High Up In Space
By: Jia Xuan
Come to space and join me,
There is so much to see.
You can have a cup of tea,
No worries, there’s no fee.
You can dance with the stars
And gaze at hot red Mars,
While I sing this little tune,
On the surface of the moon.
There is just so much to do!
You can watch the chickens moo,
Laugh at the cows flying by,
And listen to the cats sigh.
You can have breakfast in space,
Porridge and peas and pancakes for days.
Nasi lemak tastes best on the moon,
Won’t anyone come and join me soon?
Washing Machine Loaf
By: Jia Xuan
Stretched, sticky, risen round dough,
Into the washing machine it goes.
Open the recipe book,
And take a good, long look.
Toss in the soup,
An ice cream scoop,
Some green tea hoops,
Put it on loop.
Stir in the cheese,
A bunch of keys,
A dozen green peas,
And throw in the bees.
Let it swirl,
And let it whirl,
And let it curl,
Like a wonderful pearl!
Open it up,
It should be done.
We’re ready to sup,
Is this not fun?
Asked Mr. Owl
By: Jia Xuan
Mr. Owl asked the galloping tree,
“With how tall you are, who can you see?”
Answered the tree, “With how tall I am, who else could it be?”
Sighed Mr. Owl, “I have no idea, you’ll have to tell me.”
Mr. Owl asked the dancing dalmatian
Who had a bouquet of pink carnations,
“Who or what is worthy of all this occasion?”
Answered the dalmatian, “I don’t know, I’m just going on vacation!”
Mr. Owl asked the shivering sun,
“You have a cold, aren’t you done?
Who forces you to work while ill? I think no one.”
Replied the sun, “It’d be nice if anyone,
Was willing to take over and let me have fun,
But they all do nothing and complain a dreadful ton.”
Mr. Owl asked the mirror alone,
“Why am I so tired to the bone?
Who else could help me, or am I all alone?”
The mirror laughed, “Oh, wouldn’t you know,
If only you could be content on your own!”
A Murakami Fever Dream
The windy street carries with it the scent of stew,
It also carries over to me this floating tabby,
And so I ask, “What are you?”
It says, “Have you been reading too much Murakami?”
A cigarette extended from his right paw to me,
Tobacco swirling down onto the sticky pavement,
Taking a sip of the smoke like a silly bourgeoisie,
Elation clamping down onto this moment.
The wind now carries with it the scent of something sweet,
It also carries me floating beside this tabby,
Up, up and away to my street
And straight onto my couch in front of my telly.
Warm hands pressing down on my cheeks,
My sweet wife who now parks herself next to me,
She sighs a sigh as heavy as her weeps,
“Oh darling, you have been reading too much Murakami.”
My Broken Clock
This clock will not stop bothering me,
It ticks and ticks and rings and rings,
I tell it to stop but it rings louder,
This situation is getting dour.
My mother tells me to remove the battery,
Those little silver cylinders I toss away like parasites,
But still it wails like a baby through the night
And I don’t know if I’m doing alright.
I step on it with my father’s heavy boots,
It cracks like an egg, it’s insides springing out,
Right into the trash it goes,
All is back to normal I suppose.
That night my ears buzz again with the rings,
Has it come back to seek revenge from me?
I spring quickly out of bed,
The rings get louder and I see red.
My face bursting with anger I scream at my family,
“Make it stop! Make it stop!”
My father trudges into my room, looks up at my ceiling,
“Ah, it seems like your smoke alarm has become a broken thing.”
My Favorite Meal
My favorite meal awaits me every time I walk home from school,
It sits in a plastic box, all warm and steaming up inside,
It stays all wrapped up in cloth by the old lady’s chair,
As she waits for me with her pear.
I skip to her house once the bell rings,
My feet this way and that in excitement,
The lady chucks me under the chin, my meal hot in my hands as steel,
I stride off again once I get a taste of my meal.
Everything begins to swirl into fantasy as always,
The skies turning pink and the grass turning blue,
All is well again with my favorite meal,
Now off to find my favorite place to sit under and heal.
The mushroom stands tall to look over me,
It shields me from the green rays of sun as I sit under it,
The ants start singing as I dig once more into my favorite meal,
The silky savory mushrooms in my box look delicious and surreal.
Once I’m done, the box floats away and my chopsticks dance,
The bright yellow ground envelops me,
Everything swirls like cotton candy in front of me,
I slip once again into my favorite dream of ecstasy.
By: Jia Xuan and Natasha