Cheong Lee San


Quarrel

like a rush
of arctic wind
that scuttles over
a winter pond
dusting hoar
frost on reeds,
we sat, stiff , cold
as strangers

no words, no words pass between us today.
no words, no words she said.


Evening Bus Home

in the bus
we look like
soldiers back
from battle

fatigued
indifferent
some guy massaging
his head

a cough here
a cellphone rings
amidst the drone
of travel

a shuffle of feet
the beeps
of electronic cards
on readers

i try
not to be
distracted
by all these

as the sky
turns
a nasty shade
of grey

i have only
15 stops
or so
before home.


Tombstone

fading gold paint
on her name carved in marble.
September day.


Birthday

again

i look up
from my cup
of noodles,
different time
same space.
outside the house
the city
is awakening
the sun
long-throwing
its beams
through
dusty panes,
light scattering
on the few
extra lines
on my face,
as blackbirds
flutter
their wings
in the dawn.
be thankful
then
that it will
be just
another

day.

-All poems previously published in his blog, Urban Poems