Mahirap din pala ang umibig

Mahirap din palang umibig, parang tanong 

na ayaw mong sagutin, nguni’t ayaw kang lubayan, 

parang maliit na isda na lumalangoy sa loob 

ng isip mo, hindi makaalpas, umiikot-ikot lang, 

sa mga gilid ng utak mo na itanago sa loob 

ng iyong bungo, kasi matigas ang ulo mo.

Kung ang isip mo ay isang aquarium, 

ang dami mo nang ulit na tinuyo ang tubig nito, 

pinadaan sa iyong namulang mga mata, ang sama ng loob, 

hinanakit, umagos sa iyong mga pisngi, 

nalasahan ang alat nito. Pero parang bottomless 

ice tea lang. Pinababayaan mong ma-refill.

Mahirap talagang umibig, parang mamahaling kotse 

na nabangga kahit nakahinto ito. Hindi mo maiwan

kasi mahal mo na siya, at mahal talaga siya. 

Pinaghirapang maipon para mabili, maraming gabi ka

na umuwi para lang maisubi ang mga inipong halaga.

Aayusin mo na lang, ibabalik ang ganda.

Kung ako ay isang tanong pa rin sa isip mo, hayaan mo

na guluhin na lang kita kasi mahirap din pala talaga ang umibig.

Bakit Pinili Kong Magpayunir

Pinili kong mag-payunir, hindi dahil wala akong magawa, o nababagot sa buhay o sa gawaing bahay. Ang totoo ang talaan ko noon ng gagawin ay umaapaw, sa aking baso ng buhay, punong-puno  ng  mga tulad  tubig na  mga pangarap, dahil hindi masisiksik, tumatapon na lamang ang mga oras, nasasayang, sa mga tunguhing maka-sarili.

Saan ko isisiksik ang Diyos na Jehova sa baso kong punong-puno ng aking sarili? Kung idadagdag ko  siya, tatapon lang siya sa sahig. 

Ibig kong sumulat ng sandaang tula, hanap ang papuri ng mga taingang nakiliti sa tunog ng mga titik at bilis ng bigkas ng mga labi. Ibig ko ring umawit sa saliw ng gitara, tinig ay marinig, at maaliw ng matamis nguni't mababaw na pagsinta. Ibig ko ring bumasa ng sanlibong aklat, upang dunong ay tumalas, at kaalama'y maimbak. Marami, marami pang ibang gawin, nguni't ang aking baso'y punong-puno na.

Pinili kong magpayunir, hindi dahil wala akong magawa. Sa halip, pinili kong itapon ang tubig ng aking pagka-makasarili, hinayaaan kong mabasa ang puso kong tulad lupa na naging tigang sa pagibig sa Diyos at kapuwa. Hinayaan kong ito ay punuin sa halip ng tubig ng buhay, ng pagibig kay Jehova, at kapuwa. Walang tinapon sa sahig.

Pinili kong magpayunir, dahil marami ang ibig kong gawin para kay Jehova, nguni't ang panahon parang tubig ay natutuyo na. Baka mauhaw ako sa mga espirituwal na gawain, nguni't tumigil na ang tubig ng buhay sa pagdaloy ng malaya, inurong na ng Diyos ang kaniyang awa, at maiwang hawak-hawak ang basong humihingi ng kaunting patak ng awa. Nguni't huli na.

Pinili kong magpayunir dahil ibig ko na mapuno ang aking baso ng buhay ng mga pagpapala, ng mga panalanging dinirinig, ng lakas na higit sa karaniwan sa panahong ako'y nagbabata, ng ngiti ng pagsangayon sa tuwing ako'y sa langit titingila.

Kaya, huwag mong iisipin, na pinili kong magpayunir dahil wala akong magawa. 

This could be a poem

I fell in love with Sarah Kay's poetry, poetry meant to be spoken, heard, the sounds amplified by microphone, or wind blown to my ears, or by a breeze I sorely need on a dry, humid day.

It doesn't look like the usual shape, of lines, marching to the end, only to free fall at the end of a cliff, thoughts lost in the white space, unheard of again, but then every word marches on.

I wish this poem were as pretty as my wife, who cheers my heart every day I see her, as pretty as neon lights in busy city districts, eye-candy, but without the drudgery, poverty of shanties hidden behind makeshift walls.

This could be a poem, between words, spaces and pretensions, wanting to become, to rise above the ground, like a seedling, to see the sunlight, and to taste the rain.

My Tally

It is the last week of August, a season for storms to come and go. My Android's weather forecast advises another Manila rainstorm. I like the numbers on my sheet, not too far from 840, maybe by twenty. I looked back at my open bag - there is a Bible, some books and mags, and the places that the bag has gone, often times drenched by rain, or baked by a hot sun in between, and the seats or floors it rested on, some seats were made of plastic, of fabric, of wood, and some floors of concrete pavement, or of tiles, and of wood, and most times just hanging off my shoulder while I spoke to people about things they are too distracted to listen to, by the noise of cars passing by, of peddlers shouting their wares, as my Bible's pages flipped in the wind, threw my hair all over my face while my eyes were fixed on this young lady, standing across the gate's metal grill. It has been a year and a thousand doors knocked on and door bells rang, hundreds of eyes lit up, some black, some brown, some in contact lenses, visible under a fluorescent white lamp, or beside a yellow glow of a bulb, or under the plain blue light of a clear sky, as they discover treasures from a small, yellow book that opened wide their search, for a God who they can love, be close to, who can be with them in August and beyond and in every storm that wreaks havoc in their lives. My numbers could not tell their story, just a tally of a year's worth of work, but this is my bull of burnt offering, with a pleasant odor rising up in the sky often darkened by August clouds, throwing rain, hail, and wind.

Limits

My deja vu, circles and changing times.
I have great things and bad things.
My human limits is like an aging sprinter coming up
from the other side of the hill.

My wife is priceless for her endurance,
running this far with me. If she were my coach,
she would have let me go. Instead,
I have forgiveness in life's unforgiving rush.

The journey had been long, sometimes painful.
There are times of quiet joy, of quiet sorrow,
of fear, of disappointments, and uncertainty.
But, in love's Venn diagrams, they don't intersect.

I recall like a toddler, I walked with love
even with wobbling knees, unafraid to fall
for the arms, waiting on the other end
has a clear commanding voice.

This morning, mist and fog covered my steps-
I may stumble and fall. Yet I will walk on,
until I reach the hands that will grasp it,
measuring not the speed of my pace

But the warmth from it.
Measuring not the distance covered,
only that it was traversed with love
rising despite my human limits.

Recollection

In a dream I chanced upon this tree, red brown, massive beyond my arms,
its length stretched my sight high into the sky, white and grey.
All these trees, standing straight as if in attention, heads raised
towards the clouds. Could I say communing with the Divine?

As if God replied, a river flows massively down the mountain peak,
crashes along its ragged crevices, the sound of pounding unending,
rain water and mist fill the blank space between earth and sky,
myself, unnoticed, while a raven flies with ease with the lift, passes by.

Like a thick smoke, the mist and clouds clobber the big rock mass,
as sunlight breaks though the overcast, making the rocks
glimmer but briefly every now and then, like a signal light
sending out encrypted messages from a distance.