Andrew Lee Poems

Two roads diverge in a mellow wood
with rugged paths and uphill roads further ahead
that are dim or half-hidden.
When I try to glimpse ahead, the paths snake away
...

In the middle of the night, a poem walks into a London fog,

watching a train that runs along a grey track.
...

Blood dripping from the pages of history books,

wartime pictures, dried bones, graveyard stones,
...

Much depends
on recalling,
seeing
those times and days
...

My Heaven stretches its arms across the beach and inside the smiles of hippie girls at Karom Beach, their hippie glasses and varnished nails paint a glittering picture of Phuket. Soon the waves become rows of orange cupcakes that appear and disappear near sunset and I continue to daydream...

With a shock, I realize I've been taking pictures of tsunami-stricken spots. And all around those spots, the roots of trees have elongated ears and spidery fingers that clutch at the exoskeletons of crabs, spinning webs of shadows for the living and the dead.
...

Twenty grey pigeons, swallowing raw rice, half-staring at me?

Twelve long-necked swans, basking in the sun, ignoring me?
...

The bougainvilleas become molecules of memory with red petals.

They run around like our ancestors' blood.
...

What is Happiness? Where is Happiness?

I am 51 years old, a meditator for more than 30 years.
...

Let us go then, you and I.

Let us go then, you and I...
...

A few friends jokingly label me 'John Donne of Singapore.'

I wish I can qualify, in some small way.
...