No Paradise

The beach sand is so soft my feet sank in them

the way my body sinks in yours,

 the sun is golden this late hour and warm

just like when you keep me in tight embrace.

I wait for your kisses like waves coming from the deep blue

crashing here into me, into white and light green.

The sky is cheerfully blue and cloudless

but there is no sight of you.

Do come to me soonest, bring me good news

for this is no paradise without you.

On the Table

I have stopped sending you flowers at this time of year
for you do not need it anymore, and I obliged.

We are past the color of roses, and their artful packaging
of rosemaries, sweet peas and pansies.

We are past the greeting cards, love notes,
and love letters written by hand.

We know love better than all these,
though we kept the night creams and day creams

and that mirror where we always see yesterday
drifting farther from us.

I still see my beautiful bride, whose eyes caught mine,
and whose laughter will haunt me in my loneliness.

Hold my hands, please, and promise not to let go
of memories, of who I am to you, of who you are to me

and everything else in between, for we will never be
just a photograph of two people on the table.

Undeniably

You still could not figure out how I found the path again through this

Visual confusion  of green leaves, brown sticks, and open spaces.

 

You wondered, did you ever leave a glow on the broken branches, 

or your scent lingering, afloat in the air, like a trail?

 

Or was there a code in the chirping of birds or a signal from sunlight

Breaking through the canopy, you, lit up from head to toe?

 

You wondered still if ever I envisioned you a fairy, rising from a stream

Flowing quietly, slowly, and you emerging wet, mysterious and sensual?

 

Let my fingers touch your lips, enough of your wondering,

For the sensations you left in this body, this skin, and these lips

 

Are memories swirling in my pool of recall, for I wanted to catch

Again those  eyes where delight once undeniably dwelt.

Shelter

I can feel the heat of the sun but where is the warmth of love?
I can hear the birds chirping but where is the sound of joy?
People all around wear their widest smiles but where is my happiness?

How can I stretch my lips to feign a smile when it is my mind that is stiff?
How can I be in a crowd, intermixing shadows, but feel so alone?
Why from all the mobile calls  I only get busy tones

when all I need is someone to wrap their arms around me,
and shelter me from this loneliness?

Umbrella-less

When I have walked this long, this far, in my life
I was like testing a string attached to mom
to see how far the string goes before it breaks and anxiety
like a sudden downpour caught me umbrella-less,
in a street full of cars,

with strangers rushing to find shelter from the rain,
and I can't see my mom anywhere, anymore in the crowd,
with an empty pocket, not even a centavo of a coin
and the tension made me hungry and cold.

I have walked farther in this life mommy-less
resigned to get wet in the rain for days I am umbrella-less
with no space in the sidewalk to find shelter for myself
I just have to be wiser not be sucked into some hole
without a string to life to keep me from drifting farther

and be plucked out from deep waters life-less, umbrella-less.
An umbrella once kept a girl alive, or so I heard,
because she held on to it while falling into a man-made hole.
I should have known better than be umbrella-less.

It is the next best thing when everything else,
everyone else do not have strings attached.

Pisara at Tisa

Dati-rati tumitig ang aking musmos na isip sa pisara ng buhay, 

sinundan ang pagguhit ng tisa ng mga titik, bilang at iba pa

mula sa daliri ng maraming guro na tumayo, bumigkas, at nagkumpas

sa harap nito, sa umaga o hapon, sa init o ginaw ng tag-ulan. 

Sumulong ang mga araw ng aking buhay. Ilang ulit kong inakyat

ang mga hakbang ng mga hagdan tungo sa ikatlong palapag ng pagsisikap,

kung minsan humihinto at sinisilip ang mga iniwang hakbang,

at pagkatapos tinipon ang lakas upang pumasok sa bago at di-kilalang silid

Na marahil ay may kinukubling hamon. Makikipagtuos ba ang aking isip at lakas,

O susubok ba upang bumuo ng mga bagong ugnayan, harapin ang mga bagong atas

na iuuwi sa tahanan, mga bagong aklat na ang mga pahina ay parang

mga lansangan na ngayon ko pa lang kikilalanin? 

Sa kinabukasan, lahat ay iguguhit muli sa mga pisarang magbibigay liwanag

sa mga kaisipang nasakluban ng kulimlim, sinalat sa unawa at karunungan,

nguni't salamat sa matiyagang mga kamay na humawak ng tisa

at humawi sa kulambong ng isip upang doo’y sumilay ang liwanag.

Sa ngayon, naroon pa rin ang mga pisara sa kanilang mga dingding,

nguni't nagbagong anyo na ang paligid. Wala na ang mga guro 

na sa aking kabataa'y naging pangal'wang magulang. 

Iba na ang ingay ng paligid, ibang tinig ng hiyawan at saya. 

Para sa akin panglabas na anyo lamang ang nawala.

Ito pa rin ang Republic Institute ng aking ala-ala. 

Cold Bed

Despite the promise to make me comfy in this cold bed,
the first time I laid down on it I asked
please put me into deep sleep, so deep even if death stole me
from lawyers who could not bring me back,
only my body would convulse
against the error of a machine mis-configured,
or against a surgeon who mis-heard or mis-read
or whatever else he missed,
but not my wakeful thoughts strapped in it-
to record the tensed voices,
to actively compute the pain,
to calculate how many minutes more are left,
to feel the dread of the last breath
until it is gone.

I prefer to go into a deep sleep in this cold bed.
I already have a blanket.
Just pull it up to my head when done.

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?