Will Poetry Make You Money?

My friend, Peter asked me last night
“Will your poetry make you money? ”
A question that gave me quite a fright
And kept me up on a sleepless journey

So I listened to the romance of Elvira Madigan
And from the Marriage of Figaro, that knave
Music to inspire feelings so deep in man
While Mozart lies in a pauper’s grave.

I saw the colours and swirls of Van Gogh’s brush
A man so tormented that he lost his ear
But in galleries the crowds gather in a hush
And admire the beauty and not the fear.

I remember a young man spraying graffiti on a wall
As ‘vandalism’, there is a ban
So he painted anonymously for no pay at all

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poem by Roy Lee
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Sixtieth at Womadelaide

It has been harder to find you lately
Yet I seek you every day.

But, I knew that you would be here
Lying on a blue rug with me
Staring up between a pepper tree
To an autumn blue Adelaide sky
Our symphonic souls entwined
Shaking and dancing with music.

Friends are laughing and drinking
Offering crackers and Camembert
But, the wine and cheese explode
Sweet and strong and matured,
Memories in mouth and mind.

We wandered in these botanic grounds
Absorbing each act at each stage
Sometimes it would be so hot
Even notes of music would sweat

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poem by Roy Lee
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The Great Australian Firewall

Don’t label me a child sex offender.
Nor am I someone of dubious gender.
Bestiality is not for me or my kin,
Nor is there ‘other objectionable’ website sin,

And I am certainly not a drug abuser.
I am just an ordinary computer user.
I email my friends and surf the net
And yes, occasionally make a small bet.

It’s not a bother to see someone nude.
But, I loathe the rants of an intolerant prude.
A government firewall is what I do not need,
So I do support those who want no clean feed.

Sure, I trust the government’s good intent
To protect you people from being bent.
You will be safer each night in bed
When ‘they’ control what’s going into your head.

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poem by Roy Lee
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Singapore Border Blues

I came by bus in a swirl of dust in the summer of seventy two.
I was young, I was poor, I hoped to score but I really hadn't a clue.

The seats were hard; I was on my guard when we bolted from the bus.
The border was there, but I had long hair so they readied to hassle us.

They were men in blue, a few women too, taking our arrival card.
They saw my face, they knew their place, they were going to make it hard.

"You have an air; you have long hair so you must observe our laws"
So Kate my friend did a bend and pulled out her best scissors.

She got to work, without a jerk and as quick as a Christmas sale,
She snip here, she snip there until my scalp was bare and pale.

His face turned sour, this was not my hour and he gave me back my case,
"You littered the floor, there's the door, you're not welcomed at this place."

So I left my hair and without much care, I turned and went on with our trip.
My head was bald but I wasn't cold and we eventually caught a ship.

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poem by Roy Lee
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Geylang Lyrics

Sterile Singapore is a typical tourist trap
There's a concrete Merlion for a holiday snap
The city state is built as a giant shopping mall
But its a regiment that is often a bore.

So I'm renting a stay in a Geylang room
The bed's too soft and the floor needs a broom
But for some two fifty a week
This is a location that can't be beat.

The low rise architecture is a mixture
Old shophouses of coloured texture
And crumbling colonials with mouldy walls
And Taoist temples with bright red doors.

In the dim alleys are shadows of China girls
With tight short skirts and long black curls
Walking talking, plying their trade at night
Holding handbags, clutching hand-phones tight.

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poem by Roy Lee
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Sichuan New Year

It was the new year celebrations as the rumours went around
That seats to Sichuan were selling fast.
Queues at stations were pushed to the brim and spaces had to be found.
All workers had gathered to the task.

They left from Shenzhen and factory towns far and wide
While locals watched them go with distain
They were leaving smoke fill skies and areas devastated of pride
As they jostled for their train.

These ‘up-country’ people never called Guangdong a home
(Anyway, they weren’t allowed)
They had the cold crisp cover of the Sichuan sky as a dome
Their fiery food made them proud.

There was Chang from Neijiang who was at a workshop making keys
And old Li from Zigong where dinosaurs roam
And the couple Miao looked forward to seeing their babies
On leave from filling fridges full of foam.

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poem by Roy Lee
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