The Thirsty earth
opened her arms
for a wide embrace
as the heavens
poured its boon
and together
they rejoiced
that one February morning.
and so begins the melodrama of Life.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
In Extremis (at the point of death...)
He lies still
gasping for breath
as mud covers
his waning face
gasping for breath
as mud covers
his waning face
The poet is waiting
for the earth
to take his body
as dusk commenced...
Drops Of Red (circa 1996)
...for what is this life
without the hands
that cradled my heart
away from the madness
of the outside world?
what is the use of dreaming
only to wake up
and find that i'm alone
groping in the dark?
what is a morning for?
reminiscing a lost love
that we shared
the previous nights?
ahhh...
what is this life
without you?
nothing...
just a clear white parchment
with drops of red.
without the hands
that cradled my heart
away from the madness
of the outside world?
what is the use of dreaming
only to wake up
and find that i'm alone
groping in the dark?
what is a morning for?
reminiscing a lost love
that we shared
the previous nights?
ahhh...
what is this life
without you?
nothing...
just a clear white parchment
with drops of red.
Love Unreturned (June 26, 1999)
In total silence, my heart cries
But tears won't flow through unopened eyes
Nobody knows this empty hole
tucked within my thirsty soul
No one can fill nor understand
The turmoils of this lonely man.
All I do, each breath, each move
unfolds the love I tried to prove.
Ahh, Love... Love is strange, I hear them say
But I'm here for you, and here to stay.
the morning shines on me with tears
for it knows not how to hide my fears.
I tried to bow my weary head
The clouds laughed at me instead.
And though I wish you are aware
of simple things that say I care,
reality dawned on me,
you and I will never be.
Time and time I tried to hide
these crazy things I feel inside.
It's killing me from within
(I hope someday you'll know what I mean..)
But for now, my heart lies burned
by this love,
a Love... unreturned.
An Acoustic Elegy
The 1st string aches
and lets out
a mournful yell.
As the bard's finger prepares
to strike the 2nd,
the 3rd string cowers with fear.
His finger slides
to the second fret of the 4th
while the 5th gasped
to warn the 6th
who was silenced
by his thumb.
And as the A minor
echoes this room,
his voice faltered
with sadness
and the wind
rustles outside.
Lightning strikes
from a distance
and thunder
followed soon
reminding him:
There's going to be
a storm tonight
inside...
and out.
and lets out
a mournful yell.
As the bard's finger prepares
to strike the 2nd,
the 3rd string cowers with fear.
His finger slides
to the second fret of the 4th
while the 5th gasped
to warn the 6th
who was silenced
by his thumb.
And as the A minor
echoes this room,
his voice faltered
with sadness
and the wind
rustles outside.
Lightning strikes
from a distance
and thunder
followed soon
reminding him:
There's going to be
a storm tonight
inside...
and out.
A Monochrome Existence
Shades of BLACK
colour these lines
painting this life
shaping this man.
a GREY sculpture
of a lonely poet
bathes in WHITE
crouches in a corner
of his monochrome existence...
colour these lines
painting this life
shaping this man.
a GREY sculpture
of a lonely poet
bathes in WHITE
crouches in a corner
of his monochrome existence...
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Middle Eastern Homesick Blues
My jacket on my shoulder,
flapping with the winter night wind,
my Ipod whispers a sad love song
and Jack Johnson goes:
“It feels right
It feels wrong
It feels like when you have it,
then it’s gone
I want more
More and more…”
I flicked my cigarette
as the bus approaches
And pulled a dirham
out of my pocket
“…And if you steal the fire
Give me some
Cause the sun
Disobeys while it waits
for a friend to arrive
from the past…”
I stepped in
glancing at the five people inside
all weary from
a hard day’s work
“What holds us around, and around
While we wait…”
Found myself a seat
next to the window
and closed my eyes
thinking of home…
The scent of mom’s freshly cooked
Pancit canton in the morning
Father’s jokes at lunch
and the fabled Pulupandan sunset…
Ten more days, I told myself,
Ten more days to spend
In a cacophony of keyboards
and phone calls.
My reverie was interrupted
by the speakers of a mosque
we happened to pass by,
beckoning the faithful for the Salah.
“What holds us around, and around
While we wait…”
(Damn! I missed Pinas…)
flapping with the winter night wind,
my Ipod whispers a sad love song
and Jack Johnson goes:
“It feels right
It feels wrong
It feels like when you have it,
then it’s gone
I want more
More and more…”
I flicked my cigarette
as the bus approaches
And pulled a dirham
out of my pocket
“…And if you steal the fire
Give me some
Cause the sun
Disobeys while it waits
for a friend to arrive
from the past…”
I stepped in
glancing at the five people inside
all weary from
a hard day’s work
“What holds us around, and around
While we wait…”
Found myself a seat
next to the window
and closed my eyes
thinking of home…
The scent of mom’s freshly cooked
Pancit canton in the morning
Father’s jokes at lunch
and the fabled Pulupandan sunset…
Ten more days, I told myself,
Ten more days to spend
In a cacophony of keyboards
and phone calls.
My reverie was interrupted
by the speakers of a mosque
we happened to pass by,
beckoning the faithful for the Salah.
“What holds us around, and around
While we wait…”
(Damn! I missed Pinas…)
Soon, He Will Forget Her
The setting sun
will kiss goodbye
to tears
and the waves
will carry them
to a place
beyond memory’s reach…
The mockingbird
will stop singing
songs that remind him
of her
early morning voice.
Her scent in this bed
will leave this room
through the slats
of his window blinds,
carried by the sea breeze…
The stars will shine
again tonight.
But unlike the previous
nights before,
they will not
remind him
of her eyes…
He will pick up his pen
again at night.
But not to write
sad love poems
or a “why?” poem,
or an ” I want to die” poem
or an ” I want you back” poem
But a “Goodbye” poem.
And, unlike the other poems,
this one will end with a period.
Not a question mark…
And he will not use
the same words
in his previous poems
for her.
Words like:
“come back”
“I love you”
and “please”.
This is his poem.
And this time,
he will not mention
feelings of pain
or anger.
Nor will he hold back his tears.
Yes, he will cry
for the last time.
And let the tears
flow and drop
and leave ugly blotches
on this paper.
But he will continue writing…
He must finish this poem,
his last poem for her
And, unlike the other poems,
this one will end with a period.
Not a question mark…
his last poem…
Because…
Soon, he will forget her.
will kiss goodbye
to tears
and the waves
will carry them
to a place
beyond memory’s reach…
The mockingbird
will stop singing
songs that remind him
of her
early morning voice.
Her scent in this bed
will leave this room
through the slats
of his window blinds,
carried by the sea breeze…
The stars will shine
again tonight.
But unlike the previous
nights before,
they will not
remind him
of her eyes…
He will pick up his pen
again at night.
But not to write
sad love poems
or a “why?” poem,
or an ” I want to die” poem
or an ” I want you back” poem
But a “Goodbye” poem.
And, unlike the other poems,
this one will end with a period.
Not a question mark…
And he will not use
the same words
in his previous poems
for her.
Words like:
“come back”
“I love you”
and “please”.
This is his poem.
And this time,
he will not mention
feelings of pain
or anger.
Nor will he hold back his tears.
Yes, he will cry
for the last time.
And let the tears
flow and drop
and leave ugly blotches
on this paper.
But he will continue writing…
He must finish this poem,
his last poem for her
And, unlike the other poems,
this one will end with a period.
Not a question mark…
his last poem…
Because…
Soon, he will forget her.
For My Father
The look in his eyes
is not the same
as the one I remembered
five years ago...
This one has that trace of pride
over a son
who found the luck
he spent all his life searching for.
Not the same look
he gave me on the front porch
of a house half finished,
like a symbol of his struggles.
I still can remember
his words that night
after six bottles of beer.
he said, and I quote:
” Find your self.
your life is being wasted
one day at a time.”
and I, drunk and crying,
swallowed my last swig of beer
I almost vomitted.
For between me and this man,
there weren’t much words spoken.
We were so alike.
That’s why we don’t agree
on a lot of things.
His stubborn pride
enduced by the experiences
he endured
and my own selfish pride
struggling to find my own way
so as not to be identified with him.
But I am his son
and he, my father.
Few words…
but they weighed
far more than I could
possibly put into this poem.
Growing up,
I discovered
how so much alike we were.
and I honestly hated that fact
so much, that I vowed to do things my way
only to discover
he did the same things
during his time.
I hated it.
But I am his son
and he, my father.
The arguments between us
over dinner
are now just memories
of how opinionated
we both are.
I laughed at the thought
of how stupid I was
during those times
failing to recognise
the wisdom in his words.
But I do now
and I thank God
For being his son
and he, my father…
Now, as I stepped down from the plane,
I saw the man
and saw how age has etched lines
on that familiar face.
We hugged.
Not so much words.
Just like old times, I thought.
But I knew how happy this man is.
I feel him. He feels me.
I know Him. He knows me.
‘coz I am his son
and he, my father.
We reached our home
and there she was,
waiting on the same porch
full of memories,
the mother and the wife
who has witnessed it all.
She was God’s messenger
to these two souls
the son,
and the father.
The night that followed
saw us drinking
with our friends
(yes, we are so alike
that we have the same
set of friends…)
and hearing him talk
about me
is a feeling
I wouldn’t trade for anything
in this world.
Five years
and a lot has changed.
The house, nearing completion.
But me and my father,
still with very little words between us,
share this bond
forged by countless bottles of beer.
Looking at him,
I realized how he loves people
and the company of friends
(as much as I do…)
and how I would look like
twenty years from now.
I smiled at the thought
of how blessed I am
to be his son
and he, my father…
is not the same
as the one I remembered
five years ago...
This one has that trace of pride
over a son
who found the luck
he spent all his life searching for.
Not the same look
he gave me on the front porch
of a house half finished,
like a symbol of his struggles.
I still can remember
his words that night
after six bottles of beer.
he said, and I quote:
” Find your self.
your life is being wasted
one day at a time.”
and I, drunk and crying,
swallowed my last swig of beer
I almost vomitted.
For between me and this man,
there weren’t much words spoken.
We were so alike.
That’s why we don’t agree
on a lot of things.
His stubborn pride
enduced by the experiences
he endured
and my own selfish pride
struggling to find my own way
so as not to be identified with him.
But I am his son
and he, my father.
Few words…
but they weighed
far more than I could
possibly put into this poem.
Growing up,
I discovered
how so much alike we were.
and I honestly hated that fact
so much, that I vowed to do things my way
only to discover
he did the same things
during his time.
I hated it.
But I am his son
and he, my father.
The arguments between us
over dinner
are now just memories
of how opinionated
we both are.
I laughed at the thought
of how stupid I was
during those times
failing to recognise
the wisdom in his words.
But I do now
and I thank God
For being his son
and he, my father…
Now, as I stepped down from the plane,
I saw the man
and saw how age has etched lines
on that familiar face.
We hugged.
Not so much words.
Just like old times, I thought.
But I knew how happy this man is.
I feel him. He feels me.
I know Him. He knows me.
‘coz I am his son
and he, my father.
We reached our home
and there she was,
waiting on the same porch
full of memories,
the mother and the wife
who has witnessed it all.
She was God’s messenger
to these two souls
the son,
and the father.
The night that followed
saw us drinking
with our friends
(yes, we are so alike
that we have the same
set of friends…)
and hearing him talk
about me
is a feeling
I wouldn’t trade for anything
in this world.
Five years
and a lot has changed.
The house, nearing completion.
But me and my father,
still with very little words between us,
share this bond
forged by countless bottles of beer.
Looking at him,
I realized how he loves people
and the company of friends
(as much as I do…)
and how I would look like
twenty years from now.
I smiled at the thought
of how blessed I am
to be his son
and he, my father…
"Surreal"
An empty can of coke
stands defiant
amidst a table
full of cigarette butts
like a sergeant
commanding a platoon
of battle-weary soldiers
to stand their ground
as a bottle of vodka
hovers overhead
in the eleven o’clock
blackness of the night.
Soon…
This glass will be empty
like the soul of a curbside poet
searching for words
inside a trashbin
only to find the grime
of a treacherous world.
And with every single word
added to these lines,
the ashtray choked
and told the poet to stop.
Stop.
stands defiant
amidst a table
full of cigarette butts
like a sergeant
commanding a platoon
of battle-weary soldiers
to stand their ground
as a bottle of vodka
hovers overhead
in the eleven o’clock
blackness of the night.
Soon…
This glass will be empty
like the soul of a curbside poet
searching for words
inside a trashbin
only to find the grime
of a treacherous world.
And with every single word
added to these lines,
the ashtray choked
and told the poet to stop.
Stop.
Wishes On A Dead Tree
…and here I am,
standing in front of this tree
reminiscing those moments
when it used to be you and me…
We made a promise
(do you remember, dear..?)
you said you won’t go
as we were lying here…
Time has passed…
and I stand here and cry
You left without a word
and you never told me why.
Now, I have to let go
of things that will never be
‘coz my dreams are all but wishes
here, on this dead tree.
standing in front of this tree
reminiscing those moments
when it used to be you and me…
We made a promise
(do you remember, dear..?)
you said you won’t go
as we were lying here…
Time has passed…
and I stand here and cry
You left without a word
and you never told me why.
Now, I have to let go
of things that will never be
‘coz my dreams are all but wishes
here, on this dead tree.
Out of Love..?
Please tell me, my dear
that you shall never leave
or abandon this soul
for I will forever grieve
I found bliss
in your arms alone
and in my heart
love has grown
why end this heaven
that we have?
might it be that you’ve fallen
out of love..?
that you shall never leave
or abandon this soul
for I will forever grieve
I found bliss
in your arms alone
and in my heart
love has grown
why end this heaven
that we have?
might it be that you’ve fallen
out of love..?
(Untitled 31)
The ink flows freely
on the parchment of time
Unfolding every hour.
Perrennial pieces
that will last
forever…
on the parchment of time
Unfolding every hour.
Perrennial pieces
that will last
forever…
My Pen
Lifeless
the pen awaits
its master's fingers
Still
it lies on the parchment
like a soul searching for freedom
Silent
yet each slight movement
spells thoughts on this mystery
we call Life.
the pen awaits
its master's fingers
Still
it lies on the parchment
like a soul searching for freedom
Silent
yet each slight movement
spells thoughts on this mystery
we call Life.
…of a Lady
These empty arms
raised in surrender
by the bleak realization
of sadness
of the departure
of a lady.
These feet
tried to stand defiant
of the mocking
of the words
of a lady.
These tears
struggled to erase
the hurt
of breaking
of my heart
of a lady.
This man…
This man aches
to forget
the pain
of a memory
of a love
of a lady.
raised in surrender
by the bleak realization
of sadness
of the departure
of a lady.
These feet
tried to stand defiant
of the mocking
of the words
of a lady.
These tears
struggled to erase
the hurt
of breaking
of my heart
of a lady.
This man…
This man aches
to forget
the pain
of a memory
of a love
of a lady.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Where..?
Where are the eyes
that summoned a lover’s soul
from vague darkness?
Where are the lips
that spoke of truth
amidst this world of lies?
Where are the hands
that cradled the dreams
and promises of tomorrow?
Where is the love
we once had
and cherished..?
Gone..
Burried deeply
beneath the remnants
of an ever-chaotic world.
that summoned a lover’s soul
from vague darkness?
Where are the lips
that spoke of truth
amidst this world of lies?
Where are the hands
that cradled the dreams
and promises of tomorrow?
Where is the love
we once had
and cherished..?
Gone..
Burried deeply
beneath the remnants
of an ever-chaotic world.
"Desperation"
Here in the dusk
a trembling hand
holds the pen
against this parchment
the ink is screaming
to be written
but the poet
ran out of words
to write
… and so he slept.
a trembling hand
holds the pen
against this parchment
the ink is screaming
to be written
but the poet
ran out of words
to write
… and so he slept.
December
Cold as the wind
That blows in the dark night
and gentle as the caress
of the morning dew,
wait for me
for I will come
sure as the sun
will shine tomorrow,
I will come.
And together
we will count the stars
till this dream is over.
Death Of Amatheus (for Regner...)
… and a bell tolls
this dry mid-afternoon
a soul departs
from its mortal flesh
as a leaf falls
from its bough
kissing the ground
and withers to nothingness…
His body lies in silence…
Waiting for the wind
to carry his soul
to placid rest…
…farewell, my friend.
(written for a friend of mine)
this dry mid-afternoon
a soul departs
from its mortal flesh
as a leaf falls
from its bough
kissing the ground
and withers to nothingness…
His body lies in silence…
Waiting for the wind
to carry his soul
to placid rest…
…farewell, my friend.
(written for a friend of mine)
A Nocturne Trip
A tide of warmth
creeping up my neck
into my face
like a plucked rose
crying out silently
against the invasion
of sadness
…looked at her
with eyes like flooding rivers
of tears.
Girl,
I found myself
drifting…
into the nebulous, cushiony limbo
between awareness and slumber
Your eyes glimmered
in the harlequin play
of colored lights
… I went to bed
but the excited clamours
of my heartbeats
made my night sleepless.
My lips tremble
to tell you
these words.
When…?
tomorrow
(if I ever wake again…)
creeping up my neck
into my face
like a plucked rose
crying out silently
against the invasion
of sadness
…looked at her
with eyes like flooding rivers
of tears.
Girl,
I found myself
drifting…
into the nebulous, cushiony limbo
between awareness and slumber
Your eyes glimmered
in the harlequin play
of colored lights
… I went to bed
but the excited clamours
of my heartbeats
made my night sleepless.
My lips tremble
to tell you
these words.
When…?
tomorrow
(if I ever wake again…)