Felix Cheong
Contributor Biography
Felix Cheong is the author of 18 books across different genres, including poetry, short stories, flash fiction, and children's picture books. His works have been widely anthologised, quoted in telemovies and adapted for the stage. Conferred the Young Artist Award in 2000, Felix holds a masters in creative writing and is an associate lecturer with Murdoch University, University of Newcastle, Curtin University, and the National University of Singapore.
FEARS
I.
Lord, my fears
Are coming and clear.
They reach me here,
Feet of crows
Crossing years.
Maybe, in truth,
They never kneel,
They never tell.
They've found
My being unsound
And my road
Is round myself.
II.
Lord, I'm here,
Kneeling on fears.
Crow's feet of years.
I've been sound,
Coming round
To being found.
I've crossed myself,
As You can tell,
Crossed the roads
To reach a clearing.
Maybe, in truth,
It had reached me.
MEDITATIONS
Father, my words kneel before you,
having nowhere to go.
When I pry the palms of my poems,
I do not recognise them.
They do not leave marks
cutting roads for direction.
They have neither the grace
nor light of your psalms.
I must have gotten it all wrong—
though I cannot remember when the writer
became more urgent than the writing,
the tool more needed than the task.
Father, I am bereft
and coming undone.
I need to unlearn,
I need to be dumb.
For I have nothing left
on my tongue.
A WISH UPON A SILENT GOD
I would’ve surrendered sight
for the greater insight,
to glimpse the burning bush
and let your face ash,
once and for all,
doubts of your existence.
I would’ve believed that stars
could signal the birth of gods,
as if I were young still, soul
unfractured, china-whole,
decades clasped like hands in prayer,
meditating beads soaked in sweat.
TESTING THE WATERS
There is too much unrest in me
to ever cross in peace
and tread the protesting waters
as if I were an apostle.
And though I’ve heard you call
above the hymns I’ve hurled—
that you will not let me fall—
I know too well, my Lord,
at heart I’m still a child,
unable to weather my storm
running its own course,
more in awe of the rattle and howl
than the sheer force of your face,
mysterious and calm.
SHADOW BOXING
Master, why do you leave me out cold,
no matter the words
I conjure and throw
with the lurches of a boxer
on the last legs of his round?
Don’t you care
that as my rhythm winds down,
my fisted poems punctuating air,
that I might collapse
in a heap?
Or is that your strategy,
allowing me space
to run rings round my rage
till exhaustion, or the deafening bell,
sends me sprawling to the ground?
Rena Ong
Contributor Biography
Originally from the UK, Rena Ong is married to a Singaporean husband with an adult son living in Australia. A retired teacher of children with dyslexia, Rena has work in Ekstasis Magazine, Mingled Voices: Proverse Poetry Prize Anthology,
Fish Publishing Anthology, Poems for Ephesians, and Studio: A Journal of Christians Writing.
Susanna Wesley’s Apron
No pilgrimage to Israel;
no cloistered cell;
no holy retreat.
Not with ten tumbling children
rumbling through the house.
Despite the chaos and noise,
the never-ending grind of
making ends meet,
the demands of motherhood,
she made time to talk with God
under her own ‘Temple of Meeting’
fashioned from her simple apron
draped over her head. She prayed.
In that holy place, like Moses in the desert,
she met with God.
Exposed
—Inspired by Malachi 3:6
A moist sponge removes make-up,
naked faces exposed. Powder puffs
wait in the drawer, lipsticks unnecessary.
We stand alone on solid rock.
Eyes look to you, souls stripped bare,
we seek you amongst shadows
where, we walk and talk with
the only constant on which we can depend.