My uncle – Pui Pang

Count the wise cracks you churned, my memory smile lasts a bloody week!

Exaggerated stories I recall, steps turned into miles, the original Trump with a chinese beak!

Sunday Chinatown visits, 3 boxes of cakes, a minimum speak.

You gave me more cakes than I could ever eat.

My uncle with a heart of gold, I could no longer remeet!

Cash and carry days filled with sweets galore, a glorious day out for when we were poor.

Food made extra large and you still ask “do you want more?”.

A rookie class father and mother, my brothers will always adore.

Your humour, grit, honesty, the best inheritance core.

Dim sum at drunken inn, a ritual with my cousins kin.

Cruising in your Volvo was abit of a fashion sin.

You didn’t study much, values was your tools to win.

Work and provide for the kids, that was you life’s struggle spin.

Pang’s takeaway, a Tulse hill icon of the past, my childhood summer get away was always a blast! Reminisce set adrift, please forever last! My brothers will see you off well as their final task!

– by Pang Wei Len


My sound of silence 


(Inspired by The sound of silence)

  By Wei Len Pang

Hello darkness my old friend…  I’ve come to talk with me again.

Seeing television news my heart’s weeping.  Who planted these seeds while I was still sleeping?  The bloody visions that was planted in my brain still remains… within the sound of silence.

Restless souls, you won’t walk alone…  go borrow love and forgive those with a heart of stone!

Managing first world nonsense, my wasteful rant…  Broken sleep, seeing those calling in the cold and damp.  My eyes, my blind eyes, stabbed by my “save cash” fight… You bleach my soul! go away you worthless goal!

We are all naked in this world of 10,000 peeping eyes… maybe more…  People talking without speaking (the vow)…  People hearing without listening (the now)… People write but forget the text they always share…  

Yet no one dares to worship the universal sound of silence.. Here fortune foils and mock what people do not know, staging survival continues like a cancers grow.

Hear my words but I have nothing to teach you.  Take my arms and I might reach you.  And if my silent words stay like silent raindrops fall, they will echo to the souls lost in violence.

And the people still bow and pray to the newspaper gods that they have made.  Yet there are signs and signs of warnings… The truth of the world still forming unforming.

It is said the words of the prophet are written in our own wonderwall.

… All in this world we are just whispers in the sounds of silence