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 when you meet your mama's or papa's eyes

but they do not stare back. They are looking elsewhere,

even past you.

Death is when you hold your brother's or sister's hand

and the warmth has left, as if winter season has come

but there is no spring season to bring cheer next.

Death is when you wait forever outside of a recovery room

but there is no news, and your heart beat goes faster

until death exits the room.

Death is when your friend sees death in the doorway

and he is at a lost whether to choose to cry or say good-bye

with dignity.

Death is when you are grieving for the lost and 

everything else around you is merry, and in the mirror

there is only you.

Death is when you hate good-byes, and the old memories

rush in, pouring like a downpour. The loneliness bites you

while they are still alive.