Natulog

mayroon bang makakabatid

sa lumbay na dulot ng mahal

na lumisan na sa daigdig

na hindi na magagamot

ang pangungulilang manantiling mapait?

ilang luha ba ang aagos

sa mukha upang alisin ang waring tabak

na nakabaon sa dibdib

na nagbura ng mga pangarap

parang tubig dagat sa mga naukit sa buhangin?

anong magagawa ng pagtaghoy

sa araw o gabi

ngayong wala ka na sa piling

may kaaliwan ba sa iyong ala-ala

di ba lalo lamang umiigting?

kay daming pagsinta sana'y nabigkas

at narinig ng iyong tainga

at sa iyong puso'y nanahan

nguni't ang mga awit ko't tula

sino na ang makikinig?

Tagulan

"Charlie, it’s over." 

Bakit ka nagpaalam at nanlamig 

ngayong tagulan man din 

Sa buwan ng Mayo na laging 

basa ng ulan ang lansangan 

Dito pa sa Paseo Starbucks 

Kung saan kitang-kita ng lahat 

Ang aking pagbabagong-anyo 

Pati capuccinong mainit sa kamay 

Pumaso pa? 

 "Charlie, I'm sori, got to go na." 

Tumayo ka na at ako'y iniwan 

Ano pa bang masasabi 

Di ako type na pumipigil? 

Bumuhos na naman ang ulan 

Sa salamin ay sumilip 

Di makita dyipni, bus, at tao sa labas 

Humahampas ang hangin (Nainis sa sarili, 

ang aking payong kung bakit ko iniwan) 

Si Bamboo umaawit sa aking tainga. 

Bakit naninikip ang dibdib at 

Nagbabaga ang mga mata? Buntong-hininga, 

Isa pa, isa pang muli baka guminhawa. 

Tumahimik na ang tugtog sa tainga. 

Di ko malay kung sa akin 

Ay may tumitingin ba 

Napako yata ako sa silya 

Kung ilang oras di ko natantiya 

Madilim na, nagsindi na mga ilaw 

Sa mga poste ng Paseo 

Tumigil na pala ang ulan 

Masikip pa rin ang lansangan 

Parang dibdib na naulila sa sinta.

Another Work Week

It's 7:30am on the digital clock.

It does not do the sound of tick-tock

but the lack of urgency is in my mind.

The charts are magnetized 

on the board like decorations 

and art works of letters and colors.

This new routine is pre-programmed,

unlike an AI machine learning 

from the data of the daily grind. 

What happens next

is predictably sequential,

but each one consequential.

Play 'Hotel California'

on the Bluetooth audio 

from Spotify's playlist,

play it loud like in a concert,

while all the tasks are screaming 

to get started.

A good bath could wash away 

the distractions of last night's

Netflix multi-episode viewing.

Like a countdown,

I sip my cup of decaf

with Maalox pills on standby.

First, I will remove all things 

from the book shelf,

as if packing up again, 

Drop all in a box.

But this is a different work week,

I just put them back again.

My checklist looks like a recipe

but I am not cooking 

any thoughts today.

I just fed the day 

like yesterday. Repeat

with the same to-do list.

'China Grove' is playing

and I feel alive,

feeding the tasks their meat. 

 

 

Not Enough

These are boxes where all

of one's memory 

is unfit to store.

I saw men with paint brushes, 

hammer, chisel, and some garment,

placed inside the box.

I saw rows of boxes 

all painted white, with curves,

shaped like flowers on wood.

They affixed handles, 

some of plain wood, 

others of gold.

No matter the finish,

the curves, and the shine

of silver or gold

The box is not enough to fit

for all the memories to store. 

Most Cheerful Day

 

It is time to leave this place and retreat back to one’s self.

Pack up the items – the coffee cup, the slippers, or

the books, thanking every one for their support.

 

Spend the next days in the best way possible?

If able still, and manage the pain in the heart

More than the agony in the flesh, not even

 

The apparent bright days ahead can create cheer.

It is the best possible ending-

Stay patient while counting days as the strength

 

Drains away like water from the lungs. It may

No longer matter who is around when deep sleep comes,

to never wake up again.

 

But we will all be here to welcome you back,

To give you the warmest hug on a most cheerful day.

Reconstitution

A constitution is a set of fundamental principles, 

Forming a legal basis of a polity. But are principals

Expected to follow principles? Or is it related to

Reconstitution, ammunition, or diminution?

Does constipation follow certain prescribed 

Operational principles leading to holding off

Or delaying what should be exposed, witnessed,

Or preferably just trashed?

But it is unlike the laws of science, or its

Fundamental principles. You jump off a cliff,

For certainty, it will be difficult to reconstitute

Whatever is left after the fall. 

Over There

 

A bond paper on the desk, full of being white,

Is a young man that has not figured out,

And so empty of thoughts or ink, in a blink,

Uncertain of cadences leading to where or nowhere.

 

Unknown where things could be, or should they be,

Picks up and crumples paper, with vigor,

Marching path forward to the trash bin,

Securing a trashed future over there.

Chasing Your Hand

I often asked you why

between us, I am the one 

to chase your hand, hold it

firmly and not let go.

I never did get a simple note

to help me peer into your mind.

You were enjoying your silence

and my confusion.

It is easier now to catch

your hand as the years piled up,

your steps and gait slowing down.

I just wait for your hand

to hold onto my love, my arm.

Clean As You Go

 

How can I disconnect from a network

of memories stretching across a cubicle,

enclosing time like a fossil buried in one's brain?

In the age of cable-less or wireless,

is it by tapping a smartphone's screen

to cut the signal off, as if cutting an umbilical cord?

On my own now, disconnected,

access-less, after unloading what is left

from the task list on the digital note pad.

I transferred all the remnants and pieces

of thoughts stored in the secure drawer

of my mind to my long-term memory.

I believe in compliance, in integrity,

in office decorum, just like the sign 

'clean as you go' as I exit the glass door

into the world of ‘them’ and ‘me’.

What is Death?

Death is meeting your mama's or papa's eyes
but they do not stare back. They are looking elsewhere.

Death is holding your brother's or sister's hand
after the warmth has left, as if winter season has come.

Death is hiding inside the ICU, news does not flip the door,
and your pulse rate goes faster until death exits the room.

Death is your friend seeing it in the doorway
and he is at a lost whether to choose to cry or say good-bye.

Death is grieving for the lost while everyone else
is merry, and in the mirror, there is only you.

Death is hating good-byes, but the old memories
pour out like a downpour and the loneliness bites you.

This Far

 I am grateful to have the strength

to reach out to your hand and hold it,

to power my legs and knees

while walking leisurely on the beach, sunset-lit.

 

I am thankful to have the clarity

of vision to still witness your smiles,

and with ears sensitive to your laughter

while the sea keeps coming back to our feet.

 

How I love our memory that goes a long way

back from where we began, and every now

and then ask if you still recall the feeling,

the thrill of confession!

 

Oh how we have come this far,

like a precious Chinese bowl with gold

in all its cracks.

To love you imperfectly

I may not be the best man
you have ever met

amidst the downpours
of your life's trials

because all I can offer is
to love you imperfectly.

I may not be your knight
in shining armor

come to slay the dragons
that trouble you

because all I can offer is
to love you imperfectly.

Your memories of me
maybe full of failings

but forgiveness is 
a sweet potion to my soul

because all I can offer is
to love you imperfectly.

The Things to Miss About You

How about the eyes that found me, and lingered
within the radius of my stare, locking eye to eye,
unembarrassed by the moment?

Or, how about the smile that dented your cheeks,
breaking out like a new day, teeth white as the sun?

What of the hands that served coffee brewed
on my table, the aroma sweet like your scent,
floating in the air, your hair close to me?

Or that glaze in your skin, when my fingers slide 
from your shoulder down to your fingers?

How about the warmth of your lips, 
lingering, swirling, sniffing, sipping, 
and I savoring them like fine wine?

Oh, your body so close to me,
I, selfishly consuming its heat!

(written for the occasion of our 37th wedding anniversary)

The Roots of my Next Poem

Will I find the poem from someone's eyes

the lines and words flashing bright,

but too quick to be held in my palms?

Will I receive it as a gift in the night

every line, every word, streaming in my dream-

I need to wake up and catch it pass by?

Will I find it in your hands as it held mine,

as I lead you inside a lover's room

to ignite the heart's imaginations?

Or is it the seed I buried in the ground,

that I need to nurture, word by word

line by line?

Para Tayong Mapulang Alak

Mayroong saya na masilip ang iyong tingin 

mula sa iyong mga mata na nagbabalik 

ng mga ala-alang noong una kang tanawin, 

mga sulyap na naghagis ng mga salitang di nabigkas.

May hiya na nahayag sa sabay na pagsulyap, 

mga pagkakamaling nagdala ng tuwa sa puso

na pilit na naglilihim, nguni't sa lakas ng tibok nito'y 

pinupunit ang dibdib.

Bakit pilit pa rin na inaabot ang mga kamay 

na gustong haplusin, mga brasong ayaw bitawan, 

hindi ka naman umaalis, narito lamang tahimik, 

at may pilyang ngiti sa kapiling.

Para tayong mga pulang alak na sa pagtanda 

ay lalong tumamis, na noong tangan na ang kopa 

at nasimsim ang kaniyang lasa, may pagsangayon 

na sasabihin, ito ang pinakamagaling!

Itago pa natin nang buong ingat ang mga ala-alang 

parang alak, hayaan pang lalong tumamis, at ilayo 

sa init ng mga pagaalinlangan, upang patuloy 

na magsanib ang mga ala-ala at ngiti.

We Were Like Red Wine

There is bliss to catch a glimpse
from those eyes bringing back memories
of the first day I saw you.

We would not let go of our false timing
in the turning of our heads,
bringing joy in my heart.

Why do I keep holding on to these hands,
when you are not going away,
with those eyes and smile?

We are like aging red wine
that has grown sweeter still, whose cup
is full of your glances and my memories.

Pasko sa Ilang, 1914

Walang pag-ibig sa ilang ng digmaan. 

Huwag magtanong, bakit ikaw ang papaslangin?

Tuliro lamang sila sa pagapuhap ng sagot.

Walang bituwin ngayon para gumabay,

Nguni't bawa't isa'y nahanap ang kapayapaan

sa ingay ng halakhak ng kaaway.

Hindi ka ngingiti sa salitang ito,

pumatay. Isang bala ang pumunit sa ala-ala

ng Paskong dumaan. Tapos na ang caroling.

Hinigop muli ang mga kawal palayo

sa kapayapaan, at sa mga pag-awit 

at mga pagbati ng kapaskuhan.

Ito na ba ang wakas? Sa isang bangkay 

ng kaaway, nasabi ng isa, nabati ko siya

kahapon ng 'Maligayang Pasko'.

Matinding Lamig

 Sa TV newscast, ang weather ng lungsod

ay mababa pa sa zero degrees Celsius.

Wala namang ulat tungkol sa

malamig na ulang tumakip ng niebe.

Madaling magpatulog, ganitong kalamig na paligid,

kung hindi magpapainit gamit ang mga aklat at kumot.

Sa ibabaw ng mesa ang tula ay nangatal sa ginaw.

Inakay ko ito kung saan

Nguni't wala itong pang-ginaw para sana

mabata ang lamig ng hangin at ulan.

Nanigas na lamang sa lamig ang mga salita,

naghihiwalay na tuloy ang mga titik,

Hanggang naisuko ang espiritu niya

samantalang ang kape at melatonin ay

Tinapos ang lahat habang iniwang

bukas ang TV nang magdamag.

Brave Enough

Have I told you that eyes are like doors

even when they are opened wide

there is no welcome banner 

to greet you?

There were eyes that kept their stare, breathless-

I gave my loudest cry but there is no one there

whatever it is left  while you stand outside

waiting, waiting. They are gone.

How about the thousand eyes all around 

but none made their way to you

to see tears streaming in yours

made you run away to catch your breath?

Now, look at these eyes, and remember

the lines building around them

they will guide you into me

if you are brave enough to enter into them.

Sa May Simpleng Isip

Madali lang daw dayain at iligaw
ang may simpleng isip. Madaling
gambalain at agawin ang pansin.

Iyan daw ang totoo ani Maslow,
basic need o instincts muna
tulad ng simula hawak niya

ang serbesang napakalamig,
bumubula-bula pa.

Inakala mo, ang isip niya ay nasa lasa
ng gintong likido na dumadaloy
ang lamig sa lalamunan.

Pero nagkamali ka. Minsan
ang ilaw ay bumukas at tinutok
sa katawang hinuhubog ng liwanag

kaunting kembot lang
kinalimutan na ang katotohanan

ng masarap na serbesa,
ginambala na, niligaw na ang mata
at hinayaang mawala ang lamig at bula.

Huwag kang magtaka sa eleksiyong darating,
iiwan niya ang katotohanang hawak sa buhay
tulad ng serbesang isinantabi kapalit

ng pakembot-kembot at ilaw
sa entablado ng kampanya.