‘Siang Isarn’ No. 1 – original piano composition (with brief intro video)

‘Siang’ means ‘sound’ in Thai. ‘Isarn’ is the name given to the north-eastern region of Thailand (where I was born). Thus, ‘siang Isarn’ means ‘sound of the north-east’. In this piece, I’ve used a distinctive folkloric harmony of ‘Mor Lam Sing’, a neo-traditional form of musical art of Isarn (and Lao) people, as inspiration. Part of the melody was taken from a YouTube video by Master Kampol (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=19rKCTndRTY), whose dedication to Isarn folkloric music has also inspired me. This video is by no means intended to cause offence to him or to Isarn people, but rather to share and celebrate the beauty of Isarn/Lao music. All comments are welcome.

Birthday Birds


“Birthday Birds”

A spectacular annual phenomenon:
hundreds of birds flocking onto my Facebook tree,
summoned by an admonition of the illusive cyber jungle.

The extravagant display of glitter-coated feathers.
The sweet voices of professional singers.
The lyrical dance of nostalgia on my aging branch.
They all fuse into one
sensual expression of nothingness.

As quickly as they came, they flee
for other trees where fruits of relevance ripen,
leaving behind a few adults and fledglings,
whose wings are too faithful to fly,
or too weak to escape.

The moment that pitying of doves departs,
and the song of celebration fades into distance,
a murder of crows lands on my lone branch.
Softly yet surely they sing,
a beautiful song of lamentation.

A perfect present
from my birthday birds.

18 November 2014

(Photo by David Sim, Flickr.com)

How to Eat Rice?


“How to Eat Rice?”

The sweetest answer is:
Let it lead you
to the field of yesterdays,
where hopes and fears were planted.

Listen, carefully,
for the burst of histories,
as they reveal themselves
grain by grain,
bite by bite,
breath by breath.

Hold its hands,
as it morphs
into the mother of milk,
heavily pregnant
with memories,

Do not swallow;
let her flow
to the playground of time,
where the child of tomorrows

15 November 2014

(Photo by Charles Haynes, Flickr.com, modified and distributed under the same CC license)

Tamarind Tree


“Tamarind Tree”

Extend thy hands to pull me, my beloved Tamarind,
away from the fickleness that plagues this cold land.
Enchant me with thy golden blossoms and feathers,
that once cradled me above the sun-ripened sand.

Comfort my ears with the symphony of thy cicadas,
whose gentle voices may erase these eerie rumbles
of the mechanised monsters that blind and baffle me;
only thy lullaby may rectify these rambling shambles.

Hold me in thy sure arms, aged with timeless wisdom;
protect me from the soulless insects, black and bold,
that colonise the white screens of my tired windows;
and from the phantom of papers, so tall none can hold.

Let me taste the flesh of thy fruits, fresh and fragrant,
to cleanse my weary soul of the bitter doubts herein.
Anchor me by thy solid trunk to keep me grounded;
and reveal thy secret of growing warmth from within.

10 November 2014

(Photo by pranav, Flickr.com)




Fences of fake lashes
guard your lonely doors.
Walls of glamour make-up
ward your inner wars.

Inflated breasts decorate
those thin glass windows.
Synthetic smiles seeded
in those lawn shadows.

You wear royal charms
at garden parties.
But they can’t see through
your erected entities.

In an alien spaceship,
your soul has sailed,
through its past body,
where nature has failed.

Yet those eyes emit
amber ambition.
Those lips espouse
crimson conviction.

Ladies of virtues,
boys of bravery,
symmetrically conjoined,
in ladyboys of harmony.

9 November 2014

(Photo by zaphodsotherhead, Flickr.com)

Failed Fabrication


“Failed Fabrication”

I’m at a fancy dress party where
communal pretence banishes reality,
bottled ignorance intoxicates senses,
staged deceit impersonates honesty,
mutant cosmetics ravage vision.


‘Tis a lame masquerade of my happiness,
for the vivid pigments of colourful ecstasy
is vanished under the black brush of my fear.
The frail fortress of fabricated fantasy,
defeated by the naked troops of my tears.

A failed fabrication.

5 November 2014




Bang Bang Boom!

The sound of burnt money,
Ignited over greedy skies.
Seconds of explosive pleasure,
Linger on in unmet desires.

Flowers of elitist entertainment,
Bloom and loom in darkness.
Bright chains of burning light,
scattered in worthlessness.

Boom Boom Boom!

Beads of excitement ascend
Up the ladder of expectation.
Lustful regrets detonated
At the peak of fiery eruption.

You, father of all fireworks,
Mother dynamite of all sins,
Free me from your blazing spell,
N’ let me melt from inferno within.

5 November 2014
(Photo by Epic Fireworks, Flickr.com)