Do not think for a moment
That words are dead.
Each word is human
Like you and me.
Consider a noun
As it knocks on your door
And announces its identity,
Or as a verb somersaults
Across this page.
Witness the spectacle
Of an adjective,
Strutting peacock-like,
Followed by an adverb,
Her attendant slave.
There are low-keyed personalities
Called prepositions,
And conjunctions that act
As middlemen between words.
There are chameleon-words
That change their colors
At the slightest whim.
Beware of words!
Anticipate their every mood,
For they are a crafty lot.
Be always on guard
To whip them into submission,
Lest they become a drunken mob
And lynch you on the spot.
Conscription
I do not know who conscripted
Me into this one-man army.
One day they just sent me an urgent
Telegram ordering me to show
My face in the recruitment center
Or else. I was neither issued
Dog tag, rifle, nor uniform.
They did not even bother to send
Me to boot camp for proper training.
Time is the enemy they said
Whose army was fast approaching.
I even had to buy my own pad
And pencil. Afterwards, they quickly
Shipped me to an invisible front
Where I fought a secret war with words.
Failed Messiah
Its tiny domed head was crowned
With flies when they found it at dawn,
Slumped in a throne of garbage
Amid spoiled rice, fishbones, condoms
And other stinking matter.
It was hurriedly wrapped in
A plastic bag, its survival
Cord tied around its neck like
A noose. Caked in blood, its fist-sized
Face was innocence itself
As it lay in the foetal pose
Of an eternal nightmare.
What could have been its bright fate
Had it not been forcibly fished
Out of the womb with the hook
Of a metal hanger? Perhaps
A sage or even the future
President of the Republic.
But he was just another
Failed messiah dropped by chance from
Heaven into a stable
Of flies. He was destined to save
The world, but could not save himself.
Orange Grove Road
The very air in this place
Is charged with disinfectant
And is certified germ-free
Because in this city
Of gleaming skyscrapers
Cleanliness is an obsession.
Even the brown leaves,
As soon as they fall on this road,
Are systematically swept away
By a legion of street-sweepers.
Here it is frustrating not to find
A single fugitive cigarette-butt
Hiding in the grass.
And how can a litterbug survive
When the fine is a thousand Singaporean
Dollars! Those two fat ladies
Jogging there are no exception
Who greet me with their pearly
Antiseptic smiles.
Personally I think
Dirty cities have more character.
As a silent protest, I will
Not wash for a whole week.
Afterwards, I'm sure,
A policeman wearing a spotless
Blue uniform will politely
Arrest me for
Not keeping the city clean.
Poems © 2001 Felix Fojas, all rights reserved
