of fiends. Endo-Polmori, Vrathua Kyan!

May He steer my prow to sail and yet stand, not bending, not yielding, not weakening;
yet ever giving, ever-determined, and ever-willing to aid.
May the Lord Almighty in this year and life to make me all he desires me to be.
I pray that my ways may one day please and bring delight to Him, if mortal men may even feign to do so.

Amen

Crows and Their Squawking

I think about crows often,
Those little beastly fiends with
Dirty, patched, black coats and
Long, nasty, claws; all bony, like condemning fingers.

And wings outstretched in flight,
Arched garishly like the
Dark-Tattooed arms of
City thugs.

And their squawking.
No, none of that polite songbird chirrup,
Nor hearty country accents of chickens and ducks,
Nor eagles' calls, ringing through mountains.
But boastful, empty, brawling speech,
Of fight and flight
And rotten meat.

But I think,
Somewhere,
Deep inside them,
Behind that beastly,
Thuggish mop of ugly feathers and mud and city dirt,

They remember, of days so long ago,
When the food was plenty and the people better,
When they had once been a kinder, happy race of
Laughing, jolly birds.

I think they cry for what the have become,
(but never in front of us, mind you)
And don't know how to get back.

And maybe they try,
By cawing louder and eating cruder,
To make the world remember them.

Not that we bothered to turn our heads their way.

And maybe, they try,
To sing, like the pretty little birds that chirp about them,
Trying to hum old songs,

But we only hear their squawking, instead.

This is it!

That's it. That's it it it it. I've delayed, posting this, but my hope, the faintest chance of rekindling it -Gone! Gone with the wind! Slain are the bloggers! Woe and war on Troy! Andoqhra yavlian!

Why is no one blogging anymore?

Don't tell me everyone here is too busy to blog. Okay, a few of us are. But what about the others? The wealth and depth and richness of Blogger and Wordpress has been forsaken...and for what?! The empty, material, culture-less, secular, indulgences of the f-word: Facebook

Yes, and I'm on facebook, playing farmville and restaurant city like the rest...so you can speculate on the hypocrisy on this post, while I hide my head in shame.

(Trying to write more poems...on the trail searching for a short-story idea...hope my readers don't mind)

Hmm...

Thinking of poem ideas... half-addicted to Travian (you know what I mean, Whitle!)...and I finally learned to play 'O Lord of Hosts!' on the violin! Yay!

Bats are Dancing Round the Tree

The little bats are dancing round the tree,
Trying their luck at pretty, yellow mangoes,
Trying to latch onto it,
Just long enough
For a little bite,
For a little bit,
Of juicy, thick, sweet mango,
And golden droplets ticklling their faces.

The bats are dancing round the tree,
Searching, searching, searching,
Dancing
Happy-go-lucky,
Playing with the Moon.
Spinning, spinning, spinning.

The bats are dancing round the tree.
Hiding in the shelter of the night,
No sun to stop them,
No taunting crows or ravens,
Just silent, happy, flying round the tree,
Sweet like ripened mangoes.

The bats are dancing round the tree,
Like flurries of Beating wings and Prickled ears.
Dancing, dancing, dancing

Car in the Show-room

I’m the car in the show-room,
All hidden there, behind obscure,
Glass windows,
Looking at all my brethren, zipping about on the road.

Release me, release me.

I stare out, and wish,
But this surly prison only
Makes the dream so hard to
Keep dreaming, here.

Free me, free me.

Perpetually the humans come,
To see my leather seats,
And spacious trunk,
And locking system.

Liberate me, liberate me.

They come to see little
Booklets,
And nod their heads
Then they shake them at the prices.

Take me! Take me!

It is lonely here,
All those dispirited,
Dead, cars next to me,
Not hoping for higher things.

See me! See me!

And every day I look at those zooming new models
Leave the parking lot,
With new owners and new petrol.
And I look on, longingly.

Just let me, let me!

But one day, some day,
I’ll get there,
And they’ll lovingly give me new petrol,
And let my tires hit the road.

Free me, free me!
I’m the car in the show-room
Still hidden here, behind obscure
Glass windows,
But soon I’ll be with my brethren, zipping about on the road.

Release me, release me!

Aloevera and the Blossomless Bougainvilleas

It was just four years ago.
When I saw you planting aloe-vera
By our blossomless bougainvilleas.

They were young, unlike you,
Grandma, (I called you “Mah-mah”)
They, bursting plump with jelly-like pulp inside,
You, with calloused hands and thinner lips,
And that old smiling face.

And the Aloe-vera flourished,
Growing bigger, and more, and happy-looking,
But the bougainvilleas, oh, I don’t quite know,
They never quite did it,
Never quite thrived,
But I still, kind of, hoped they would.

Then jaundice came and went for you,
Then cancer came, but you went,
And I saw you one last time, through the icy, reflective, impenetrable
Glass opening in the coffin,
And the ashes of the cremation were tossed to the sea
To swallow the sorrow of lost life.

And how I cried then,
Missing you, Mah-mah,
Not knowing for sure,
Cause you accepted Jesus,
Then said you later gave up.

Where did you go?

But the silent aloe-vera,
Carefree, happy,
Free to think of better things,
They grew, taller and taller,
Withstanding weeds and birds and those kinds of things.

And then, about six months ago, the neighbor came (for the garden was a bit out on the Condo corridor of our house)
And he asked if he could plant a garden there.

We said yes.

But Mom kept one plant of Aloe-Vera,
Just one, and planted it in a pot in our balcony
Before the neighbors face-lifted our garden.

The neighbors came to clear up things,
Adding pretty rocks and flowering plants (but the bougainvilleas they kept).
And it looked better that way.

But I missed the Aloe-vera
Grandma had planted.

Oh, but I missed you.

But one day, I was at the balcony, lamenting a little over the loss
Of our beloved aloe-vera,
When I saw the little green sprouts,
All around the only one we kept
In the pot.

And I closed my eyes,
And felt their tender little spikes on the edges,
And the smooth skin wrapping them,
And smiled.
And wondered if their mother-plant (or the un-thriving bougainvilleas) remembered
A pair of old, thin, kindly arms planting them there.

Scrolls

Went to see the Dead Sea Scroll Exhibition in Singapore. It was very, very, good trip.

WE went to see the scrolls on the second day. It was held in a big museum-like building near the parliament. The exhibition had three rooms, one containing scrolls, one containing books, and one with a lot of biographies about people. The people and book rooms had lots and lots of old bibles, sheets of information and copies of the books and lives of Wycliffe, Tyndale, Bunyan, and Luther (not in that order!). They displayed centuries-old copies of the King James Bible, Geneva bible, Spanish and German manuscripts, and even one of the first-printing editions of "Pilgrim's Progress." I kept snapping pictures and pictures and pictures. It was such an odd, interesting feel to be so near such old things, handed down from one generation to another.

But the scrolls were the most eye-opening. Just four little fragments of paper (only a few pieces were released to exhibition), very old, weather-stained, and hard to perceive until you looked very closely. And when i peered through the glass, something flashed in my mind. Some old Jewish scholar, a rabbi or Pharisee, perhaps, squinting in the evening light to meticulously scribe a letter into a word.

Line by line, as each drop of precious ink was exactly meted out for each character. Each sentence unmarred with any grammatical or contradictory errors. What thoughts went through this poor rabbi's mind as he spent such time and energy into copying out the sacred Word of God.

How tired he must have been, and then, to think that the work of this weary scholar was to be smashed apart by Roman swords! To think, that, one little fragment from this entire piece would itself a spectacle of wonder to the world. To think, that one man's efforts to preserve the law would end up giving evidence pointing to its, powerful, uncorrupted, message. To think of all the people who had worked on this bit of ink and paper, not realizing what this parchment would do to ring down eternity? The skinner of the goat, the scholar who wrote it, the ink-maker, the editing priest, the scholars-in-training who may have read it -how could they have known?

It is interesting, really, to think how much difference one person's work can do.

Moon-maidens and Hidden Tree

There were two of them; Moon-maidens, as we call them.
And they stood in the Wood of Voices.

"It was there! I saw it, Rian!"

Rian blinked, and stared at it again.

"But I don't see it."

"But it's there! Just at that point, between that tree and that one, over there!"

"Leraia, look again, there is nothing there but a little brook with a lot of turquoise-colored rocks. Come; let us go there, to see it, if it truly was there."

They walked along a path, long trodden on by weary feet and weary with the weight of leaves. It was a tired path, but sturdy.

They came along, and searched at the little brook. But there was no tree.

"Oh, but it was there, that tree, all green and leafy, all, well –perfect."

Rian laughed. "But we are in a wood, and the green-leaves are everywhere. How can you ask me to see one little tree?”

“Oh, I don’t know any more, but I thought I saw it.”

“Maybe you’re a little tired, little sister, for the day is long and the night shall come soon.”

“I suppose, but I really thought I saw it. . .”

Then Leraia’s eyes flickered suddenly.

“There it was! Again! Over there! Right between those banyans, by the brook we talked about!”

Rian turned her head to look again. “Leraia, you are dreaming again. It is not there. What is this tree you see? My eyes and heart sense naught, and Leraia, listen; there is wind, but I hear no more trees rustling than it has in three years. How can there be a new tree I do not see?”

“Oh, but I see it no more.” Leraia paused, as she pondered a little more on what she had seen, “It was tall.”

“How tall? How wide? Can you see through the trunk and count the rings?”

“It is tall, and I can say no more, it was wide, wide and sturdy; like it all the world pressed on it could not crush it,” she squinted, “And the tree rings –I cannot say, for I count so far two thousand rings, but the rings do not get smaller inside, only bigger, and wider, and more.”

“You speak riddles, little Sister,” she sighed, “as you always have. But tell me more. Tell me of its branches. The life within it. Tell me of the leaves, and their color, for I perceive little of that which you say.”

“The branches, there are but two.”

“Only two?”

“Only two, one stretching to the east and one to the west,” Leraia stopped, and continued, “But there are no leaves I see. But the scent of them is there, as is the scent of the wind. It is there, though I see none. I do not see the color, but I sense something, so very hauntingly familiar to color, only better.”

“You talk in riddles again.”

“I can smell this color; it is a good scent, something like a blend of spices, like music and emotion, and hues of blue and green mixed up together. It smells . . . like new life, like sadness, yet like joy, like some hidden hymn that I cannot sing, like something, a spirit perhaps, is pouring His might upon this tree.”

“But if a Great Spirit is pouring itself on this tree, why can I not see it?”

“Because you do not want to, Rian. I think He wants to reveal it to you, but you don’t.”

“Who is this spirit, Leraia, can you find his name? Could this be . . . the Pourer of the Waters?”

Leraia looked at her sister. “I cannot find His name . . . I only get this word impression . . . something –I am, something –I am, something.” Then this young Moon-maiden, who had waited for so long, heard something.

I am He, who sets the Sun a-burning,
I am He, Lord of the Wise discerning,
I am he, who made this green-leafed forest fair,
I am He; upon this solemn tree, rest thy cares.

I am He, who rekindles and revives,
I am He, Lord of Things Alive,
I am He, who slew death when I fought her.
I am He, Pourer of the Water,

I am He, come and touch my leaves,
I am He, let Me thy pains relieve,
I am He; show thy friend my wood,
I am He! If only they all understood.

“So who is this spirit, Leraia?”

Rian turned. “He is the I AM.”

Moon-Awake

A silent little lad, that Moon,
Always walking about in the evening,
Usually whispering with the silent stars,
Who smile and nod
Like sleeping dreamers.

But sometimes, sometimes,
Silent Moon comes out too early,
In the late afternoon,
Around 4-5 PM,
And all the day-clouds give him the funny look,
That you're-not-supposed-to-be-here-but-we'll-act-as-if-nothing's-happening
Look.

That Moon, good fellow,
But doesn't sleep easily.
Unlike the clouds and stars,
Who sit about doing nothing,
Or the sun, who shines and sings in
A low, baritone voice.

So sometimes, when he comes about too early,
You hear little moon sing in a lonely, hushed song,

"Cause I've woken up too early,
And I can't get back to sleep,
This busy time is far too bright,
And I can't get back too sleep."

All the humans talking,
And the sun is much to hot,
The sky is harsh, the stars all hide,
And the moon can't fall alseep.

"Cause I've woken up too early,
And I can't get back to sleep,
This busy time is far too bright,
And I can't get back too sleep."

Sometimes, sometimes, you can hear the Moon, talking to God,
Asking about why 9/11 happened,
Or why the hurricane was brewing,
Or the man over there is crying,
And he talk of the sadness of the world,
And its joys and sorrows,
And sings with them with restless sleep,

"Cause I've woken up too early,
And I can't get back to sleep,
This busy time is far too bright,
And I can't get back too sleep."

Here It Is

Ever, the candle seems smaller,
Ever, its weary wick grows thin,
Ever, the shadows seems taller,
And men declare that Darkness wins.

Ever, here, is of giants; rising and falling,
Ever, here, does age fall on ancient age,
Ever, here, is that to come, a-beckoning and calling.
Ever the seas still storm and rage.

Ever, their arms keep stretching
Ever they stretch the strings of their bows,
Ever, ground trembles at Vulcan's wrenching,
Ever, much doubt seems to grow.

Oh, where art Thee, Great One,
Master of Wind and ice and hail?
Alas, I search for the light of the sun,
When all else seems to fail.

Alas, the wayward path I've taken,
And for long it held me, before all gave way,
Alas, I return, frustrated and shaken,
I search for a refuge in Thy hidden bay.

Alas, of this I feel not worthy to request,
When the sorrows of others are sadder,
Alas, again I fail the test,
Alas, I dare to touch Thy up-going ladder.

Oh, Lord of All, I yet tire,
And I hope You still think well of me.
God who Sees my hidden heart,
It is good to know who Thou art.

Oh Lord, I ask of Thee Thy aid,
To teach me once again,
In spite of all the secret sins I've made,
I have come to make amends.

Oh might God only Wise,
How I long to please Thee,
If in all things Thee I cannot truly satisfy,
In this give Thee all of, myself, all of me.

Oh God, take this, this gift so small.
I have nothing else to give to you, my God,
Help me, oh Great Father of All.

Here am I, all given, pledged in full,
Here I place my heart's deed, the royal right to rule,
Here is my devotion, given, complete,
Here is my little kingdom's throne, Your place, your seat.

The Gift

Danny was at soccer,
Mom was with the other moms.
Where does that leave me?

So I kept to me, in a little gazebo, at a quiet corner of Dan's soccer park.
Nobody was there.
Just me, and a few potted plants.
Well, there was someone else.

It was a tree, not too high,
Maybe a few feet taller than I,
And it was laughing,
Singing something in the manner of all other trees.

One trunk, many branched,
One branch, many-leaved,
One leaf, and there were many holes.

The little holes, like cold, clinking, circular, coins,
Gaping in and out of the leaves
Leaving only
Gossamer

Layers of dead plant-veins, still clinging like cobwebs

To the hole.

Smiling tree turned to me.
"Hello there, human lad."

And so we talked,
She in the sunlight, I in the shade.
We spoke of weather,
Which was about as important to trees as politics are to humans.

No, I tried not to stare at her
Large, clipped, cookie-cut leaves.
But she saw my furtive glimpses.

She smiled even bigger now.
She chuckled,
"Come here, human friend, and let me tell you all about them," said she.

So I came to the sunlight,
With the singing tree,
And she told me her tales,
In a voice like melody,
Speaking of older days and times.

She told me of the way
She had been planted
In the park
By an old, lonely lady
Who had no space to keep me.

And so she lived and loved her life,
Singing of the grass about me
And the wind on my leaves,
And the soil that was good,
"Something like a cozy blanket, as humans say," said she.

"Now I shall speak of my holes.
Alas, the pestilence came on me.
Little infidels crawling on my back and leafy arms, creeping ever nearer to my
Emeralds
And they ate them up.
Again and again.
And what can I do?"

I said nothing,
for a while,
And she was silent.

Then I asked her, "And yet, why do you yet sing and smile and laugh as you do?"
"Because my roots are in the soil, and my mind dwelling on He that Is," says she, "you know Him, don't you?"

I nodded.

She went on.

"And so I live. Not for long, not as a healthy tree, but a joyful one."

I looked at her, smiling politlely, not exactly sure still what to say.
She chuckled again.

"My mind can only dwell on Him.
He loves me, and yet,
He loves your kind, well, more.
That is your gift, Human-friend."

Her faded, grotesque braches danced in the wind.

"So use it."

She smiled and reclined.

And I wondered if I had been

dreaming.

Broken Playground

I was on the way home,
Leaving some old neighborhood.
When I saw that old, sad, Broken Playground
And never forgot it.

The half-buried tires under the see-saw ends were
Worn and weary, weak, wounded,
Played much then, now forgotten.

The once gay-colored slides are damaged,
Faded colors, broken tubing,
All covered with graffiti.
Like contemptuous black vultures.

The swings are heartbroken.
There is no other word for it, I am afraid,
They are sad, their sturdy straps that once held
Lively, bouncing, children
Are torn or mangled.
They look like they want to hold children again.

Then there is the grass,
Not rich or full enough to cover the whole field,
Like a threadbare coat stretched over the bare shoulders
Of some sad, lonely, beggar.

The trees are gnarled grotesquely,
But not by nature.
Maybe all the crying sounds from the playgrounds have hurt them,
Their great branches stunted by their sorrows.

I didn’t hear birds singing,
But I was in the car,
And then again,
Who really cares
For one, lonely, sad, Broken Playground?

Stalemate -Another Poem I Did for the Poetry Slam

The red queen of Chess stood firm in her space,
Her sister, the white queen, in the opposite place,
And they stared at each other, both bitter with hate,
(They were not on good terms, of late).

“My Dear Red Queen, ye overgrown lump,
Tis a wonder thy king smacks thee not in the rump!
Thou art too fat, disgusting, obese;
Indulging in fast food and banquets and feasts!”

“Take that back, I daresay, or I’ll tell my king!”
“Then I’ll tell my king, who !”
“I’ll set my knights upon you! Just wait! Just you wait!”
“My bishops will curse you to a terrible fate!”


“I’ll gather my armies of pawns,
With heads and hearts of solid bronze!”
“But by then my rooks will soon be readied!”
You’ll be sorry you tarried!”

“Have it your way, you curse of a sister,
I’ll tell my king, and you tell your mister!
Then, a duel to the death, to test our true mettle,
Then our troops will converge in heavy, pitched battle!”

And so they gathered their numerous hordes,
Knight pawn rook bishop, and the queens with their lords.
Pawns to the fore, the rest hide behind,
Stiff on the chessboard, in perfect straight lines.

They clashed in the field, pawn versus pawn,
It wasn’t long before half were gone.
The knights came, to rescue friend to rout the foe,
But the bishops came and cursed them, and their fate (who knows?)

The troops were exhausted; the knights were half-slain,
And the mighty rooks were the bishops’ banes.
But the queens were released, and went into the fray,
And each had in mind the other to slay.

Queen against queen, they battled and battered,
‘Twas the enemy losing, not the Winning that mattered!
They fought and they fought, they tumbled and tussled,
Armed with great swords and great Muscles!

The kings had long since retreated,
And the bishops were already defeated,
Almost all of the pieces were ready to quit,
Though that the old queens just refused to admit.

At last, no one else was still willing to fight,
Except, of course, the queens, (who yet battle and bite!)
With desire for vengeance naught could satiate,
And their forever they fight, so we call it . . . STALEMATE!

Went for the Poetry Slam. . .and Won!

I can't believe it! I actually did well!. Hmm. . .

Here are a few poems I did. As I said on Facebook, don't say anything, Arief, David, Seng Kit, Toby, or Zhen Zhu.

First one:

True Treasure


For-ever we quest for true treasure,
In search of things once-gained, but lost,
In search for a source without measure,
In search, no matter how dear its cost.

For-ever, our silent souls still wander,
For what or whom we hold as our prize,
And sojourn to many lands, o’er and under,
To find what we pursue, and where it lies.

For as many who go, fewer will gain,
Many might search, for life and desire,
For as many who look, few will obtain,
Many youths go, yet too many tire.

They search in hopes of finding,
In knowledge and riches and pleasure,
But see not these things are blinding,
Deceiving the Searchers of Treasure.

I place no trust in folly’s tales,
For all that glitters is not gold,
For much called solid oft will fail,
For blades rust; wealth does not hold.

I place stock in this that remains:
In the words of the Wisest of Kings,
That time and death may not stain,
Untarnished as the mountain’s springs.

In light of the Wise One’s insight,
Most truly our treasure must be,
In the wisdom of He, brighter than light,
Herein is the key:

Here is the place that all may find,
Youth regained, Death defied,
The fulfillment of spirit and mind,
The life by which I will abide.

For-ever I‘ve quest for true treasure,
In search of things once-gained, but lost,
Now I have found this Source without measure,
And will not let go, whatever the cost.


Beach

It is good,
Standing here,
On the lonely beach.

With the feel of soft sand between your toes,
And the little pulsing tickles
Of sea-waves splashing against your feet.

No other soul here,
Just God and me.
No one but gulls and crabs to hear us.

It is the silence
And beauty that is good,
On the beach.

All the kite-playing children have left,
All the people, except me,
Are far, far, away.

Here I hear
The sound of the steady
Beat of the ocean,
And taste the salt
As I lick the tip of the Wave.

And the quiet sensation of sand,
Like so many little pearls,
Lovingly caressed and smoothened by Time.

The air is fresh and new here.
And your mind is dwelling on good things.
And you meditate thoughtfully on
Words and sights you’ve seen.

Or observe the silent hobbling of hermit crabs,
Like pious priests on pilgrimage.
Wrapped in their
Bulky shells.

And at last,
I see the sunset,
All pinks and oranges and blues and indigoes and violets.
Before the great golden orb sinks,
Beneath the watery horizon.

It is good,
Standing here,
On the lonely beach.

Quotes I Like.

I love these!


"Be very, very careful what you put into that head, because you will never, ever get it out."

Thomas Cardinal Wolsey (1471-1530)


"It is the cause, not the death, that makes the martyr."

Napoleon Bonaparte


"Soldiers generally win battles; generals get credit for them."

Napoleon Bonaparte


"Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration."

Thomas Edison


"I start where the last man left off."

Thomas Edison


"I confess that in 1901 I said to my brother Orville that man would not fly for fifty years."

Wilbur Wright


“It is the job that is never started that takes longest to finish.”

J.R.R. Tolkien


“I do not love the bright sword for it's sharpness, nor the arrow for it's swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”

J.R.R. Tolkien


“There are two kinds of people: those who say to God, "Thy will be done," and those to whom God says, "All right, then, have it your way”

C.S. Lewis


“Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.”

C.S. Lewis


“We are all fallen creatures and all very hard to live with.”

C.S. Lewis


"I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion."

Alexander the Great


"Hasten slowly."

Augustus

Bidal-Karon: Part II

Now the six daughters came to the private hall of their house, as they were bidden, and Licoann came also. When they had gathered, Tiendar and Venyai described and read out the proposals. The eldest of Dyavan’s sons was to marry the eldest of Tiendar’s daughters, second eldest with second eldest, and so on. They spoke quietly among each other for a while, exchanging thoughts and impressions of the suggested arrangements, and the suitors. At this (for little could be made of their true intentions and the color of their hearts), Licoann told of the glances and furtive peeks during the feasts last summer.

At this Neler, the eldest daughter shook her head, but did not speak until she had thought a little more. “I know not what to say of this, for though truly they ask for our hands in marriage, who but Amentoris can judge their spirits and deepest thoughts? Nevertheless, we must discern what we may. What say you, Father, Mother?”

Tiendar and Venyai heard this, and remained silent for a while. Venyai ancient gray hair gleamed briefly like silver, as did Tiendar’s beard, but then it stopped. They turned up to their children, and smiled somberly. “Perhaps, it would be wise to bid the sons of Dyavan to come again to our house, so our children may speak with them, as is the ancient custom. However, we must be wary, and keep our eyes and ears and minds open and alert. Then we shall make our choice.”

And so it was. The messengers were sent back to Dyavan’s household, at which, when Dyavan heard the reply, brought his sons together and was furious, for he hadn’t until then realized what his sons had done. “What is the meaning of this? Your iniquity is testament to the training of your mother and scorning of your father!”

Alas, the father sent his sons away to Tiendar’s house, though without his blessing, and sent them with many gifts and golden-made objects to the house of Tiendar (to make all appearance all was well in the Court of Dyavan). The six sons left immediately, and sojourned for two weeks and two days. They were welcomed into the house, though not as warmly as when Dyavan had first come, for the daughters were careful and wary.

For the first and second days, the brothers remained ever courteous, constantly being good in seemingly all ways. But during the third day, Thelin the Eldest son requested that he and his brothers could speak with the Sisters. The message was sent to Tiendar (who was elsewhere in his realm). To this, Tiendar accepted, though he insisted that he and Licoann be there at each meeting, for Tiendar had desired to be careful with this potential arrangement.

Thelin and the Brothers consented, and so Thelin, the eldest, met with Neler the Eldest, as was the custom. Tiendar and Licoann sat between the two, but watched closely. They met by the lakeside, and spoke. Neler asked of Thelin many questions, of interests, of wisdom, of passions, and of morality. What she found in the Thelin the Fay was warlike of heart, strong in will, brave, but lacked the control to hold his own might. Yet, though she was not pleased, she spoke a little more before until sunset arrived, and they group left for the evening meal.

The next day, the second eldest, Baranin, and the second eldest, Feian met. They spoke, and Feian found the same in his heart.

Then Borthonin met with Thiendori, then Carin with Pienhor, then Thruilin and Lerya, and then finally Thruanin with Treyal. After this, the family of Tiendar took counsel once more, and they spoke as one. They all found, though, that the Sons of Dyavan were as Neler had perceived; willful, uncontrolled, fearless, yet not disciplined in righteousness or the way of right. Their father had seen this, but had perceived also a kind of darkness over his heart whenever he saw the swords at the Brothers’ waists. This he spoke of none to, except Venyai (many a season later). This was one of the least wise of the acts of Tiendar, though he was discerning and upright throughout his immortal days on Endramius. Perhaps had he brought his troubled thoughts to Amentoris the Wise, the course of events may have differed, but he did not, and he regretted his silence.

But for the time, Tiendar spoke carefully, and he and his family declined the brothers’ proposals. But though they refused, they still invited the Sons of Dyavan to a great feast at Tiendar’s table. A messenger was sent, and Thelin received the news in his apartments (for all guests of Tiendar and Venyai were given large staying quarters). Thelin read this, and was infuriated, and he flew into a terrible rage, for ever had his desire been growing, and his initial disappointment turned itself into the black form of hate. He then read the message to his brothers, and they too became angry. Now in his rage, Thelin devised a second wicked scheme, now for the purpose of obtaining vengeance. He suggested this, “My brothers, we have been scornfully rejected by the great house of Tiendar the Steward. He and his household have believed that their place shall be happier without our presence here. We must deprive them of happiness forever! We, of the Greater Fays, sons of Dyavan the Mighty, shall, by this time in three days, slay the six daughters of Tiendar!”

It was done. They declined the feast, and pretended to need to be on their way home, on the pretense their father was expecting them. They then left, cordially making their farewells and blessings upon the household of Tiendar. But they only had left the borders of Tiendar’s realm before they stopped, and camped there. Every day they would move silently towards the Dinkaron Lake, and waited for the six daughters to pass by. The first and second day yielded nothing. But on the third day, Thelin (who had been scouting, sighted the six daughters with Licoann their brother, and he quickly returned to his camp to alert his brothers. They were ready, and ever so silently they crept back into Tiendar’s realm.

They sighted the Stewards again, and stalked them silently. Alas, when they had stopped by the lakeside for a drink, the six brothers sprang their trap, and rushed out of the woods. Licoann drew his sword the instant he saw them, and he call his sisters to go behind him. Then Thruanin fell upon Licoann first, with his sword drawn, and the two fought fiercely. Thelin drew his sword out, and slew Licoann from a mighty spear thrust from his side. The other brothers rushed upon the sisters. They had at first intended to rape the six Stewards, but Thruanin and Thelin had been adamant, for they wanted nothing other than their swords to touch the six daughters. The other brothers consented, and, one by one, the slowly plunged their swords into the six daughters they had once desired.

As each daughter fell, each cried out “May Amentoris remember us!”

Then each perished.

Neler fell first, followed by Feian, then Thiendori, then Pienhor, then Lerya, then finally, Treyal. Treyal wept bitterly, for she had to see all her other sisters slain. Then she wept for a moment, and said, “May my blood yet bless this reddened ground!” Then Thruanin’s sword fell upon her heart, and she died.

The six brothers left.

When Tiendar and Venyai did not see their children again for the evening meal, they began to grow worried, for their trip was to be a short one. Then they, with troubled hearts, began to send search parties in search of them. The searcher found their dead bodies on the ground in the northern stretch of the lake. They brought their slain bodies to Venyai, then Tiendar. The whole household wept for many a season afterward.

Now Amentoris the Wise saw his faithful Servant’s distress, and he came down from his great abode in Thol-Maran to speak with Tiendar and Venyai. When he first came down, he did not speak, but only sat down and wept with them. Then, when they had settled themselves, Amentoris spoke to them.

“My friend, I have heard your sorrow, and have seen the sadness in your eyes. I come to pay my deepest condolences.”

Then Tiendar looked up and said, “My Lord, You have come!”

Amentoris smiled sadly, and held Tiendar’s hand firmly, and comfortingly.

They spoke quietly of things, of other things, that took Tiendar’s and Venyai’s minds off of sorrow. But their minds came back to their children’s murder. And they beseeched Amentoris the Mighty, “Oh great One, could You not have prevented it? Could You not have allowed them to live?”

Amentoris looked into their eyes, and his eyes were sorrowful. “Oh my dear friend, I cannot explain all now, but one day, when the world is no more and you will return to dwell with me in Thol-Maran, I can explain, but for now, I cannot.”

“But, as a reminder, and a gift, I will give you my last token of love to you.” He pointed to the sky. “See that bow of seven colors in the firmament. Of red, and orange, and yellow, and green, and blue, and sea-indigo blue, and violet. That shall be my gift. May it be a bittersweet reminder for all of us to see, in memory of each of the colors that your children had chosen as their own,” he paused, “Then may this be. A gift, a reminder, a joy, a sorrow, a beam of hope to this world, as Endramius may endure.”

Then Amentoris’s presence left them. Leaving the rainbow to hang there, for the rest of time.

Mother Turtle

She comes up.
Slowly letting
Pushing, pulsing,
Waves
Send her
Over the
Um-swim-able
Shallows
Onto a beach.

She lands,
Her flippers
And great mass
Heaving, Straining,
As they inch up the shore.

On she goes,
This silent mother turtle,
One,
Two,
Pull myself
Over the coarse, rough,
Uncultured grains
Of sand.

It is lonely here.

But then she stops.
Here.
Not there.
Not there.
Not over there.

Right here.

On this quiet, foreign,
Beach.

¼ of 60 minutes,
A quarter of an hour.
Time to lay the eggs.
Here.

Time to release those
Little ones,
That she loves,
Though she cannot stay.
But she will lay the eggs,
If that is the last thing
She
Shall do.

Carefully now.

Now, it is nearly over.

They are laid now.
Now, to bury them
Under sand,
Coarse,
But willing.

Flap, flap, plop, pat-pat.

Her leathery, age-worn flippers
Throbbing tiredly,
As she sends the sand
Flying over her,
Landing over
Her eggs.
Again, again, again.

Flap, flap, plop, pat-pat.

Done.
The Birds shan’t get them now.
It is finished,

She hobbles down.

Straight line
To the
Sea.

Exactly where her own mother
Had once,
Old ages ago,
Slipped off to her
Home,

And waited for
God the Mighty
To light the spark of life
In a
Little, baby,
Turtle.

Bidal-Karon

Starting a 2-part series. Another addition to my little stock of Tyatoran legends (haha!).


In the later years and seasons after the Great Making, and after the Rebellion of Jalkir, there were yet many of the faithful stewards of Endramius. Among which, the wisest of their number, were chosen to be the Jyelvarin, the Princes, by Amentoris Himself. Each of these Princes, were delegated tasks and regions to care for and look after, as time and earth may endure. Each was given one place to call their own; some were given mountains, some rivers, some principles or natural laws to supervise. They and their households would watch over the land, as a gardener over a great field, or a Guardian over a doorway. They were not masters of the land, only caretakers, for their duty was different from that of us mortals. Yet, for this, they were content to be, and they lived happy ages, and still live on, throughout the Seasons of Endramius.

Among these Jyelvarin, Lord Tiendar set up his stewardship of the Lake of Dinkaron, of the Merry Heart. He and his wife, Venyai, cultivated the land surrounding the lake, and caused the fish and water-flowers of the lake to flourish. Beautiful was the land under his and his fair wife’s care.

It came to pass that Venyai became with child, and she gave birth to their first daughter, Neler. After her, Venyai had another daughter, Feian. And after Feian, came the Twin Sisters, Thiendori and Pienhor. After the Twins, Venyai had two more daughters, Lerya, and Treyal. And finally, Tiendar and Venyai, had their last child, a son named Licoann.

And many long years passed, as the household grew larger and merrier with the laughter of young children, and the sound of music was constant. Many a traveler and pilgrim, even Solemn Lathur, came to see the shimmering lake of Dinkaron, and bear gifts to the great house of Tiendar and Venyai. Of gifts, they refused, but instead constantly gave, and despite it, they grew wealthier and greater still. Truly and mightily was the blessing of Amentoris upon them.

Their daughters and son grew tall and fair, as was the appearance of all the great Stewards. And they each took upon themselves a robe to the shade of color that was their own. Neler took maroon, Feian took the hue of citrus, The Twin Sisters each took to themselves the shades of gold and forest green. Lerya took the blue of rivers, while Treyal took the shades of the Blue Sea. Licoann took the rich violet that symbolized tenacity and loyalty.

Now very fair were these, especially among the daughters, of which there was no comparison on Endramius, though none among them were the greater. They were raised faithfully in the way of Amentoris, and they faithfully took on and upheld that which they had been taught.

As it was, to the south, there were the Greater Fays, led by King Dyavan, which means Gleaming Sword. He, among all the other fays of Endramius, opposed Jalkir heavily, and was one of the most upright and warlike of his race. He had six sons, Thelin, Baranin, Borthonin, Carin, Thruilin, and Thruanin. They, like their father, were warlike and strong, yet unlike their father, and more like their mother, were impulsive and less upright.

Alas, when King Dyavan and his sons came to visit Tiendar and his household, he came bearing many gifts. As was his custom, Tiendar refused, and instead treated his mighty guest with many feasts and celebrations. At the time, the seven children of Venyai and Tiendar had been off to deal with a large infestation of weeds on the Northern Lakeside. A messenger was sent to tell them to return for the feasts.

On the fifth day of celebrations, they came, having dealt with the large bulk of weeds. Down they came, in their flying robes, and spent the day readying for the night’s merriment.

That night, they came to the feast, for King Dyavan and his sons were staying but for one more night. And on this day, the six brothers first met the Steward maidens of Tiendar. At first sight, the brothers found these sisters very beautiful, but they kept their thoughts secret, to each other and to their father. However, throughout the merry-making and celebrations, the six brothers’ eyes were ever on the daughters of Tiendar. Licoann, though, by chance saw their furtive glances and was troubled by that flash in their pupils, but he spoke of this not, for he decided such suspicions as folly.

The next day, Dyavan returned to his realm, with his sons and their retinues. Dyavan, upon their departure and return, noticed a cloud over his sons’ heads. He was wary for a while, but let it slide off over the weeks to come. In truth, the brothers had great desire for the maidens of Dinkaron, and time oft breeds greater desire for all manner things. Their desire ever grew greater, and in time they spoke among themselves about it. They had all considered asking their father to arrange a series of weddings between they and the Stewards, but pride stubbornly held them back.

Finally, Thelin, the eldest of Dyavan’s sons, suggested a plan that surely would allow them to arrange marriages of their desires. It was a crafty and conniving plan, but impulse and want overruled morality and uprightness.

“Let us then invite our father to a feast, and make him drunken with heavy wine. Upon this, we will persuade him to give us all a promise, and we will arrange our plans well. We will send the messages to the King Tiendar. When our father has awoken from his stupor, he will have no opposition to our plans, and will not realize his decisions the day before.”

Thruanin, the youngest, heard this proposal, and was unhappy. His love for his father was no greater than that of his brothers, but his standards were more upright, and he was reluctant to partaking in the plan. But his desire too overruled his conscience, and he remained silent.

The sons of Dyavan executed the plan. All went as was expected, and messengers were sent to Tiendar’s household, bearing proposals. The bearers of the messages were welcomed cordially by Tiendar, and their proposals were considered. Venyai and Tiendar called his family together from their duties and held a private council among them.

And that is where we stop for this post. To be continued. . .

Haikus on Small Things

Small, Busy shuttlecock,
All befeathered and bouncy,
Racket to racket.

Pink, soft, and lovely,
The young, happy flower bud
Just bursting to bloom.

The crisp, round, Cracker
A bit brown round the edges,
Longs to be eaten.

Soft, gummy, blue,
Moldable and smooth to touch,
We call it play-dough.

Sibling's teddy bear,
Fuzzy paws and tail and ears,
Stares up to ceiling.

The little garden -Metaphors and Musings

Ah, I'm such a sentimental muser.

We were driving home, taking the right-shoulder of our street. There was a traffic light, so we, being law-abiding citizens (I think), stopped. Then I saw it. It was a small little patch of grass and weedlike flowers, just on the little barricade seperating our turning lane from the main road. That little, minute patch of grass, daintily surviving amidst the chaos of the city.

In was surprisingly pleasant, looking at that little lush island, stuck in a sea of hardened tar and metal automobiles. One resilient survivor, one unique patch of ground, standing by for greenery and old times, and memories of the great fields of its ancestors.

A butterfly hopped onto one of the flowers. A fugitive, perhaps? Where can a small, six-legged flutterer sleep, in this vast city-maze? Maybe this was his little residence, his little refuge. Maybe he knew that the road and the cars would not swallow this place.

Then the traffic light turned to green, and we drove off, leaving me to think on about that little insect, and his little garden stronghold.

Dreams of the Stars

I wonder, sometimes,
What those faraway stars do,

In their own little dreamtime,
As they gaze through
Gossamer
Filmed
Eyes.

Maybe, then, they watch us,
Maybe, just because
God
Made them that Way.

To remind us

And see what
We mortals are doing.

Down
The
Steps
Of time.

They are
Always peering down, through
Sleepy, yet
Watchful,
Sad,
Weary eyes.

Cheering, and then sighing,
As they see a king being just to his people,
Or a bird
Falling from
Its nest,

Hearing, then crying,
When they hear the
Speech of
Evil men,
Or the sound of a
Poor,
Lost widow’s
Sob.

Scorn, then smiling,
When the hidden deeds
Of night
Give way to
The blessed gift
Of day-Light.

Hate, then laugh,
When they see
Injustice done,
And then when
The
Oppression is
Overthrown.

On their silent thoughts
Go on,
Day,
By day,
Year,
By year
Age
By age.

Until He comes again,
To call
The Stars
Home,

To let them
Close their eyes
One
Last,
Time,

And to be glad,
For their Kindler
Is glad
With their
Watching.

And then,
Forever more

Be oblivion.

Today

The whine of drills from our new neighbor's home plagues us. Ipod music does no good, and I'm finding it real hard to write anything at all. Blast it!

Oh well, let's just pray the neighbors are good.

Just recovered from a slight fever, hence the emptiness of my blog from the past few days. . .

Nothing more to say about today!

So What Is Horizon?

So what is Horizon?
Where green earth and blue sky meet?
An end of our vision?
Or a place to run after,
Just to see what’s on
The other side?

So what is light?
A charge of bright energy?
A shimmer on a fish’s back?
Or a beacon so we Mortal Men,
Can know that a Someone
Cares for us?

So what is time?
A linear line of meaningless
Events floating down
Infinity?
Or a gift
To help us chart and understand
Our days?

So what is Wealth?
An excess of something good?
An opportunity to gain?
Or a blessing to receive
And use
Wisely?

And what am I?
Nature’s tool to save the World?
An empty creature meant to be some
Missing
Link?
Or am I,
Then,
Fearfully, and wonderfully made,
Fitted thoughtfully
Into the Great Plan,
For some Purpose,
For some Cause,
For
Someone
Who cares for me?

Do Owls Ever Get Lonely?

Do Owls
Ever
Get
Lonely?

In that deep,
Pitch black,
Darkness,

Hidden,
In that
Silent World
In that
Distant realm.

Away,
From busy,
Baying dogs,
And
Greedy,
Squawking
Ravens.

No,
In this pitch black
Darkness,
There is
Solitude
Instead.

Solitude
Full and Sweet,
And complete.

I guess they are
Content
There.
Hidden in that Silent World
Of their
Own.

The Value of Things

How much would you pay
For a Dream?

A good Dream.

What would you give for
The most beautiful music on Earth?

Would trade a boat to hear
The Wonder
Of
Whale-song?

Or tangible cash,
For insights on what
Intangible
Wind is?

Or a man-made
Gadget,
To understand the most deep of emotions?

Or a day from your Life,
For a chance to turn back the Clock?

Or anything at all,
To make up for some wrong
You did?

Then what about, another choice:
How much must we pay for an eternity
With the greatest of Kings
As a father?

Then what
Would
You
Say,
If that
Gift
Was Paid
For
By
Some
Person
Already?

And all you had to do was say
Yes?

Tell Me, please

Oh Tell me, please, of the wonders of Your palace. Tell me all about the gates of pearl you made, and the streets of yellow metal. And the places that await all those for now and forever that will be saved, Oh Lord, please tell me of your glory, and how the Son will shine over your kingdom brighter than our sun, and all the wonders of your kingdom that await me.

Oh Lord, though I probably never understand, would You tell me, about why You came down to bring me up here, when I don't deserve any of the riches of your courts? Why is it you love me so? Surely we, corrupted by our own choice, were not so important as for the God of Eternity to lavish such blessing on mortal beings. Surely it was not worth it. Of such questions, I know not the answer, but I am willing to trust You, Ancient of Days, and forever be thankful and content.

Mark's LatestTag

4 names your friends call you
1. Josh
2. Joshua
3. Joshy, though people who call me that are not true friends.
4. Joshua of Tyatora

4 most important dates in your life
1. October 7
2. September 13
3. June 11
4. November 26

4 things you've done in the last 30 minutes
1. Checked my email
2. Checked my blog
3. Posted blog-posts
4. Talked with Mom.

4 ways to be happy
1. If you mean happy for the moment, then I think I’d like. . .read a book
2. Play computer
3. Play a board game
4. Spending time with family and close friends.

4 gifts you would love to receive
1. Money (as much as possible)
2. Extra computer time from Mom.
3. One (or more) of the latest Transformer toy collectibles
4. One-way tickets for my family to go to Tyatora!

4 fave hobbies
1. Board Games
2. Transformers
3. Blogging
4. Writing

4 places you want to go for vacation
1. A tour through Europe
2. The Silk Road
3. Missoula, Montana, USA
4. Tyatora
5. Vervaris

4 fave drinks
1. Tea
2. Sprite
3. Shandy
4. Good, cold, water

4 things always found in your room
1. books
2. me?
3. board games
4. more books

4 Fave colors
1. Violet
2. Blue
3. Blood red
4. Black

Top 4 Hangouts
1. Home
2. Home
3. Home
4. Home? :)

Top 4 you love
1. God
2. Mom
3. Dad
4. Dan

Top 4 reasons why you think you will answer this survey
1. I like tags
2. I’m free enough
3. I love blogging
4. No reason

Top 4 things special to you
1. My poems
2. My Tyatoran work
3. My Paravanian work
4. My stories

Top 4 who you think will answer this survey
1. Whitle
2. Tim
3. Jian Lin
4. Ben

I've joined facebook!

It's taken a long time. For ages I've been adamant to the idea. No! But then dear Mom joined, and that was a great blow to my resolve. Then Mark invited me. Then I heard Emma was doing it too. Curiosity got the better of me. I couldn't believe that Benjamin actually facebooked. . .

Alas, with one great cloud of pious believers, I was converted to Facebookism. Wow.

Yikes, I'm changing. Here goes the last of the closed door policiies from my world. . .

Tyatoran History (again)

This is the Tyatoran belief of how the stars were formed. Came up with it some weeks ago. Haven't put it down to paper yet. Here it goes. . .

Before the world began, before the oldest of years, or the most ancient of times, or the longest of nights or days, there was Amentoris. He was never born nor made. He simply is. Mighty and great was He, stronger than all of this earth. Indeed, He was great. And upon this, he called forth the Concepts and the Masters.

By His call, the Concepts were made. He separated eternity into days and years and centuries, though He was not been bound by them. He called forth the light and the darkness, and they became what they were. He commanded the earth to be, and from its deepest pits He made water and air and fire. He looked upon his first phase of creation an was glad.

Then he made the Inhabitants, they who would live upon this land, He called Endramius. He formed all of them, one by one, then called them to life. He bended and shaped the trees and plants to beauty, and the beasts and birds and fish to that which was good, and sent them down to earth and populate it. Then he formed the Great Masters, the highest and most glorious of his making, creating them from the dust of mountains and hills, and plains. He made the first giants, and the first Firk-notts, and first two Humans. He created the first gnomes and first griffins of the mounts. Then made the first Rashoth, of which were all the great animals that could speak. Then He made the fays and stewards. He made them as spirits, the stewards to inhabit and watch over the lands and rivers and hills of His creation, and the fays to safeguard this world; for it was His great delight to see His created beings enjoy and keep that which He had made for them. He looked upon his new earth and indeed was glad.

Then, He made the sun and the moon, and the Guardians of the Sky. Beatiful He made the ornaments of the heavens, and he bestowed upon them the most wonderful of lights. The Guardians He made were like the stewards, but more powerful, for they had vast expanses to watch over. Then Amentoris the Great smiled, for much had been done.

It came to past that night came, and all of Amentoris's creation wondered at the glories of their Maker. That day, each race of Grand Master gave Him a name, to be held in Reverence for that race and fear. The Firk-notts called Him the Regi -Damarkhi, the greatest of Spirits. The Griphions called Him Kuchgaardin, True King. The Gnomes called Him Throigalin, Vast One.

Then Amentoris let them witness the final wonder of the creation. He came upon the sun and moon, and tore them into hundreds and thousands of pieces. The Grandmasters and fays and stewards were terrified at fist, unable to perceive its meaning, or its reason. Then Amentoris bellowed, in a voice deep and great, "Fragments of the old moon and old sun, disperse! Be the stars, and form among yourselves tales and shapes and constellations. This is the birth of the many lights!"

Then the fragments, though inanimate, obeyed, and sped to the places assigned them, far away from the world of Endramius.

Now, the creation of Amentoris wondered, for though at first they could not perceive, they saw the beauty of these new stars and were amazed.

Then Amentoris called forth once more, "Hearken! People of the first day! To remember theis day, and be glad, for I have made this land for thee. I promise my unending and incompassable love and passion for thee, as long as you accpet it and remain in my ways. Great will be the friendship between you and I, for many things I have in store for you! let the stars be witnesses to our covnenant here."

The people of Endramius heard and obeyed.

This is the tale of the Creation, the first day and evening in Endramius.
That is the story of he Great Making,

Mark put me in the tag. . .does that make me tagged?

I think it does, but I'd rather be on the safe side, since it's possible I may make a bitter tuition-mate out of him (by not doing it). Better safe than sorry, they say.



1. Besides your lips, where is the favorite spot to get kissed?
On the cheeks, by Mom, of course.

2. How did you feel when you woke up this morning?
It's a school day. . .what's for me toay?

3. Who was the last person/people you took a photo with?
Mom, I think.

4. Would you consider yourself spoiled?
Not particularly.

5. Will you ever donate blood?
Yes, probably. Let's not think about htat right now.

6. Have you ever had a best friend who was of the opposite sex?
6No, not yet. Several close friends of both genders, though.

7. Do you want someone to be dead?
Not yet.

8. What does your last text message say?
Something from Digi? I don't remember.

9. What are you thinking right now?
Transformers sequel is coming. Revenge of the Fallen. Transformers sequel is coming. Revenge of the Fallen. Transformers sequel is coming. Revenge of the Fallen. . .

10. Do you want someone to be with you right now?
I think Tim (at the moment).

11. What was the time you went to bed last night?
Ten, or so.

12. Where did you buy the tee you are wearing now?
I didn't buy it.

13. Is someone on your mind right now?
Tim (still).

14. Who was the last person who text you?
Tim? Or that Digi yellow guy that is perpetually texting me of great deals and bargains.

TEN Lucky People to do this quiz…

1. Timothy
2. Ben
3. Melanie
4. Whitle
5. Jian Lin
6. Daryl
7. Kevin (of Chronoblitz)
8. David (Please start blogging!
9. Xinpei
10. Wei Lynn

15. Who is no. 2 having a relationship with?

How am I supposed to know that?

16. Is no. 3 a male or a female?

Definitely a girl. Look at the list next time.

17. If no. 7 and no. 1 get together, would it be a good?

If you mean datng, then of course not. Both are guys, and (to the best of my knowledge) they are straight. If they ever met, I think they fit in quite okay with each other.

18. What is no. 1 studying about?

School? What else?

19. When was the last time you chatted with them?

1. Timothy, last week. He cameo over to play computer.
2. Ben? Last month. There was a play at his church.
3. Melanie? Two weeks ago. At the youth group in church. Passing a computer game.
4. Whitle? About half a year. At co-op class.
5. Jian Lin? More than half a year. At Ms. Melinda's class, I believe.
6. Daryl, hmm. . .last robotics class, a month ago.
7. Kevin? A few months ago at JPS.
8. David? Last week. Same day I saw Tim.
9. Xinpei. Today, at co-op class.
10. Wei Lynn, more than half a year ago at Ms. Melinda's.

20. Is no. 4 single?

I believe so. Should be.

21. Say something about no. 2.

Ben's interesting. Blunt, yet thoughtful. Rare and most likeable combination of charisma, forthrightness, and thoguhfulness (as I said earlier).

22. What do you think about no. 2 and no. 6 being together?

Again, both are guys. . .

23. Describe no. 9.

Nice being around. She's ten. Hmm. . . good strategist (we're in the middle of a heated Risk game, and she's winning).

24. What will you do if no. 6 and no. 7 fight?

Let it be. It couldn't possibly last very long.

25. Do you like 8?

Yes! He's alright. Not totally evil, but not totally good.

Stories from Grandma

I was at my Grandparent's house (on my Mom's side). I was on the garden swing, staring out into the pretty, neat, impeccably maintained green sanctuary that was my Grand-mother's domain. I was listening to my MP3 when she came out of the house (she had been resting inside before). I greeted her. We talked for a little, while, and she went on to her gardening. i followed her, just for the fun of spending time with an ancient

She and I had finished pulling small weeds off a particular spot of green grass, when we both settled down on the swing again. It was her idea, actually. "So peaceful," she remarked. I nodded my head.

Then I remembered something I had always wanted to ask her. "Poh-Poh?" I asked, "Could you -tell me about how it was like when you were young?" It was a bit awkward at first. I've always loved old stories and tales from my elders. It's always felt like a retelling of family history and secrets, a memory of days gone by.

She paused for a moment, then nodded. She started. She talked about her house in Seremban, how her loving Grandfather had bought that house. She talked about her family, how her mother had so lovingly cared for her and siblings, about the times she worked in Robinson's, and her brothers' trip to China to remeet older relatives. There was so much emotion in her words, a undertone of pride of her family and heritage. She talked about the Hakka association her grandfather had founded, and a number of old tales. Some were harder to understand, but I listened anyways. She talked about her education, and reminded of my duty to study hard, since I have been blessed with the opportunity.

She says that a lot, but this time, it was somewhat different. This time, I knew the background and history that made her constantly repeat that admonishment. It made that history to come alive.

Someday, I hope to gather all these tales, and write them all down. Stoires, of humor, and sorrow, and pride. Maybe I will someday. THese tales must not be forgotten. There is a loss whenever old memories are forgotten. It makes one feel less responsible, more ignorant of the weaknesses and strengths of his ancestors, and what he can do to uphold or get rid of old habits. I plan to write my family's stories down.

Maybe one, day, if I live to see my great-grandchildren, I can tell them of the day when their great-great-grandmother told me about my great-great-grandfather.

Long live history! Lng live heritage! Long live the memory of all heroic people, before, now and eventuall,y in times to come.

Birds

Saw some birds today. Not that I never see birds on other days, but this time I saw a bird-battle. Yes, there was a scuffle.

I was watching from the balcony, actually, staring into the great semi-green expanse that is Kuala Lumpur. Then I saw the birds. There was one, one small, black-and-yellow little fellow, chasing a large, rather ugly-looking crow. The black and yellow bird (BAY bird, for short) was furiously chasing he poor crow, trying constantly to nip its enemy's tail or chest. Round and round they flew, until another crow came to pull his friend out of the melee. The crows retreated to a high outpost on the edge of their marked territories, carefully watching the BAY. The BAY was staring at them too. He had perched himself on a tall tree. A temporary armistice was made.

Temporay was the emphasis, mind you. Once or twice, the crows launched hesitant movements into enemy territory. They didn't win. Chased out again. Then suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere, another BAY bird appeared, to aid his feisty brother-in-arms.

Then I went back inside the house. I guess they are still fighting, chasing each other from perch to perch, until nighttime and their mothers call them to bed.

To dream, to believe, to dare.

Had a dream last night. I recall only glimpses in my mind's eye. It was the seven years, in my dream. The last seven years prophecied of in Revalations. It was terrible. A great cloud of darkness fell over me. The anti-christ looked like a sea-cucumber. Vague concepts and prophecies rang in and out of that dream. It was odd. And serious, all at the same time.

But one part, just one part, plagued my mind, repeating itself over and over again in that dream, and even to now. I recall that in that dream, there were two nameless faces. I did not really know them, but somehow I knew they weren't very pleasant folk. I wanted them to be saved. I prayed (in the dream) that someone would lead them to God. But no one did. When I tried, I was told that it was too late. It was, evidently, the end times, and they had chosen which path to take. Eternal life, or eternal unlife. It scared me. I don't know why, but I cried for those mean, unlikeable two people (don't worry, it isn't really anyone I know). Because they went to the place that was never supposed to hold them.

I was scared for all my relatives who weren't saved, and had chosen the wrong path. A shocking jolt of fear and pain and fury and sadness filled me. For one moment, I realized how terrible the thought of that could be. One eternity without God. For so many people! So many people, relatives, friends, acquaintances, and celebrities. Some by choice, some by ignorance, some because some snobbish, self-righteous so-called Christians didn't do anything to reach out to them. All careening to that terrifying place that was never meant for them. I felt so helpless, so powerless, to aid those two nameless people in my dream.

Then I woke up.

It was terrifying, it was a most nightmarish dream. Yet, it gave me, for one moment, the urgency of the Great Commission. It also gave me a new thankfulness, a new thankfulness for all God has saved us from. He made it so easy, simply to admit, ask, believe, and then say it all out. He made it so easy to be free of that terrible place. Indeed how brilliant is our God.

But still, people need to know about it before they can believe.

And hopefully, when God calls me to do something, I'll be willing. I pray I will be.

Carpe Eternitas!

Questions, and Answers

I have lots of questions. Constantly brimming over. Some say it's a good thing, others say it isn't. But I do have questions. Some are pretty boring, some more reflective, some nonsensical, some silly. But sometimes it's these odd questions that help you sort out your belief,s your thoughts, your opinions, and ideas. So I'm going to brainstorm. . .


Why is the sky blue? What government system is best for China? How long is forever? Does God count infinity? How big is the universe? Why did God make pretty things? Why is the wage of sin death? Why did God bother to come down to a place like earth? How good is heaven? Exactly how bad is hell? Why does my mind ask so many questions? Who killed John F. Kennedy? Who killed Princess Diana? Was Leonardo da Vinci a Christian? What about Alexius Comnenus? How could this world have turned out if it was not for Hitler? How would it have turned out if it wasn't for Churchill? Why isn't the world better than it is? Why isn't it worse than it is? What makes teddy bears so adorable? Am I intelligent? How does my spirit look like? Does Tyatora exist? Are there worlds beyond my own? Is there any way to measure God's might, or love, or glory? How can terrorism be solved?



I'm out. I have questions, too many, it seems. Some have been answered, some haven't, some I plain don't know, some I may never know. I hope that someday, all these questions will just tumble out to someone. The Someone. I pray he will answer my questoins. Someday. Sometime. Somehow.

This is a petition, a collection. A collection of questions that I humbly ask Yahweh to help explain such deep things to my little, sometimes confused mind.


Questions. The life-blood of answers.

The Adventurer's Ten

Some light reflective thoughts on adventure and trade (you'll see what I mean!).


One silver harp for an unfinished quest,
Two gold trees for exotic a fest,
Three months by the moon for a glimpse of the sun,
Four twinkinling stars for a curse undone.
Five fleets of ships for a journey to the East,
Six blades for one fight with a terrible beast,
Seven white loaves for traveller's bread,
Eight greetings for one farewell said.
Nine rubies for one promise kept,
And Ten quests for a night well slept!

Aray, Arral, Aray, Arral,
Aray, Aray, Aray, Arral,
Count again once more!

One Persian rug for a foe to defeat,
Two chests of gold for a task to complete!
Three coffee pots for China-man's tea,
Four tulips red for a new sight to see!
Five bags of wealth for a taste of camel-flesh,
Six kettles for some good soup fresh.
Seven spears for a serpent's bite,
Eight giant wings for the gift of flight!
Nine caravels for a boat to row,
Ten arrows for a great rainbow!

Aray, Arral, Aray, Arral,
Aray, Aray, Aray, Arral,
Count again no more!

Pictures from Lang Tengah

Went on holiday last week! Lang Tengah Island (very near Redang). Excellent beaches, excellent marine life, all at the hotel beach itself! Here are a few pictures made by me and my family. . .


Road to No-where.

(Took this picture on the Trip Home)






The Beach




Clouds and Palm Tree -Inverted

Azure Sea

Green, Gray, Blue

Pier

c