Held

Looking forward to write the right poem, 
not because of my distance from the left, 
for they are not that fart apart.
Is it not injustice being detained,
all my thoughts within the walls of my brain?
But the sprain in my fingers, the pen is long
held, a millimeter away from paper.
How bad is it to discover, it has no ink?
Wink, wink, wink.

Imagine the Time

Imagine the time when
Mankind's future was lost,
All there will be are heartache,
Misery, pain and death
And the next questions were
What now and what next.

God was slapped in the face
By the greatest lie and slander.
Facing no sadder moment
In the universe before angels,
Can God trust humans again,
To live under His reign?

Jehovah chose to offer peace
To those who will yield,
Forgiveness to the humble,
Hope for the distraught,
Love for the abandoned.

In Nisan 14, God displayed His love
On the torture stake,
While the earth shook,
The sky darkened,
So we can rise from despair
And stand on new found faith.

Imagine the time
When misery and heartache
Will be a distant memory
And every day instead
Jehovah will cheer us
with rain showers.

White Hot

I want to write a hot love poem
hot like a coffee cup's steam piercing your nose,
so hot, you have to pull away from it,
letting go cup, coffee, and steam on the concrete.

I want to write a hot love poem
that does not care to learn,
is not afraid to jump to the next
line, re-creating, re-parsing, re-trying.

I want to write a hot love poem
and show my burns, my scalds.
So white hot it erases memories,
the poem getting reborn again.

The Shaking

The ground moved and shook

until its surface ripped open as if by a knife.

Above, the dark clouds came in haste

dragging the sun away from viewing

the blood and water streaming from a wound

into the nervous air which failed to catch it,

spreading out onto the dirt, rock and wood.

But the torture stake stood its ground

as the dead remained fastened on it, 

unaware of eyes who looked at

the ribbons of flesh hanging off the body,

of voices with their quiet grief,

while some heavy curtain was torn in two

exposing a hidden golden ark.

A New Morning

The first rays of sunlight broke through the window
just when you turned to me.  I  see
the beach, white sands, and blue-green waters from here.
The waters glisten, as your lips met mine.
I find comfort from your body’s warmth even while the breeze 
keeps pushing these curtains, white as foam of waves, 
off the window frame.
I don't need a cup of coffee now
if you won't let go of your warm and tight embrace. 
In this bluish morning, as the coolness lingers here,
let your eyes be the sun of my sky.

Windshield

I feel like I am driving against the rain
while the downpour smashed
against my windshield like mad.

If only I could take that right turn
onto a road of rain-less sky,
that ascends to a safe hill.

I miscalculated. Instead,
the heartaches are rising like floodwaters,
there is no point to clear the windshield.

Like a Blanket

The last thing I recall was the bright light shining on my face.
I was scouring through the virtual filers in my head for lines or tunes
but darkness covered me like a thick blanket.

It was like the last time I hurtled into space. I remember
the windshield glass colliding on my face. It was painless
and darkness covered me like a blanket.

How is it when the life-force leaves  and shuts the door behind?
Could I wake up straight from bed to catch my breath
but the room has gone dark as if covered with a blanket.

Doorpost

I was at your doorstep the other day

Knocking gently at your wooden door.

There was only silence.

I just had to knock a little louder each time

Maybe you are in some corner of this house.

But nothing happened.

The dark clouds caught up with me

and the rain poured.

Now, I am all wet and dripping.

All I want is to break the news-

You know my mom, she died today.

A Magazine

The early morning sunlight spreads its rays over them, the black umbrella held over him by his partner, and under its shade he opens his Bible exposing it in the sun. Beside him the old man stared at the page, squinting his eyes, his white-grey hairs glowing in the sun some sweat sliding down his sun-baked, half-dressed body, pausing from the day's toils, from news of another human being found dead in some forgotten corner of everybody's mind, while others walked by carrying their poverty in public, as some women clustered around a nearby seat where a child was crying, unmindful of another death in the neighborhood, killed with gunshots that woke them up to another day. The preacher gave him a magazine, yellow as the sun with the cover title asking, 'Angels- Are They Real?'

Flickering Afternoon Light

I should not have looked your way
your head bowing as if to pray

I did not see the tears leaking from your eyes
because mine blurs my own-

what a joy to see how they glisten
in the flickering afternoon light.

Ang Totoo, Oo

Malay ko ba, isang araw mag-eyeball tayo

at hayun parang nag-stop ang aking mundo,

ang panahon nag-fast forward, naiwan ang lahat,

ako, kasama ka, nag-punta sa future natin.

Masaya at hindi ko mapigil ngumiti pero parang

plastic balloon na tinusok ng pin heto uli ako 

sa ngayon. Nasa harap kita, nagtataka.

Bingi ba ako? Nakikipag-usap ba?

Sorry naman. Narinig ko, sinabi mo ngalan mo.

Feeling heaven lang ako. Hindi ko pa masabi, 

sinama kita sa future natin. Maganda, masaya siya.

Sana sa susunod, talagang kasama ka na.

Pasensiya na, iniisip mo ayaw kong bitawan

ang iyong kamay. Hawak ko pala kanina pa.

Pero ang totoo, oo.

Sylvia's Stillborn

Maybe Sylvia was serious when she meant
of her being generous with mother-love with her children-poems.

I am not a mother but have witnessed the parent-pain
for the still-born ones, who appeared to have normal limbs like lines

that flow from one to the next, as if alive
but no amount of inspiration or aspiration

will restore the dead words,
the still images in the mind.

Love is a glass of ice tea

Love is a difficult, puzzling question
whose answer you do not wish to chase.

But it persists like a fish swimming inside
the edges of your stubborn head.

Your mind is an aquarium, draining its water

leaking from eyes, red from heartache. 

Love is a glass of ice tea.
You just keep on refilling it.

But you did not store until rotten, your feelings,
to let them stink like a dead fish.

So, If I remain like a question
still bobbing in your head,

Will you take care of me like a small fish
in the pond of your memories?

Clarity in the Sky

At first, what is above my head is murkier
than a coffee cup mixing black and cream, swirling round
about until disrupted by a rupture of a stone
breaking through, sending ripples, that close quickly
what used to be a path.

There was a promise - things will be clearer
one day at a time this summer. Every day I get closer
to clarity. There is no more movement. The sun is sharp
piercing through what is left, of what used to be like a blanket,
hiding stones, some small, some big.

Today the sky is everywhere blue, and the sun
will journey unresisted. The murkiness is gone
and the wind alone raises the dust, exposing my eyes,
To witness a cloud-less sky. 

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.