Outside Myself

I look through my body
at the world, the stars, moons,
stars beyond stars
I know there are stars, moons
stars beyond stars too
circling all within my finite self
this temporary sphere I am crowned with
the aura that shines from these
trillion of cells
all the moving atoms,
electrons, protons,
the universe inside and out
I look at them
from my infinite self
god the puppeteer
skillfully playing
the beginning, the end
I came out of the two walls
the human brain is kept in
to take a peep at myself, the universe

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Little Birds

last posture
pink little sparrow
so still in its few feathers

(a dead bird i saw that moved me nearly to tears)

inspired by

Little Birds

Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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That Mysterious Waves Of Pain

christmas day
i saw the boy
the white boy
skiny, thiny thing
who could only be
two scores of age
smiling so
innocently in phuket
the elders surrounding him
cajoling
i saw a little boy
black plump little thing
barely two, i guess
almost nude, running
carefree, near the sea
close to the waves
and into the waves
looking, discovering
danger, no,
a thousand miles away

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Christmas Day before Tsunami In Phuket

Christmas day
I saw the boy
the white boy
skinny, thin thing
who could only be
two scores of age
smiling so innocently
in Phuket’s Patong Beach
the elders surrounding him, cajoling
I saw a little boy
black plump little thing
barely two, I guess,
almost nude, running
carefree, near the sea
close to the waves
and into the waves
looking, discovering
danger, no,
a thousand miles away
I saw a granddad

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A new Poet

a new poet - first the
glow of the moon, then
overcast sky, then
thunder and lightning
the short interval between
shadows and lights
the delicate situations
that one has to fit in
on the page, white, yellow or blue
to make light, light
and the thunder, thunder,
and all the frightening winds
and storms that come in between
then the close of the rain
the loudness of the raindrops
taken over by drizzle and
little swirls of fresh breeze
that fuel the acme of enjoyment
for the senses and the mind
the final lines of a poem so well

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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One Less Animal to Help Me Evolve

put one child into a room
give him a doggie
to write his page

put another child into a room
give him a doggie,
a turtle, a caged dove
to fill his days

put another child into a room
give him a doggie, a gold fish,
a fighting fish and a parrot
to string his tales

now let them all talk to you
about their adventures

the first one would look at you
and probably say nothing

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Nicknames

nicknames are thrown
around in my family;
our own terms of endearment
word could not describe.
it is that closeness
towards each other
through words that evoke
a special experience
with a brother or sister
or just a plain description of
his uniqueness.
a brother is called La Ting
because of his bald head when a
baby.
eldest brother is labelled Ming
instead of his real name Thai
because of his intelligence
when a child.
Ming means clear-minded.
Another is called Lung

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Day Before The Tsunami in Phuket 2004

H! That white boy
Skiny, thiny thing
Did god claim him too?

----------

christmas day
i saw the boy
the white boy
skiny, thiny thing
who could only be
two scores of age
smiling so
innocently in phuket
the elders surrounding him
cajoling
i saw a little boy
black plump little thing
barely two, i guess
almost nude, running

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Harvest Moon

the yellow moon,
the colour that i could never get right
in my art class
well who can
it is never really yellow
and when you add white
it loses its luminosity
full moon
well when it is full
it is never round
if you look casually at it
it bulges at one side
with a tiny star twinkling at its side
a little child crying to be carried
but who cares except the round moon
poetic moon as poets would write
whether it is or not
the little child that would soften their poem
never given its recognition
lazy bones are always copycats

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Remember

remember
the curiosity
as a child
the stirring
in the heart
the first time
you saw
a hornbill,
a crane
that had
set wings
to your imagination
of colours,
feathers, and flight

an elephant
such giant honest creature
you could get them
walk in a line
down the circus

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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