The Rusty Old Suitcase

The rusty old suitcase
Has been stored in the cellar for days.
Spiderwebs and dust clung upon it
Like a bee that sucks the honey.
The moonlight shine,
Shrouding it with an air of mystery.
Sometimes, I could almost hear the contents inside
Crying out to to end their misery
By opening… opening
The rusty old suitcase.

The rusty old suitcase
Belonged to my late grandfather.
It must have been important to him,
For it never left him a moment of dim.

One night with candles burning bright,
I decide to open the case
To bring the truth to light.
Money, food or games would wet my taste.
But Alas! Floating out
Is the photograph of my grandmother’s face
The rusty old suitcase.



Styles of Departure

In times of the SARS crisis, someone has to die
The End.
In times of the economic meltdown, someone would rather commit suicide
The End.
But for Old Tom
In times of both crisis, he passed on
With a smile on his face
Knowing that he had a family base
That he would give an ace.
Departure had never been so sweet as honey
That would have given diabetes to a bunny.
The End.



Nevermore

When the gulls fly over the Bay.
They cry that you are far away.
Sailing for a foreign shore,
How my heart did break within us
At the thought of Nevermore.


Bedtime stories.

Once upon a time,
There was a Fairy Godmother that chimes.
She transforms Cinderalla
From poignancy into legacy of walah!

Oh, have you heard of the Big Bad Wolf?
His lung capacity is over the roof.
Poor little pigs,
They have to perform the gigs.

But Alas! Do you know they are all extinct?
No more fairy, wolf or pigs.
Only the model of them are left,
Wearing wigs.

As I emerge from the tent,
Their presence had been so distinct
That I have to record them down.
Maybe when I start to grow old and frown,
They will reappear
As I peer
Into the world of Bedtime Stories.


Kian Liang, IJC 0743B