I DID YOU NO HARM

I DID YOU NO HARM

Night scene in a butcher’s in old back street, Georgetown, Penang

I Did You No HARM.

My wife rolled on her side contented. Siblings Curly,

Thumbs, Scuffles tumbled in mud.

Charmy, PinPot , Trotters wallowed, snouted by the trough.

I, stress free, rooted in straw rustle.

In pig parlour well fed all.

With not a care I watched proud my family grow.

One dim dawn a man-army burst into our dream filled hoghood.

Grunts turned into fearful screams.

Men poked, prodded, netted all six little ones, rounded up for roasting.

My wife they dragged away dislocating her hips. For bacon fat.

I froze in the corner, they netted me.

A flash of cleaver last I saw.

Gaddaffi

Muammar Gaddafi
Dictator Supreme

Heavy virgins uniformed
Girl guards for a world thug
Billionaire magnate evildoer
Fed on camel milk fresh
Lockerbie ransom for oil

Dissidents rise, tortured, hanged
Gunfire, screams, corpses
No smooth fight this
Visas refused, news-less
No foreign journalists

Videos, people phone
Sneaked, life risked, real
Truths truer told, potent
Not edited bullet ricocheted
Citizens gunned down

Bed sheet gowned despot, hatted
Unhinged press call from car
Mustachioed menace on last leg
Umbrella wielding and ready to shed
Last drop of blood for country

Desperado on a white charger
Ranting, raving
‘My kingdom for a face-lift’.

Black Storm

Black Storm

Butterflies never came today. Birds, plumage ruffled fly to nests urgent, swift, quiet. Small creatures scuttle and hide. Caterpillars cling to stems ceaseless munching. Thick dark sky descends. No scud of clouds. They, long gone, turned day to night moonless. Wind chimes swing hysterical. Un-staunched, gale blows churning steadfast bushes, tossing blossoms. A window tears loose, storm brings out in. Frangipani towering staggers slightly, firmly rooted, bark armoured, it looks about concerned. Splinters of lightning streak between its branched foliage fiercely parted. Rain descends in sheets. Frogs blink wet their rain choruses drowned. The day thwarted waits, perhaps to return.

Banquet Starfish

Banquet

In a slow five-point cartwheel, through the heat-haze, it came as I lay on the wood-floored portico of the Thai Approbation Office. Soft suction pads settled on me. A cool blanket. I smiled. Its stomach crawled out, scored my flesh, siphoned my juices, sucked my bones, digested my body, leaving only my head behind. Dripping blood? No. Sweat. I had dozed off. I awoke to heckling that drowned the sound of salty sea waves. Icy juice vendors and paper boys hawked nearby. Ropes of silent ants had crawled into my basket of deep-fried starfish. A customer, thrusting money, demanded two.

Three words had to be incorporated in this 100 word flash fiction. Starfish was fine but other two weird: “approbation and portico”.

Tiger Year Dragon Dance

Tiger Year Dragon Dance

Northern cold, eleven degrees. Sky overcast. Tiger, element metal, waited his turn, began today in heavy drizzle. Sent dragon passionate in red and spring spirit in green. Hastening growth, breathing clouds of shifting fog. Tall boys carry bamboo poles, flags of colours strong. Procession drenched, wet hair, soggy shoes. Tiger-sent-Dragon dances up slope, stops at gate. Vibrant passion, valiantly leaps, gyrates to voice of gongs. Cymbals drown birds sounds in sullen branches. Dragon, eyes rolling, collects fortune packet. Fire crackers burst, cordite, evil spirits cast off. Lettuce strewn for new start he backs away wishing us Gong Xi Fa Cai.

Christmas Masquerade

Once I was small, Christmas trees were tall. Now I am tall (well almost) Christmas trees are tinsel, made in China. Elegantly they sit on window sills, fairy lights flicker fade. Christmas is blurred, fluidly changed. A God’s birthday counted down and god managers preach intolerance, separation. Weak hymns in churches half filled and midnight mass at ten pm. Carols sung in languages foreign. Drunk, feasting. Gifts purchased, wrapped, waiting. Santa on the horizon. Who draws his sleigh – camels, buffaloes, kangaroos? Solar panels, no sooty chimneys. Here comes Santa, oops he … She. Small. Points digital camera at me.

December in H.K.

December pleasant enough. White orchids still bloom. Red rose hidden in green foliage. Happy bamboo sways bulbuls tweeting love. Excited sparrow tribes hop about, magpies quarrel. All search worms slumbering hidden in twigs. Three sandpipers in from the beach not far. Doves strut about. Concrete homes trap winter. Indoor chill registers 8c. No central heating or other. Cheerful, summer windows built for breeze allow gales seek shelter. Pullover, jacket, socks doubled, feet on antique Tibetan rug. Hands in cut-off gloves, fingers numb with cold tap on keys. Ideas flow leisurely, phrases, sentences, paragraphs. Short stories blossom like the winter garden.

Chocolate

Chocolate. Like leela to chocolate brown. Chocolate. Don’t say, don’t listen. Smell, taste, feel. Let the tongue roll. Possessive, breathless, alive with secret excite, invisible coating. Choc as in full, keep it rolling. Don’t lose it down in deep throat. L as in luscious in the klut. Cloak it in klut. Suggestive. Rounded. Klut, firm and final. Don’t let it FLUTTERBY, Shanta’s butterfly word when three. FRANGIPANI, Don’s word. Perfume, white petals float down, green foliage lush, like chocolate. Bark brown like chocolate. Like chocolate Ngau Tau Kok, a Cantonese bull rolling in the hills cleaning his horns. Pleasure. GNAUTAUKOK.

Dodo San

Nestled in a columbarium, plumage strewn, avian virus, contagious. I thought feathered friends bird brained, chickened out when I saw a yellow canary in a cage walk a man by. They thought me extinct and now think me a magic magpie. A peacock strutted head high. A gullible jay glanced my way, friendly. No, surely not a dodo, thought he. Maybe a crestfallen cock, a sitting duck. Pigeons came to roost in my cote, and bulbuls in love. I rousted, they scattered. A sparrow, a blackbird, and a crow, eyed each other and on the ground the half-eaten chicken wing.

Soul Spirit Gone North

Shangri-la suite 1911. I meet Marjorie. High tea at Horizon, reserved for exclusive clientele. Large goblets of Red Cabernet sipped. Harbour channel busy with water traffic. A pleasantly peopled walk along Hong Kong Avenue of Stars, honoured handprints. We dine at Don Juan along the waterfront. Filipino waitress courteous, recommends exotic ‘Mojito’, drink of rum, lime, mint. Handsome Argentinean chef, ‘Are you ladies all right?’ Recommends spinach burritos, vegetarian, beef stock hidden in rice. We delay our good-bye. Chat of this and that, of immigrant horrors, Chicago slaughter houses. A red sailing junk floats by. Marjie soon leaves for Quanzhou.

The Chair

I stood on four straight legs , offered my seat. Unobtrusive, but always noticed. Had they not brought in the new dog I’d still be there. Locked me up with the lonely dog when they left. First he pulled down the plastic tablecloth, then he tore up the calico sofa. Then he remembered my vinyl seat. Angry, he bit into me, shredded my seat, pulled out my foam. They came home, kept the dog, threw me out. I stood in the cold and drizzle for two days. A waiting seed saw my leg, germinated and quickly climbed up. Happy now.

One Leg

One Leg

Left jeans leg ironed flat, held up by nappy pins. No bulge below hip. DHL shoulder bag, yellow cap on head. Denim jacketed he walks blue socked, on one sandal and two crutches wood and rubber tipped. Gauze cloth pads under arm-pits . Comfortable. Not a challenge. Not fragile. Mobile. Makes steady pace. Chiselled face calm. No amputation pain lingers. Branches smile, brave grass whisper underfoot. No curious eyes, he’s known in these parts. Cleaning lady, “Hey, jo san.” He nods. With sturdy square shoulders he approaches apartment block. Woman, with two shopping bags, rushes, opens glass door. He disappears.

Fitted Furniture

I love Ikea. Flat shoes, backpack, Ikea strut. A true follower of fashion, of stylish home decor. A catalogue student, a regular furniture addict. Carry-home affordable, neat flat-packs. Puzzle out at home, fix four-legged chair as three-legged. Left over screws and screwdriver in plastic bag, spare leg? One bed, two headboards, and one sunken mattress. Bent bookshelves, warped cabinet doors, and peeling tabletop. Velcro curtain, cheerful quilt, and tinted glassware. Favourite perfumed candles, vibrant house plants. Toys, no children to buy for. Tight furniture for tight homes, fresh white or warm wood hue. One size fits all. Way of life.

Visit

Margaret visits. City unhinged behind us. Moet glasses filled, long noon crsip. Autumn light filters in. Talked of this and that, destruction of universe, reckless fundamentalists, climate change. Burning joss-sticks, paper money for hungry ghosts pollute. Believe in God? I said no, pursued it no further. End life when terminal, agreed. Donate body parts, I said. She said, no, we disagreed. Judge not your fellow beings, Deepak Chopra. Photography is good, says so much. Why do we write? We have something to say. The day moves on, out through the sliding doors into the garden. Good bye. Keep in touch.

Bus Stop

Petals float down in rhythm to the morning haze, fall at my feet. iPod Tibetan chant soothe into the curves of my body. The wooded slope behind me encourages last night‘s rain into rivulets. Downhill, on the horizon, the sea sparkles silver blue. Safe. A distant memory of grey wave frothing up a tsunami. The 103m mini bus nearly screeches past. I climb on, press my octopus card. $92 balance it indicates. The woman waves, throws plastic bags of rubbish into green trundle bin. The driver takes off, one ear plugged into his mobile phone. The woman misses the bus.

Monk

A monk I saw this morning, not far from me, in grey, happy, sacred. We connected. He smiled a living smile, a transforming smile. His joy beautiful stirred me, brought a tear. A deep smile emanated within me too and stayed. A taxi driver cut across my road dangerously close, I smiled, waved him on. He waved back, apologetic. I see the monk’s face in other faces, not old, not young but in widely wrinkled smiles. This monk, his joy and his smile will remain with me. We will meet again, and connect a kind face, a small brass bowl.