Cluck Cluck Cluck!

Born fourteen December nine-three,

the year of the rooster for me.

Excited, I am,

To fly with friends.

Can’t wait for great sights to see!

Agnes Lee
Topic: Cluck (day 30)

The Soldier

He is amazing. His eyes gleam as he breathes my breaths.

The work he does can be seen on his face.

Each pearly breakout stems from the hardships

he faces for us, for my family. Each scar,

a memento of a battle with himself; stuck between

presence and protection of the ones he loves.

The dirt and grime of the forests he crawls and eats

and sleeps does not compare to the fondness of

her heart back home. Neither injuries nor hurt can compare

with the lost cheers of the boy’s first goal or the absence

of the small one’s first words.

The badges and awards tells of the tough decisions

made in the field but the white gold he proudly bears on

his face reads the hardest one yet.

He is Man. Strong. Resilient. Admired. Protector.

Almost impenetrable but the dots on that smile of re-unity,

they are the gateway to his soul.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Acne (day 29)

Shoe Defense

The total of bones from the head to the toes

is two hundred and six at twenty.

The place with the most number of those

is the feet, 26 on each.

They say bones give you structure, the hardest part of you,

they withstand the success ladder climb.

They hold you up when you’re happy or blue,

but even the strongest need protection sometimes.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Shoes (day 28)

Changes Everyday

One foot out and it's a new world.
The green of greens differ from recollections.
The air sandy, the ground humid, birds
sing hymns of rebirth.
The sun on your face pierces through you
again but never the same way.
The people hustle through the paths, the squirrels
nuts, lazy cat purrs.
Routines, but not constants today.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Today (day 27)

Weaknesses

So much power yet

if you think it hard enough

so little control. 

Agnes Lee

Topic: Weakness (day 26)

Musings of a daughter (stolen from my Facebook)

I guess my friends will find this funny, because I have been constantly battling with my parents for as long as anybody can remember. The wrath and degree of control my parents exert has practically become the stuff of legends to my friends by now. In fact for as long as I myself can remember, I have, for my whole short life so far, harboured an excessive amount of anger towards my parents. It's not been an easy 20 years on either side. With the three of us having extremely volatile tempers and stubborn personalities, it's a wonder (and sometimes a blessing) that my sister is the type to hold her anger in. 

So anyway, cliched as this may be, I think that many people (including myself) have always failed to understand that our parents are human too. God, it does sound ridiculously cliched. Let me explain. Why do we fight with our parents? More or less, the answer is that we disagree on certain sentiments because of our different personalities. Being merely human, we are all flawed in some ways, some more so than others. But that's okay. We forgive ourselves, our friends and even complete strangers for not being perfect: "oh, to err is human", "nobody's perfect". Yet, we cannot find it within ourselves to comprehend and forgive our parents at the same time. Forgiveness implies that the one doing the forgiving was right in the first place and in a parent-child relationship, it only seems natural for parents to forgive their children's transgressions but never vice versa. Perhaps we are uncomfortable with the fact that we could, at times, be better, smarter, more right than our parents. Or perhaps we still hold onto the notion that our parents are always right (however subconsciously). Or even perhaps some might feel uncomfortable having to 'forgive' our elders, attaching to it the connotations of a warped sense of self-gratification at triumphing over those who are older and wiser than us. Personally though, I feel that we must realize: forgiveness has nothing to do with yourself and everything to do with the person you are forgiving. And technically, one does not forgive a person but a person's traits or actions/words. What I'm trying to get at is that forgiveness is not bestowed from a lofty, 'holier than thou' position, regardless if this person is figuratively in a 'higher' position than you. You do not elevate yourself above them but instead, you pull them off their pedestals and seriously examine them on a basic level as a fellow human being. In any case, forgiveness is the second step. The first one is understanding.

Maybe there are people, like me when I was younger, who assumed that the phrase of "oh your parents are only human, you must learn to understand them more" meant that my parents are also prone to being angry, tired, having a long and annoying day at work and therefore is highly irritable. Those are all true, of course. Yet, what we don't often examine is the side that not many people want to see. That our parents could be angry and irritable not only because of a long, tiring day but because they may be people with ridiculously short tempers. They are quick to anger. They are unreasonable. They are narrow-minded. The list is endless, as is the list of sins stemming from our fault of being 'merely' human. These aren't particularly terrible traits. Many of us possess one or more of these traits ourselves. So is it really so hard to imagine that our parents, the people who passed their genes onto us, can have these characteristics too? And if we can forgive ourselves so readily for being 'merely' human, why do we hold our parents so much at fault for being like us too? As we grow older, we realize that our parents aren't perfect. However, there seems to be a gap between realizing and understanding. We may realize, but we do not understand the implications of our realization. And in failing to do that, our attitudes will forever remain clouded and narrow. It wasn't so difficult for myself to realize that my parents weren't perfect. What took me a lot longer was the understanding part that hey, it's okay that my parents have these flaws that I dislike. And I can't stress this part enough. Because I went through a very angry, though thankfully short, phase at being bitterly disappointed at my parents for not being as morally righteous as I was. Or open minded, or whatever. It was very hard for me to accept this at first because there are certain values that I hold very dearly onto and I was just unable to back down from my stand that others should believe in these ideals too. However, I guess it occurred to me after one too many times of feeling disappointed that I can't blame my parents for not being a certain way. If I don't blame my friends for not being like that, I figured that I can't blame my parents too, nor anyone else. And that's when I fully realized the extent to which we are blinded by the current lines dividing the roles of parent and child. As we grow older, we expect our parents to treat us like adults. But do we treat them like the adults they deserve to be treated too? Kids (of all ages, may I add), can we ever look beyond the pigeon-holed labels of 'Mom' and "Dad' and actually treat them with the respect and consideration that all human beings deserve?

Our parents may be lots of things. Some positive, some negative. From what I've heard, they can be bigoted, selfish, narrow-minded, racist, chauvinistic, tyrannical, unreasonable and sometimes just plain mean. But so can we. So what gives us this moral high ground to judge them by? Their age? Wisdom? Life experiences? Surely these factors do not make them (or us) into perfect people. And if we can find it in our hearts to forgive them, there'll be a lot less hate in the world. Because seriously, "I hate my parents" is no longer an acceptable form of talking about one's parents the older one gets.

I'm not advocating for a drastic change like some crazy parent-child role-reversal situation. Nor am I asking for parents to treat children as their friends and for children to absolve their parents of all faults. I just think that it'll be good to see how terribly flawed we all are as human beings, and to maybe show some understanding to the people who perhaps need it the most, our parents. It may not be much, like I'm pretty sure the relationship between me and my dad won't be all that different, but at least it removes some of the hate and anger from the equation. I guess that's a good start.

- Wen Zhen

The Smell of Her Locks

I brush her gold luscious locks and dry them

roughly with the towel. As my fingers run

through her silk, I get whiffs of the shampoo

she uses. Rose has always been my

favorite flower.

I carefully pull her fringe back behind those

dainty ears and twirl the ends of it between

my pulsing thumb and long index before setting

them down nicely at the side of her face.

Her lips still wet from her shower.

“Make sure my hair is neat for my guest.” Don’t

worry Missy, my hands know how to make you

glow. I braid her mane into two rows, intertwining

her threads tightly. A little pain is interesting. She

may command me, but I hold the power.

In an hour’s time, she will stand naked in front

of the banker’s son and he shall see the glorious

curls I am so familiar with. From the other room,

I will tear into those blond screams with

savage hunger. Just one more hour.

Agnes Lee
Topic: Hair (day 25)

Pink Is The New Black

Pink is the saltiness in my eye.
Pink is the shivers down my spine.
Pink is the tension in my shoulder.
Pink is the fingers going colder.
Pink is the anger in my fists.
Pink is the lines on my wrists.
Pink is the blood on my hand.
Pink is the betrayal of men.
Pink is the hate in my heart.
Pink is my soul torn apart.
Pink is the vacant broken shells.
Pink's for the fallen in hell.

Agnes Lee
Topic: Pink (day 24)

Spun Smoke

Look down
The webs wound round your
Wrists, strong as iron: this
Past that refuses to clear away,
Suffocates.

{Claire}

Tug of War

For the persecuted Muslims in Burma.

She hangs by her neck like the majestic colored

flag of her country. The sons beside her,

nine and five, upright and dead.

From afar, you can barely see her.

Against the brick red wall, she is but a speck of taint.

Should you go up close, she will tug on your heart strings.

The yellow floral dress brings you back to the

one you passed in the store. The lipstick used to

mask her pale kissables are the same shade as the one

in your purse. You see the resemblance.

She is as mother, as daughter, as friend, and as woman as you are,

but where you have pearls, she has rope.

You can see the bitter-sweet in her lifeless face,

the sadness endured of losing her boys accompanied

by their prompt reconciliation in the next cruel world.

In a short while, the birds will feast in celebration.

Then, she shall soar with them into the sun.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Strings (day 23)

Sanctuary

Quiet. Not a sound.
Run to the other box in that box in the flat.
Feel the tension seeping around.
Choose to actually live in that.
Enjoy the freedom from the societal town.

We must be cats.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Rooms (day 22)

Debris

I once was whole when there was life in the street
And love built in me a home,
Where the hearth-warmth once was cheery-sweet
And on the dressing-table lay a comb.
There once were pictures on these walls
And laughter echoed through the doors
I miss the footsteps down the halls
The quilts and rugs upon the floors.
For darkness fell and all these things
Were taken, in a flash:
Screaming sirens, wailing shells—
Innocence's ugly knell
Have left me here in ash and dust
Wooden frames broken, nails left to rust.

The walls that once held what was whole and bright,
The warm lamplight and kisses goodnight
Stand no more—
In crack and crevice, the wild flower blooms
Where once I nestled life in rooms.

{Claire}

Forgiving Yourself

You drown that voice out with white noise.

Pay close attention to the lady in the talk show

or the fat guy dancing. Beer in hand in belly in mind.

Do whatever it takes to drown her!

You fight her like a rebel in an uprising. You speak

speeches of battles and sing songs of war.

Don’t you know most revolutions are snuffed?

Let’s not get too ambitious, she mocks.

Listen to the silence around you. Hear how they scream.

The crickets rubbing their palms in evil laughter, the

frogs croaking for help. Hear the disapproval of the

lake as the light breeze disturbs its peace.

Hear the symphony of nature – the seamless blend

of untainted voices. Pure tones that work in

perfect dissonance. Their lyrics touch your heart

as they touch your skin.

She smiles loudest.

Look at yourself in the mirror. You witness her

critiques through your eyes. Your mouth shaped

wrong and your music’s fogging up the audience.

Do you see the conviction she has?

The conviction to succeed is the same one that

sees you as a non-entity because she does not recognize
failures. If the just world does not acknowledge

the tears on your pillows, Why should I?

You have to believe in salvation; the past should not

define you as much as she makes you think it does. It's not

easy to put so much faith in something so insubstantial but

Acceptance, they say, is the first step.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Forgiveness (day 21)

The Husband

Our marriage is like the desert –

almost bearable in the day. Seemingly

never-ending as we drag our feet through the

terrain. Exhaustion takes over words. The vows,

unable to withstand the blazing heat, buried deep

three yards behind. We communicate with stares of

resignation.

Life goes by on routines; dry. He – the office and

back. I – the living room, the study, the kitchen and

bed. This cycle repeats until a storm hits. Then it is

every man for himself. The fit survive but only the fittest

last. I, will live. As the thirst becomes overwhelming,

I shall quench it with tears. Luckily for me, he cries

like a man.

The nights are freezing, usually with the kid between

us. The calendar marks our next appointment; two

minutes of our minds fixated on sand in uncomfortable

areas. His wedding ring like a noose as I gasp for air.

Only he can make me feel as dead as I am alive.

I would not trade him for anyone else.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Desert (day 20)

Elbow Grease

I never understood the term elbow grease. Dad used to use it all the time, but he never once explained where it came from. The details of it never bothered him. It was “just something people said”, and that was good enough for him. It wasn’t quite good enough for me, though. The where of it kept nagging at me, buzzing around like one of those fat summer flies, teasing, mocking, then darting just out of reach. 

I had an inquisitive mind. My dad used to say it was like a squirrel before wintertime, running around collecting scraps from just about everywhere. He said that proudly, said he’d never be as smart as me, said I’d do great things if I put that little squirrel to work. Put in some of that elbow grease, he was so fond of saying.

I did well enough in school to go to college, a decent one at that. Dad wasn’t doing too well by then – a life working, spraying the fields under the sun gets to you. But you could still tell he was over the moon. School was a long way off and I had to move out, but every time I called home he’d say the same old thing – don’t forget to put in some of that elbow grease.

Dad passed away suddenly, during my fourth year in college. I dug his grave myself, right there beside my ma’s. I dug and dug till my back was sore and my arms were as numb and as raw as my heart. But I guess, standing in that hole, I finally understood. Sweat, dirt, blood and tears – those are the things that go into making that good ol’ elbow grease.

- Adrian

Sunday's Chore

Apple juice. Banana spread. CoffeeCoffeeCoffee.

Doughnuts. Eggs. 2 pounds Fish. Garlic Gin Greens.

Ham. Ice-cream. Jelly. Ketchup. Lettuce. Mint.

Nectarines. Orange. Potatoes. Quinoa. Raisin.

Shallots Soup Sangria. Thyme. Unleavened bread.

Vanilla pudding. Wheat Waffles and Watercress.

Xacuti with chicken and coconut, XanaxXanaxXanax.

Yam Yellowtail Yoghurt. Zucchini Zuppa Zest.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Food (day 19)

Poison Me

For the stranded refugees in Southeast Asia

How in thy ordinary did I brand’d as poison pray?

Shunn’d like plague of winter nights in May.

Our tongues doth not meet. My mistress lost.
Mine children art gone. Mine name forgot.

Paper identity sits at bottoms of waters.

I, no longer man, but pest in thy world.

Mine dirt and skin a deadly potion to touch.

Mine face bleeds acid in judgement eyes of angels such.
Mine voice the starving serpent hiss "Big bro'ers,

why art thou changing thy hands o’er o’er?"

Who the po’r unfortunate acquired me!

I yearn to clasp her embrace and feel their souls.

But storm, unkind and punishing.
It swallowed me whole.

Agnes Lee
Topic: Poison (day 18)

Mrs. Montag

Inspired by the book, Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury

I got my stomach pumped tonight.

That’s no big deal. Everyone has done it.

It is almost a weekly routine for me.

In fact, I crave it.

They inject you with this amazing concoction

of dancing colors after you get pumped. It helps

you forget your pain.

They call it Euphoria.

I have tasted it so many times, the body has become

more resilient than the burning flames on the next

government street.

Protocol is to up the dose.

I crave protocol,

so I make sure I’ll always take one pill more than the last.

My insane husband has fled to join the hippies

on the tracks. Something about giving

happiness a try. I call it naivety.

Do I miss him? Well, I get the parlor walls

all to myself and the seashells are never offed

these days. I listen to them as I count the capsules.

The bombings in the adjacent city make the best songs

for each session. Upbeat and dynamite.

The poison coursing through my empty veins,

slowly seeping into my hollowed mind. Hear

the low hum of the machine, sucking the sleep

out, next to me. It sounds like his voice.

Euphoria. It brings me to the perfect world,

their perfect world, my perfect world.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Addiction (day 17)

Lazarus

I rose to the surface – head, full of hot air,

first, followed by my decaying body. Merciless

waves crash onto me but it is the crack of

dawn that rose my eyelids. I rub my eyes with

bloated hands, full of chipped nails, 8 fingers left.

They buried me once.

I had to claw my way through the God’s earth.

Fulfilling, but tiring nonetheless. My cold shadow

triumphantly displayed by the moon shine on

the ground, heated by the fires below.

Hear, with only one ear, the birds cheer as hope rose.

Headed home to find the Missus pale as

a ghost. I smiled as wholly as I could and blamed it

on the Haver*. His plans are going to get me

killed again.

When the black flag rose for the second

time, they threw me into the ocean, praying the

animals would do the job. But, the fishes that kept

my dead flesh company, they know of His spirit.

And Lazarus rises once more.

Agnes Lee

Topic: Rising (day 16)

* "Haver" is hebrew for the word friend.

Nails

We have an unorthodox relationship.

I shield you from the cruel hits of life with my own being.

I suffer pain so you don’t have to but I do not mind at all.

I believe it is what I was meant to do.

You dress me up now and then.

Your favorite is the polka-dotted overalls, red with passion
and green with envy. I wear each outfit proudly. I believe
this is how you express your devotion.

But your love is possessive.

I sometimes venture and try your limits. You’d surely cut
me off, keeping only what’s close to home. I want
to see the world. But I believe I shall never
leave your side.

Agnes Lee
Topic: Fingernail (day 15)