All posts by h103129

Game of Poetry

I invited my friend, Julian, to surprise me with a theme and a noun around which I must base my poem on. As an added layer of difficulty, the title must be an anagram. Here are those words:

Theme: Hatred

Noun: Dog



In the hood, the locals say hodd,

Food is not food, food is fodd.

Down by the old farmer’s plot,

Dogs shout joyfully in the wind.

Fodd, they smell and come tumbling down

Around the large bay, over the sod, the lot,

Leaping like flying fish in a flodd,

A torrential pour of paws, leaps and trods.

“Get out of my sight!” An old dog yells,

Looking at a puppy with hatred, who swelled

his eyes with fright, away the delight

but not without a fight.

Desperate might from the bottom of his heart despite

his inferior height!

The dogs find the food, the fodd,

the loot, no, lott. They share. Not.

They fight and bite, a sight to remember.

Passers-by look and see a whirl of dust,

pieces of chicken, cake and cod.

They say “Look!”

The head dog is onto the cod

but the little puppy dog does not let up the fodd!

Hanford 11C

Theme: Endings

A circle Dan’s finger traced, round and round and he started to ponder. Sitting on the curb with the icy breeze in his hair, his nail left powdery white marks in the concrete. It was a calm night and through his frosty breath, he glanced at the moon. Bright and round, hanging against the backdrop of starless velvet black.

“A galaxy of opportunities and wonder awaits the fateful wanderer.” was something Dan remembered from his stories with Grandpa. Perhaps he could fly into the night and let the darkness swallow him but he was much too afraid. Afraid of the uncertainty, afraid of the regret, afraid of the dark. He was once naïve and could sail upon his Grandpa’s dreams and tales but now he was older, he knew better. Nothing came of having high hopes, dreams never come true and neither do wishes. All this while, he was still scratching into the concrete. The grit and bumps made it impossible to keep his line perfectly curved and it wobbled the whole way around his circle. He looked at the moon closer still. He could imagine the bumps and craters but from so far away, it seemed perfectly round. A spherical heavenly body. Oh, the stories his Grandpa told him when he was young; about the moon and a wealthy, wealthy man. A man slaved only to his desires. This man was born lucky and Dan was lucky to be born. He came from a line of diabetics; generations upon generations of genetics of doom and death. No longer safe and carefree under his parents’ wing. No more medical bills for he had no money for them. He regretted the first time that the lever from the jackpot machine buckled under his palm.

Dan was afraid of the uncertainty and regret and dark yet he was living in it. Uncertain that his last insulin shot would last much longer, regretful for giving away his fortune in greed for more and shadowed always by the darkness that was around him, not only physically, but emotionally too. He had nothing to live for, he needed to take a dive and chase his dreams. “A galaxy of opportunities and wonder awaits the fateful wanderer.” Dreams are not reality. Wishes shoot past and disappear in fiery meteors. Hope flickers and dies out. So many bumps and pieces of grit lay on the road in front of him like mines on a battlefield. It was impossible to find a straight line through all the pieces. Round and round, his finger still etching more and more of itself onto the ground.

As he looked skyward for hope, the first star of the night winked at him. What was above the world? Stars were above the world, twinkling in all their glory. He felt a cloud clear in his mind and heart. His sound mind was beginning to show its dominance. A hint of a barbeque tainted the night air and Dan’s stomach growled and whined. Still, he was penniless and homeless.

“If only I could find a way…” he muttered as he drew vicious circles into the cold pavement.

Hanford 11C


Hanford Lam


Building a sandcastle on the beach,

Lulling waves gently caress the shore,

In between your toes, fine grains of sand

Night creeps in but you don’t realise

Darkness veils you eternally.


Beside you stands a kerosene lamp

Lit and burning strongly, brightening.

In your eyes, reflections flicker, but

Nothing compares to the lulling waves,

Devoted, unlike a blind child’s flame.




*A short poem because of a 10 line limit =]

100 Words

I received an email earlier this week asking writers to submit a 100 word continuation after the first 100 word story starter provided. Here’s mine:

It’s only ten minutes later that she’s flying down the highway, rain coming out of the dark straight towards her. There’s that creamy scoop of moon, somehow definitively clear in the corner of the windshield, staying there, statically, even as she rips another sudden swerve. If only the radio worked. If only those noises would stop coming from the boot. That damn voice. There’s another factory up ahead, abandoned but still lit up strangely. It’s nearly too late when she sees the group, huddled in the middle of the road, all their eyes turned towards her. She jams the pedal.

The wheels scream into the night, cutting the dense silence and bleeding onto the bitumen. Long black lines mark out in burnt rubber, the stench overwhelming, disgusting. Still fixated within the glare of the headlights, the huddled group stands metres before the bonnet. Light tendrils of steam snake into the cold air as raindrops quench the tyre marks. She chances a glance at the corner of the windscreen where she knows, even before she sees, the moon still hung, taped onto the glass. Silence from the boot. Her composure creeps back slowly, ushered by the rhythmical squeaks of the wipers.


Midnight Murder…

Midnight Murder

Night falls, London shrouded in fog.

The white cloud hides a killer.

A tall dark figure looks and nocks;

A fair maiden. Brews a fever.

A glimpse at the tower clock.


In the frosty midnight hour,

He starts to stalk.

She knows nothing; see a kind sir

If she turns but she only walks.

The beauty, relentless of her,

Strikes him as if to taunt and mock.

Soft footsteps on the cobble, now quicker.

He closes the gap; he also sees white chalk.


A flurry of action and sound, a blur.

She turns, a shimmer of silver,

She reeks of shock and fear. Trickster!

Her hope is but a glimmer.

A plunge, a second, a third to be sure

The fire in her eyes burns dimmer

While his, glow brighter.


A demented caper,

A captured lover,

Midnight murder.





By Hanford 11C