Sometimes I think.
Sometimes I feel.
Sometimes I listen.
And sometimes,
sometimes comes.
And maybe
sometimes
it's real.
Walking in circles under the dripping canopy's leaves,
repeating a sentence someone gave him at twenty.
Terrorise your enemies.
The world moved on while he stood still,
saluting the old invisible flag.
Stand your ground.
Voices called his name from the edge of the trees,
but every kindness sounded like a trick.
Never surrender.
Counting the years by how many ghosts went silent,
the mission remained loud in his head.
Hold the line.
Better to starve than admit the hunger was pointless,
rather be feared than feel foolish.
Show no retreat.
It is not truth that convinces him,
but a formal command,
stepping out of the past.
"Lay down your arms."
So, Onoda walked out of the jungle at last,
wearing three decades of orders as his only story.
His identity.
Release the criminal
Even the convicted
So they can offend again.
Teach the child
To doubt everything
Their parents and cultural roots.
Instill the fear
Of a terrorist attack,
Mass shooting or climate change.
Encourage riots, street violence
Race and ethnic and religious conflict
So that there is no trust of others.
Destroy the family unit
Without civility and decency
In absence of the sacred.
Bring on the chaos
In the name of hope and change
‘Till it all falls down.
(9/2/26)
Author’s Note:
This sonnet is the sequel to "Ere She Trembled", as directed by the most esteemed Lustrous Lin; henceforth ventured by a poor votary of the Muse, who dared but follow the path her imagination had first ordained.
—The Jewel of the Crown—
When midnight loosed silver from her hair,
I stole where nectar’d dreams veiled all her breath;
She turn’d, and drew me through the perfumed air,
Till warmth made pale the hoary frost of death.
Her throat, where alabaster bloom’d, was warm;
Beneath my hand, her pulse began to sing;
She met mine eyes, and hush’d the gathering storm,
Whilst moonlight trembled on each secret thing.
Then breath to breath, where waking woo’d the dream,
Our silence melted, honey-sweet and deep;
The stars grew languid in their argent gleam,
And night forgot her ancient right to sleep.
Thou art the jewel sleeping in my crown;
I’d lose the world before I laid thee down.
Over and over I was beaten and battered
And my idea of a perfect home life shattered
But I was one of the lucky ones let there be no doubt
Because I was one of the few who made it out
I could have died at the hands of my mother
But not just me also my sister and brother
So I'll take a tough stance with no apologies
Because we're still alive with no eulogies
Sometimes true evil is a devil in a dress
And children are the ones in distress
In foster care I used to hear the stories
From the sad and suffering it was so gory
A tale I never truly wanted to tell
But if I have to I'll scream it from the gates of hell
If you stand with a demon it taints your soul
Turning it from white to black as coal
Sadly experiences like mine are common tales
And all over the world children suffer when society fails
Blessed by angels I broke the shackles to be free
And grew up in a loving home allowed to be me
Look into my eyes
And tell me when I'm saying lies
We were just three souls
Thankfully saved from a heart of coal
The plaster in Rick’s place was always flaking near the doorway,
eaten away by damp heat and cheap tobacco smoke
that hung like dirty lace off the cedar joists.
Back in the corner sat a stunted, yellowed box—
a five-octave upright slapped with salmon and faded gold,
its pedals worn down to raw, scuffed brass.
It wasn’t built for concert halls. Just a pine-cased crate
that smelled of spilled Cointreau and stale olive brine.
Heavy teak doors kept the street noise out,
but couldn’t block the shuffle of black-market transit papers
passing under the low oil lamps.
Then Sam laid his knuckles on the keys,
cracked ivory, half-sticking from the salt air,
and the room went dead quiet.
She stood in the entry, silk coat catching the light,
asking for that song from Paris
before the tanks rolled in.
Rick didn't yell. He just stopped dead in his tracks,
watching the smoke curl off his cigarette
where it rested on the edge of the wood.
“Play it,” he muttered, his voice flat as gravel,
and the little wooden box gave up the only thing it had left.
My Worst Enemy Is Anger
On the fire of anger I burned alone,
With dust of anxiety and a heart of stone.
Rage broke the peace of my beloved kingdom,
And left me wandering, lost and numb.
Like history did when two cities fell,
Hiroshima and Nagasaki knew that hell.
Buried in dust, in fire’s cruel breath,
Humanity died in a second of death.
Terrifying rays turned day to night,
Everything to ashes in one white light.
Generations faced the weight of rage,
A scar written on time’s own page.
Poisoned skies became a nightmare cover,
Anger destroyed what love could never.
In one decision, worlds were torn,
And innocence was left forlorn.
Yet one tree remained, its roots held tight,
A ginkgo standing through endless night.
No leaves, no hope, but still it grew,
A quiet vow that life breaks through.
So I lay down anger, my worst enemy,
And choose the green where I am free.
From ash and sorrow, let mercy bloom —
Let healing, not rage, fill every room.
Donald Trump made nothing so great again
Except his big hair fancy once again,
And the poor old puppeteer of punch lines
Faces a boomerang of mines.
Donald Trump,
Fell into a foreign policy slump.
Forgetting the Strait of Hormuz,
Forced he’s to focus on Hairmuz.
Donald Trump's coiffeur of hair,
Kept his critics in utter despair---
If held together by sheer will power,
Or industrial-grade lacquer?
In Las Vegas Donald Trump
Tried to give the economy a bump.
But no one paid him as much heed
As his massive golden mane did.
Donald Trump’s fuller head of hair
Left media memes in a frozen stare.
The AI-made serum played magic trick,
And his thin thatch turned unto bushy thick.
Donald Trump
Caused rumour mills to take a thespian jump.
And photo shops were suddenly busy
With an over-the-top teased-up medley.
____________________________
Happenings | 13.08.2026 | America, art, humour, political, satire, Clerihew
Cannons sing where dreams ignite,
flanks ablaze in shifting fury.
A tide of hunger drives them forward,
bellies growling, eyes shot with fire.
Empire surges in their veins.
Pervitin hums a dark rhapsody.
Dive bombers scream their discord,
night and day, tearing silence apart.
Blood is absent from their tongues
only steel, only ash remains.
They roll, ruthless, through broken shadows,
flattening all under their sharp wheels.
Fortifications crumble like wet paper,
the enemy whispers swallowed whole.
Nothing stands; all things fall.
Shock trips, outflanking chaos reigns.
Victory tastes of burnt iron,
a bitter kiss of almost-complete empire.
War dreams devour the sky with noise,
and dusk ascends in violent, silent reverence.
Gazing out from billions of unique eyes
Your face gives a glimpse of timeless lives
Old man as weathered wisened monk,
Young child full of joy and boundless *****
Each and every one an endless story
Told without record in simple living glory
(8/6/26)
This poem was originally written for and submitted to Writer Monk's monthly poetry contest on social conscience August 1, 2026
Morning rose over two cities
that no longer knew their own names~
light too bright, silence too large,
that felt like the world forgetting how to breathe.
Shadows clung to walls where people once stood,
soft silhouettes of lives interrupted mid-gesture,
mid-dream.
The air carried a strange stillness,
as though time itself had bowed its head.
And yet from the scorched earth,
from the quiet ash,
from the trembling remnants of what had been~
a small, stubborn pulse began again.
Hands reached for hands; voices rose in prayer.
Memory gathered itself into a vow
that sorrow would not be forgotten,
and peace would not be postponed.
Even now, the sky remembers
the day humanity learned how fragile it can be.
Vampire Iran is sniffing out Israeli veins
Xi buzzards are circling the lotus Taiwan
Putin is feeding on the flesh of Ukraine
Nuclear wizards are waving their wands.
Systemic Strain Part II
Proof that survival is an art outline,
And you paint it daily with any scraps
They embark you.
They monitor your struggles without seen
In the prototype of the broken appliances
Behind it.
The group blame the person
Instead of the patterns.
They call it "Personal "
Responsibility ".
When it's genuinely Systemic Sabatoge.
But you-
You trudge with a spine that recalls everytime
You bent and still didn't quit.
You speak with a voice that carries the
Parroting of every barrier lifted.
And you say it plain, loud enough for the
Block to hear:
This tautness ain't mine
This fault ain't mine
This fight was allotted to me by a system
That never cultivated how to hold its own
Bulk.
I'm not the Crack.
I'm the pressure point.
I'm the vocal cords that named the real culprit
And to carry it's shame declines.
He happy buty he mad too! I told him i'd be faithful.
He don't want me out their with ya'll cause most time ya'll act like ya'll don't
like him. He said "that ole fool be rubbinbg Vick all over
your body so ya;'ll can sing better."
Then what? I know he wanna get somethang up wiff you so
he can brag about having the band, the Broad and the whole show!"
I say, Honey I'm loving you: why you aint loving me?"
He say" Aint loving: it's about you stepping out on me!"
Not wanting me their with you.
Rubbing vick all over your body so you can sing better. I know how you get after
you perform, I know how you is!"'Bouché and cuivré with a band?? That don't even sound right."
Say he gave ya'll a check, I bet you ya'll paying him to do these road shows."
It aint like that honey, you mad I said, but I'm going to go out theiir and do my thing."
Wish me luck, and then I came here!"
You got the vick we need to do some rehersting. It's in the bag.
Not a moment ticks when life may not grow,
Let seasons come and go, tides wax and wane,
Life keeps transforming, ever on the go,
Gets born again wee like ghazal’s refrain.
Death leaves behind a ripened seed in chain,
The soul as traces a long-drawn voyage
Whose seed sprouts forth time and time once again,
Aiming to evolve O at every stage.
If quiet does a drop evaporate,
So too a soul when to new flesh passeth,
In silence does Nature new things create,
Whine not O man in life nor yet in death,
For, ye come crying taking first fresh breath
That ye whine all life and leave so at death.
________________________________
Musings | 11.02.2011 revised July 2026 | death, faith, life, Sonnet
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