New Year Fragments

Darkness breaks up
into colors then black.

The ears catch first the silence,
then the blast.

He carries on
between the presence and absence.

You are still here, in his thoughts,
blinking (on and off)

in his memory,
like a New Year's eve fireworks.

X'mas Love?

There was love in No Man's Land. You don't ask,
what is war? What is killing you for?
The answers were confusing for politicians.

There were no stars but lacking GPS was not
a disability. Each one found his way to peace,
in an enemy's laughter.

It was not a funny word, slaughter.
A bullet pierced though a Christmas card,
after the carols were sung

and soldiers were pulled away from peace,
were poured together like a mixture
on a holy cup.

Could this be the end of things? To the enemy, dead,
one said, 'I had wished him a merry christmas.'

No Rule of Three

To shoot a message across a screen using bullets, 

follow the rule of three. The rule of thirds keeps subjects 

in focus too. 

But, wait, there are exceptions. A riddle 

may not subscribe to rules. A bullet-riddled body 

violates this rule. 

To count is a basic skill. After the kill, 

who will finish the body count? Did we do 

more than three?

There are no new rules. There are no women 

or children to isolate, only objectives, keeping the earth 

wet with blood.

Ripped Apart

This is a perilous season.
Some content may not be suitable-

In color or black-and-white,
they are still dead.

Why count bodies in peace time?
Something about parts and whole.

I agree. This is more than just
an inconvenient fact:

keeping your feet away
from blood-soaked pavements.

Today, I ask, while watching TV-
Were the bodies covered by newspapers?

The Issue of a Singular Act

The rains erased what had been
a whole picture of you.

Reduced to myriad pieces
on the marble floor like a puzzle,

I see no single match
to light a fire inside a room.

A broken voice is insistent.

The need to act is a reaction
against the sound of tick-tock.

But the seriality of my singular act
is no match.

Am I enough?

El Nino comes

El Nino comes-
dry ground gets buried by
rushing flood waters.

In the calm morning

In the calm morning,
father lifts up his dead son
from the flood waters.

Another Dawn

Dawn breaks. I rise to wait,
for this curtain between us,
to be set aside.

As the light exposes the horizon
of our thoughts, my wish is
to see your eyes, brilliant, again.

I wish to welcome you back,
to walk with you, with joy
that belongs to pride of possession,

to revel in your details-
black hair and eyes, on your fair face-
clear, distinct, once again;

to enjoy a small talk,
with your sanity back,
strong, no longer shaken.

But a gust has yet blown again,
the cold is back, in your eyes-
but I will try again.

Distracted

To fall asleep on this seat,
on a long haul flight,

may appear to shake you
off my thoughts,

but the air turbulence
will shake me awake instead.

The airplane's ceiling lamps
are all turned-off

but you are my reading light,
spot lit on the laptop,

my fingers
busy on the keys.

Maybe, it's the best way
to ride this disturbance:

you-
distracting me.

To My Brother Jonathan

'Tis not when a heart beat goes full stop
and eyes then lose the power of its stare,

Nor when the sheet is stretched to cover up
your full length, no longer gasping for air,

that my pain like skin scratched by thorns
ignored when running away from hunters,

can now rest, bleed and cry for attention.
There never will be a good time ever.

To nurse loneliness like a wound,
and dress it everyday until it dries,

is to hope a healing can be found,
to finally say my good-bye-

We have few words for each other,
but love is not bound by them or any other.

Rainy August

A sunny 8am did not
come true,

the sky looking grayish white,
the color of the bedsheet.

The weatherman did forecast
lots of rain for August.

As clouds keep shifting,
a gust hits the window pane

just when I looked away,
your body still warm,

after the doctor said
you are gone.

Dump Truck

I missed the dump truck this morning.
Now, I am stuck, counting garbage bags

the neighbors hate to see torn open
by scavengers. I wonder should I

be sitting here, checking
your pictures on Facebook

or be ridding all this
trash? But your smile, new company,

longer hair, without me seated
anywhere close to you-

I can't keep on piling up all these
thoughts and keep missing the dump truck.

No Better Time

It was a matter of bad timing.
Einstein asserted enough about spaces
and for you it meant no vacancy.

Death happens here regularly.
In this vacuum, there is no room
for the sound of your agony.

In a purposeless universe,
disappearances are just too far
away from us,

like nebulas signing off
above our night sky beyond
my span of attention

as your dust is dispersed
in this air, demonstrating Einstein,
his physical laws.

There is no better time for gravity
to bring you back to me.

Friendly Skies

What if I were thirsty and 7-11
ran out of styro cups?

What will hold the overflow
of words, stinging to the ears?

This is an escalation
of the weather's status.

In Manila, a government man aimed
his thermometer gun

to those out in the sun too long.
Its laser hit a forehead.

But this is not Iran
where standing up could fetch

a stray bullet
from a hostile sky.

Get out into this rain,
umbrella-less, to be counted

as ex-warm bodies
under this red-shifting sky.

If I were in Boston,
I would say,

'The snow has mixed
with mud'.

Mobile Church

The jeepney has an entry way and corridor 
leading to an image of Christ above the windshield.

Here, a poor boy serves like a sacristan. 
He cleans the passenger shoes as if to make them holy.

When his service ends, he raises his palms 
not to pray but to collect for alms,

Before his altar, he looks up  at the Christ
gazing down on those seated.

He leaves but another passenger gets in
with his own Bible and pouch.

Glow

While the flame was there, she left,
like smoke dispersed by the breeze.

He is left with embers, wavering
against his breath, the wind.

Remaining seated,
he watches the death of a glow.

Independence Day

A holiday excuse is coming, flags notwithstanding,
do you recall the answers to serious questions
from your last exam? You failed again, thinking memories
are so volatile and your recall of the national anthem were
like a game of jigsaw puzzles, singing the wrong lines at the wrong time.
What did you do with that Chinese media guy now
that you are in Hong Kong? Right, it has nothing to do
with Disney world. Don't shake my hands for now.
Everything American seemed to have caught a virus-
their peanut butter, stocks, and airports.

Another Project

Hands, clapping, voices, boisterous,
high-fives, and a document, signed:
after this, I worry about you and me
if we are to see each other again.

Soon, this room will host others,
after blanking whiteboards
and removing papers posted on walls.
The hours had been logged, accounted for.

I am losing you like a re-assignment
to a new room, another set of numbers,
deadlines, late meals, delays,
and change requests.

Maybe, you are like another project
I need to close down to move on.

Homecoming

The dinner is cold,
a seat remains vacant.

I wait like a wife
for a knock

on the door
of my thoughts.

Perhaps, tonight,
like a husband

words will come,
to spill like seeds.

Lost

He confides
'She only has a few days left.'

Fighting the loss of breath
I ask, 'So, what is next?'

As he lays out what to expect,
I lost you in the details

of many new mornings-
mourning.

The day you leave
I will be somewhere else

looking for you in places
we have been.

A dead poem

His poem
lifted my eyes

to the ceiling
of his ambition,

from where his lines hang
down to expose a body,

twisted,
breathless.

This is not a love poem (again)

The sort you'll find in bookstores
and greeting card racks,

with nice colors and illustrations,
with words, simple and sweet.

It doesn't have a dried rose petal
with leaves and stem on the page.

It doesn't come with a bouquet either
wrapped with eucalyptus or rosemary’s.

It doesn't know how to start,
and not sure how to end.

It's like that nimbus
hovering in your sky,

but never letting go
of the rain.

To Return

To return is to shuffle recollections,
to superimpose images

against what is seen, what is felt
under this different sky.

Where we stood has been altered.
Before us are rocks, black

against an earth, browned
by lack of grass and trees.

I fear the rains took away
whatever is left between us.

I can plant seeds here and there,
if you let me.

This side of the mountain
can return its color once again,

its past and present will be one,
if you just say so.

Have you seen love?

Is it something we can speak about
or pass over in silence?

Is it warm like a poem on paper
lying on the pavement at noon?

Can it be contained in a bottle
and instructed how to spring from it?

Can it be measured like a meter
in rhythmic pulses along a line?

If I say 'I love you'
is there a picture

in your mind?
Is it the same as mine?

In the Shadows

To where shadows
and road wind as one,

I descend,
testing my resolve

against the steepness
of the mountains,

looking back at you,
the sun gone

leaving what we have
between us obscured,

those parts of you and me
unenlightened.

Dismantling You and Me

The instruction was
in the one page manual,

of us in pieces
and disassembled.

After inventory of all the parts,
of wood and screws,

we located where we need
to hold fast together.

We were happy then
with what we have put together.

Today, with a different tool set
on the floor

we pull out each screw,
as in a rush,

uncaring if we damage
the threads

or splinter the wood
or hurt ourselves.

We just want
to be dismantled quickly.

A Small Factory

Outside the window-
the children watch cars, vans, trucks
fill up lanes with soot;

under the floor-
black water, still like stalled automobiles,
their mufflers blowing carbon;

in the floor-
black with flies blanketing
a baby lying on the mat;

home-
a human factory
in two square meters of black space.

Starboard

Tonight my eyes chance upon,
on this starry night, your star's glow
just above the horizon of this plain heart.

You fell onto this orbit, my love's weight
denting space where you spin. I studied you with maps,
to predict your journey across my sky

while sleep agreed to let me be intoxicated
by your sight. Your reflection starboard side,
made me grip the railings

lest I fall,
into love's unmeasured depths.

Alterations

You probably know
what an emptied seat means.
How blinking an eye could miss
the minute changes in the shadows,
and be burdened by what seemed
to be a desertion.

I am still here but yes I've changed
my seats, desiring a viewpoint
on how I can look at things, or you
not with loss of interest, no,
but with never ending wonder
of how you remained the same

despite the alterations
of the visible.

V-Day

Here comes Valentines
like a deadline,
and I've got nothing
to show for a result.

Unable to secure
a scarce resource,
a lover, for example,
it has all been a struggle.

I think I know
what's up for me come V-day-
a pink slip on my desk,
minus the chocolate and roses.

A Promise to Keep

The heart is treacherous, but by it our love we pledged,
wary of its fickleness unraveling what we held.

So, I promise this as God demands of me
to love you with all my mind, will, and integrity.

A poet wrote, 'i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)'.
I will carry yours in mine so you can fill up all its space.

So, declare to me this-
Dilectus meus mihi et ego illi qui*.



* My dear one is mine and I am his.

(w)Age(s)

"Stipendia enim peccati mors gratia autem."
Breath-deprived, the marriage is given up like doves
let go on wedding day. Where before the bride wears white,
now black is the motif, the sun eclipsed by clouds.

Soon, we'll reach the terminal
(si non sola mors me et te separaverit)
but the road is still bumpy up ahead.
We haven't paid ours

but the debt collector will soon find our address
and he might not care about the house or the old car.

Moved by a poem

To agitate the eyes, drive them fast
first here and then over ... there.

Between the distance of a millisecond,
was there consciousness of Newton's law?

To be conscious,
does it require conscience?
or science?
is there a con and a pro?
or a quid pro quo?

Is there a poem incapable
of moving a reader,
their eyes,
by a single letter?
or space?

This poem has traded
its abstract existence
for death.

To Lose Weight

Stepping on the weighing scale
is a sanity check for him
this morning after his head overflowed
with sound bites, moving images
and snapshots of her.

He tried many self-help books
on losing weight, compared the risks
and gain. He agrees it helps to have less
of her clogging his system,

that it takes time to lighten up,
to remove the weight of her arms
around his waist and love handles,
but he will do it the smart way
not looking damaged by the loss.

His new year's resolution:
Lose all of her this year.

Defaulted

This blank paper
is my report

about the poem
I meant to write.

I laid off words
when thoughts defaulted,

sans attachment-
clinical, precise-

to keep the piece afloat
in this difficult time.

But, I failed to live
within my means

and so the rest
had to go.

Priorities

Intervals of flats and depths
are irregularly spaced
but their frequency is high enough
to cause vibrations, for shaking
the water bottle tilted to pour,
dislocating its contents
from mouth to pants,
now wet, with its presence passing
through fabric down to skin,
even as he raises his head
while colors shifted from green to red,
the car stopping in the intersection
like water on the leather seat.

Your Exit

You are here. There is no site map as guide
to find the nearest exit.

A scan for the familiar (I am no liar),
will not yield the path. Stay

and check each words instead.
Get drenched in the meaninglessness.

Don't look at your watch wondering
when will I point the way out.

How much time do you have? I only have
one more period coming up.

Next Mom

She says she is in the city
whose streets are valleys of honking,
between buildings of glass and steel,
to work there long hours.

How long has she been out? I can tell
by counting the stars popping out
in my sky and the number of buses
dropping off other kid's mom.

I wait for those hours to run out,
for the next bus to open its door.
I am sure my turn will come next,
to welcome my mom (again).

Half-Open Door

I do not know what to expect standing before this old house.
The dust, rocks, and leaves of my memory are no longer here.

The breeze is still cold, on what is now a paved road, clean
but stiff like your eyes, but your welcome is only for the pet dog.

Soon, it is going to rain and I am still here looking at you.
I can still see some trees left from my childhood but without fruit.

The breeze has gotten stronger, slapping me outright, as if demanding
why I had not moved on instead of lingering by the still half-open door.

It's alright. I will leave, you can close the door.