Together Apart

Our bodies,
Our lives,
Lie in parallel,
A touch here,
In contact there;
In between, hiatus.
This life,
This world,
Separates us.

Moralist Down

Hoisted a leg onto high ground,
Slipped, slid and fell into a hole;
Shot from below;
But all I saw were flitting birds
Chasing invisible insects
Imitating the sound of my words
Ricochetting off the wall;
Look'd beyond to the sky, knew
Had to get off my butt, up and out.

Class 64: Oink To The Oi

Brayed Oi United to Oink FC:
Oi, Fulsome Cowboy,
Long time no see!
For a daily dorky,
A day awol,
Is cause for worry.

Whassup? No more hawing at the Club?
Whatsa jazz? You running outta gas?
C'mon in, grab some grub!
WAH, YA, SZ and I,
Are worried and wondering why.

Altho the tip of your lance-in-pencil
Is at times sharp, at times limp,
We, members of the Tribal Council,
Are in no trance, being
Neither a zombie, nor a wimp.

We have sensitivities a few, you Fing,
So go easy on the Malay thing-a-ling,
On this, the Net Forum,
Mindful of tribal decorum,
We frown on any hokum-pokum;
We are here primarily to say Hello;
Occasionally warn of non-halal products, Lo!
A virus or two, maybe worms too,
While passe are jokes leached from the loo,
Golf and dinner invites are okay too,
That's all that are comfortable, Yahoo!

So no, we don't have to sit cross-lapped,
Holding a cup to your crap;
What to you are carps and complaints,
Not even profound, just plain profane,
Are to us a yarn, held in disdain;
To the head, heavy; in the butt, a pain.

Ever wonder why JoeK, TA and AI,
And the rest of class 64,
Perched on table high,
Don't dang deign the padang turun,
And with one another interact?
Even if the padang is only the Net?

No, not because they lead busy lives,
Grasshopping down the Green,
Or being Lounge Lizards at a Resort,
But you've turned this once merry hive,
Into a burial site that is barely alive,
With many a sting, many a sigh,
And raised the bar a notch,
The heat a degree, too high.

Not that we engineer, captain, school dean,
Private practitioner, exporter-importer,
Political aspirant and tin-miner,
Mostly ex, some botak, others botox'd,
Are lacking in might and means,
But we find your demeanor,
Obnoxious in the extreme.

Our sacred cows tribal,
You denounced as inconsequential,
Trivial; our Cause Celebre,
The need of the Murid for a Murshid,
You deemed as lacking in merit;
A Taksub Terrible,
Not at all cerebral;
Our best barb pro September Eleven -
Even Steven, contra Americum -
You scoffed off as schoolboy tantrum;
How not to be sore on that score.

So go easy on the cheesy Lizzy,
Cicak, ciplak and cheapo cc,
Spare your old mate, the venom of hate;
Stave off your tirade,
From this Forum, small grade,
On to a bigger parade;
And maybe, fain,
We shall meet again,
Over tehs tarade.

Otherwise we will in chorus,
In unison, vociferous,
Cry Oi to your Oink,
No less.

Neofeudalism, you say?
Oi by a ruler of yesterday?
Reserved for his gundek and gecko?
Recalled here for its cili echo?
Nerd, geek, wacko and cracko,
All melded into one, watcho!

Bluster and bustle,
Hive off to the hustle,
Dorky for the day,
Blather to the bray,
Boy oh boy,
Oink to the Oi.

Bringing Up Sara

My little 'un is no Princess,
For I'm no Yang Di Pertuan;
Of her Dad, she seems to agree,
But of herself, she thinks she's one;
Admittedly, in abetting the case,
I'm guilty;
What can I do,
I have no plea,
Sara is only three.

Between queenie and subject loyal,
Between Dad's attempts futile,
To get the tiker to mend her style,
And give up her ritual,
Of being a little tot feudal,
There develops daily a battle royale.

The battle field is the settee
In front of the tv,
Which she hounds,
Refusing to give ground.

This is where she pitches
Her ensemble of imaginary
Pots, pans and dishes,
Made up of my toiletry,
Stationery and gadgetry.

This is where she scrimps,
Eyes glued to the screen,
Grubby fingers wiggling
To find the mouth;
Half enters, the rest goes south;
Mopping up is Dad's deed
Mashy, messy but necessary.

RC in her free hand,
She commandeers
All the cartoon channels,
Disney, Nickelodean, CN.

In the shadows Dad
Stands back, egad,
His is to nibble,
The dry biscuit Sara swivels,
Signalling his lot
Is not to quibble
Over the stuff from the pot
Or the missed tv news slot.

Gunung Kinabalu Climbathon 2005

The occasion was the 19th Mt Kinabalu Climbathon 2005,
The last event in the annual Sky Runner World Series mountain race,
Prestigious, publicized, offering prize money,
Attracting top names of the world athletic fraternity.

So what right had a crotchety pensioner,
Sea level aspirant, pushing sixty,
To have his name mixed up,
In the international cast of altitude runners?
Even if only in the above forty?
Why, they even required him to have a medical,
Before his name was put on the entry decal.

Well, as much right as the other recreational participants,
Who were runners in need, walkers in deed,
Who not only had no hope of winning a dime,
But might not even make it to the peak,
In the allotted time.

The route is 21.4 km long,
Climbing from 1.8 km to 4 km high;
Touristy trekkers only cover 17 km of the trail,
Done over a two-day round trip;
But for the race you are to complete,
The longer stretch in less than half a day,
With the cut-off time as six hours and a half,
And the record a little under three.

The pensioner, at the back of the straggling line,
Picked his way up,
Step, pause, step;
Step, pause, step.

He saw in awe,
The lead runner,
On his way down,
Bounding from boulder to boulder,
Bridging the intervening space,
As though helped by a bulldozer.

What diferent breed of animal is this?
What separates a runner of under three hours
From one who lurches home in seven?
What lungs, what heart,
What single-mindedness,
What knee ligaments,
What oxygen uptake?
Is it more a gift? Extra gills, Sir?
Or just the training factor?

A race is to the swift won,
And a rescue, rapidly deployed,
Is often successful;
Fortunately, no runner needed rescuing,
The pensioner to the finish line trudging,
One and a quarter past noon,
In a straggling line from the veteran unit
Who failed to reach the summit.

But my hat went to the senior ladies,
Elizabeth, Katie and one more,
Who traipsed behind the runners,
Sometime holding hands,
Often with hands in pockets,
Who made it to the finish line,
Ahead of the pensioner.