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?

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.

What is friendship?

What is friendship but the sound of shoes pacing
on concrete pavement, the heightened sense of new colors,
the glaze of marble on the floor,  the white from teeth
on new faces,  of unfamiliar conversations going on
here and there, the clasp of hands, warm when grasped,
and  dozen pairs of eyes locked at you peering,
wondering, studying, until the moment stops
and a stranger says 'hello'-

What is friendship but the strength of a hug,
locked and held, and arms that would not release,
on pavement so familiar, the hardness of marble,
its glaze softened by tears that fell on it, by shoes
that walked on it, blurred visions and cheeks doused
with tears, warmth of bodies that one will miss,
in spaces they fill, in one's heart,
until a friend says 'good-bye'-

Stitches

The rooster crowing fills my ears,

in a few more twist and turns daylight
will lit the pavement of a wandering mind. 
But sleep slipped away,  unwilling to look behind,
at dark shadows from last night.

On the ceiling I saw scenes,
familiar faces and dialogues streaming
like a downpour overwhelming sanity,
vanity, drowning with fear, and catching
breath- raise the hand, signal for help

but from what? From unrealities stitched

to fix the holes of an existence, to restrain memories 
from spilling  onto the bed,  disoriented from

restlessness, from the ticks of the clock, 

from yet another morning.

This is a love poem

Trying to birth itself along a path poured over

with rain water on a late winter night. There is light

from a lamp post reflecting from a puddle, an opening,

distracting my reflection of you.

The thoughts shivered in the breeze, as it rushes in

to seek shelter in words, recalling, linking memories

from a past, warm with embrace and kisses. Upcoming  

are sub-zero nights. Be here to share my shivering.

This poem has reached its highest point after coming

down the Whistler's snowy peaks. I confess my affection

is as beautiful as scenic mountains white with snow in the sun.

I am no Moses but you make my face shine.

Unwashed

Such memories don't get washed out back to sea, 
to be unseen, lost in the turmoil between 
once a road and network or paths or labyrinth
but there is no power to lift up the darkness 
from the heart or the dead, darkened by the sun
from a blue sky where once a wind howled 
with belligerence, road rage, red-faced, pummeling
but of course, there is no remorse
for a hit-and-run victim, bloodied and abandoned 
on the beach like pebbles, shells, white sand, 
overrun by waters, moving to and fro.

* Written with the super-typhoon Hainan Filipino victims in mind.

Of dust, paper, and steel

There is silence in the white space where there are no words to read,

unsure where is here or there, the near or far, the up or down.

Only stillness where time appears congealed, undefined. Am I

floating? The pavement, unseen, sticks to my feet.

What is the sound of black smoke when a poem burns like Twin Towers,

its lines give up, collapse into a heap of bodies of pages, dumped

from the sky, into that open space, with unfinished thoughts?

On the ground, the words had split apart, paper from meaning.  

Is there art in twisted metal, shooting from piles of concrete and shards 

of glass? Or in the new daylight against pale walls and broken windows, 

piercing the left-over mist among the quiet dead? Here, the brave

races to a black door, to enter into white, undefined spaces 

where no sound escapes, no colors are seen, no memories

of black smoke and the weight of onrushing ground.

Boston from where I sit

I-93, red and orange, leaves shift, fall
with the breeze, cool, warm, between them
the early light speeds like cars against
a morning sky, a golden dome, where freedom trails
a youthful smile, the pavement under shades
of trees, the coffee cup, bagel, in open air
the turnpike, to say good-bye to clam chowder
to Denny’s, to autumn, red trees,  red socks
the red, bloodied earth, and to a hundred
pairs of feet.

To Measure a Woman

There is no physical equation, 
invention, or mention outside 
of dimensions, of lengths, of depths,
of curves, in fairness, of fair skins, 
of long eye-lashes, of duration 
of glances, of swinging hips, of lips,
red and wet, glistening in the light, 
like an object of study, peered into, 
hoping to measure and predict
the consistency, inconsistency of you.

Denied of tools, formulas, or numbers, 
with myriad variables, changing 
constantly like weather patterns, 
still I, fool-hardy, walk your days 
promised as full of summers, 
but cared less for thunderstorms 
that came instead, soaking these hands
that held yours I would not let
slip off mine, wind-blown away
like rain drops.

Against a Blue Sky

It has been a while
since I let go of words like a stone
shot against a blue sky.

It must have been hurtful,
to darken this sky so long,
and to keep pouring over me, gloom.

The stone returns and the sky is broken,
with its shards falling on my head.

Siesta

head bowed and silent-
in the afternoon's siesta,
breeze flips the book's pages.

Like a dog

The poem hangs like a dog,
its entire length suspends from the edge,
held by a lanyard on its neck.

The readers are like passers-by,
watching the immobile body hang quietly,
until the dog wags itself and wails.

But, the owner is not around,
and the house is sealed; the entry
is only by climbing to the front porch.

No one feels it right to make the climb,
and so they wait until its neck
gets broken and leave.

But, as fortune would have it,
the writer pulls back the poem
from you, out of view.

Intersection

Not wanting to lose his way
in the labyrinth of lines,

an intersection offers a distraction
from semantics and antics,

of word picks complying with rules,
assuming roles coerced on them,

as symbols or signs isolated
from this and that.

But, how does one move away
off the fringes of a Venn diagram?

Chiaroscuro

As a photographer, it caught my eye
this pathway by the road
that brought me into these woods:
the color of the trees, shrubs, and grass
are subdued, with their details
muted in the shadows
as light streams from above
passing through branches and leaves,
down to these violet flowers
whose petals glow like charcoal embers
from last night’s campfire,
whose color mimics the pale afternoon sky.
I stood there while it lasted
with only my senses as equipment.

Reflections on the bench

I think I saw you (again)

like a cool breeze, swift

and uninterested,

Reducing mirrors (not mine)

to a fisherman's unlucky net.

Call it  a bad (hair) day.

This lady forever laughs

despite the sad news

below her waist,

blood on the pavement

caused by another

motorcycle accident.

Another breeze,

and she was carried away

with the fatal news.

Occupy My Thoughts

Words fell away too soon like monsoon rain, my thoughts dropping like ink

blots on paper. There is no basin to catch their flow.

The dynamics were as simple as shifting the weight of one’s butt in a chair.
It’s the air but it’s not about fair share. Is it economics?

Can a poem like a dog chase its own tail, as they say, about LPAs and ITCZ,

until it spins fast enough to cause a whirlwind?

There is no structure left visible, only fractures and remnants from dispersals.

Pieces have their own randomness like words without season or reason. 

Infrastructure Change

On this pavement, noise and dust are the norm.
They hit the ears like a slap on his face.

'Sorry for the inconvenience' felt like it referred
to him. But his note is in pink.

Neither can he park his car on this lot.
It is giving way to skyscrapers of glass and iron.

The business reasons sounded like a heavy jackhammer,
drilling the numbers on his skull.

A Matter of Fact

Waking up is greater than walking up,
if and only if the length of arms
else reach out to get ration.

What if they were reduced to fractions-
arms, legs, eyes, heads- can blood drops
re-assemble the whole from a pool?

Fool! It is the number that counts.
To kill or keel over is just semantics.
Watch closely the substitutions.

Sorry, the final answer has been rigged.
The equation was just to distract
from the matter of fact.

The Chinese Red Flag and Foul Air

The Chinese raised a red flag
on the island but taxi cabs

ignored each other weaving through
traffic jams. Crab bucket syndrome?

Grab one yourself. But don't forget
to bring your crab cracker.

For the health conscious, stay away
from crackers. The gas side effect

is not toll-free. You pay
with isolation the violation

of ecosystem balance, by fouling
the air with hate speeches.

Straight Lines

But the shortest path between any two points
is not the point. A straight path does not exist

for all surfaces. Sour faces are not attractive.
In fact, no face exists for the humiliated

But that is pointless despite the pores.
The bottom line is a collection of points

under the table, a flat surface generous
with straight lines. Are there gay lines?

Visual Life

I see myself again walking
in a corridor or alley

lit by reflected light
off the main street,

from where children in their bare feet
run, passing by cars parked

on both sides, and in an empty slot
a throng of women sit

around a bingo table, their cards
with numbers marked with stones.

Or in an avenue of a business district
with buildings, tall on both sides

slicing up the sunlight
in patterns of shadows

across the faces of crowds
in their branded shoes or sneakers,

as big SUV cars, one after the other
unload their VIPs on the side,

and before big glass doors,
smiles and hand shakes.

I can hear from the glossy surface,
across the entire scale of grey

the shrill of children,
the honks of cars,

where I was in one moment of life
immersed in its pulse.

This summer has ended

When reds, yellows and greens
have lost their brilliance,

and the lake's deep blue
has turned into shades of grey

While on this ground, brown and dry,
falls the first rain showers

mixing you, earth and tears-
a good-bye to many shared summers.

15-Minute Break

A hand hits a glass of water,
turning it to its side.

It doesn't matter which
decisions are consensual.

Is soiling reputation worse
than wet business proposals?

In simple English terms-
'It just happened.'

There is wisdom in putting
carpets on the floor

for glasses to fall on
and break quietly.

Do people understand
the urgency of the times?

There is only
a 15-minute break.

Exposure

It's fail-safe for them to contain you within
these walls. Here, their passion can heat up
safely and the sound of their violence ripple
invisibly in the air.

Silence begets no questions. Such men know
only their desires. The noise they create
continue to distract them from yours-
your common space tightly soundproofed.

But your head, though bowed, shaken and wracked,
will rise like superheated steam, exploding
against these walls, to burn and crumble them.
Everyone exposed will die from it.

Early Morning Light

Stepping on the beach, the sun throws
its first rays against the sky.

I see hundreds of clouds, in little pieces,
as if keeping each other warm.

The waters ripple, bringing forward
an image of a thousand lights

from far away. So far, it exposes tiny crabs
climbing out of their pits,

and star fishes, still and rigid
on the ground, deserted by the sea.

The breeze dishevels my hair. I have to turn
my face away from the light.

When I look back, a wall of water
blocks the light, and its noise

rushes upon me like a pile of blankets,
heavy, wet and tight.

Not Toxic

Somewhere I read that age is not toxic. It does not make love sick,
get weak and die. Love is like muscles. You stretch your arms
to draw some shells near, bend toward the clear waters to inspect.
There are star fishes, red, orange, and yellow, decorating
walls of a room repainted to recycle its appeal.

We agreed early on that we will take up resistance training,
lift some weight from off our chest and dump them on the table.
We need to stretch our legs, arms, back, and life span
or pull up some web sites to get some advice. We really need
to work this out.

We convinced ourselves this: our love would be like the sun,
rising up to a new day no matter how often darkness engulfs
us. Tomorrow is another set of breakfast, lunch and dinner.
A new round of vegetables, fish and chicken to keep our bodies
from pork, beef, donuts and sweets.

I've got a wish: be here every morning even if Stevie Wonder
wails from the radio, 'this time could mean good-bye'.

With Jehovah Over a Cup of Coffee

Jehovah is seated,  a  coffee cup in hand,

the umbrella's shade towers over his seat. 

I am sorry I am late, not my usual self. I sighed. 

I look at the street, the cars and passers-by, restless, 

I am not sure where to start. Can  I can look him in the eye? 

Snapping his fingers, he offered me a seat.

It's alright, relax, and let us have this talk. 

Thank you for this meet up,  despite your busy day 

But things are getting tougher. I'm sure you knew. 

If people knew you're here, the media will be all over  you

with cameras and microphones, in global TV, on the web, demanding 

that you who parted the Red Sea to do it one more time, or 

heal the world of COVID or Richard Dawkins or bring 

Bertrand Russel back to life. They will test your brain with instruments 

 or enclose you in a lab. Sorry, Jehovah, I'm distracted, with many things. 

Let me regain my focus quick, been working at it for years. 

Then Jehovah  asked, what do you want to know?

Only one thing and if you require an NDA, I'll sign- 

Do you have a schedule now, a date, for dooms day? 

Jehovah replied, Well, sorry, you know that's classified. 

Iba na Ngayon

Dati-rati, sa panaginip
kumikilos ng kusa ang isip,

hinahabi ang mga salitang lumulutang,
parang kulambong na hindi lumilisan

hanggang ihulog nito ang ulan
sa lupang kailanman hindi naging handa

sa pagsalubong o sa pag-tipon nito
sa kaniyang mga konkretong lansangan.

Wala ng pag-gising sa hating-gabi,
kung saan ang diwa ay basang-basa

sa mga kaisipang nalikha sa paghimbing,
at iniahon ng pagbangon mula sa higaan.

Wala ng init sa dibdib na parang alinsangan
na hindi ka magawang mapakali,

naghahanap ng ginhawa, ng malamig na hangin
o tubig sa katawang nagi-init.

Sa labas ay patuloy ang buhos ng ulan,
habang sa kalooban ay naghahanap ng dilig.

Violent Waters

Her finger met the steam half-way,
as it plunges into the cup.

It could break an ear drum,
the shrill bouncing on the walls.

Not Being Here

On the window, sunlight flashes on and off
as clouds assemble overhead.

Daylight, streaming through the curtains,
is a false hope once overcast gets here.

There is no breeze to cool the skin.
It is likely too soon for a thunderstorm.

But, what do I know? Your cancer spread
like clouds in what had been a blue sky.

At 8pm this evening, the rains came.
It was a downpour.

A love poem

I will not give away that this is a love poem.
Run it through a search engine but you will not find
a lover's vocabulary in it. You'll be puzzled,
disappointed and confused: lovelorn.

The lines are deliberate to lead you on, to raise
the hope that it is here somewhere. But it is
like courtship where the thrill is in the chase.
The rule remains- haste makes waste.

Stare at it long. You might chance to catch a glance,
quick, elusive, intermittent. Be smitten with written
words promising bonding with page. Maybe if
the wonder remains, give me a second look.

Bu(llet)s

It was the sort of day I could have ignored, overslept, snored.
Unable to recall, in fact, details of a fall. My phone did not ring

to wake me up to challenges of a to-do list. Were the clouds
to assault the sky? Or unable to stay or go?

I rush to a bus while its doors are air-powered open. Dozens of us
push to get a ride. Can't hammer your way through windows.

Stuck in traffic jams? Man, this is a whole-day stay
in an air-conditioned bus! That makes angry or hungry or both.

Honk the horn. Get those electronic eyes catch details of inconsequential
conversations but the most important question - are we there yet?

When I got home, the lines were blurred by hungry stomachs. And so it was.
The rain was a precedent. It poured outside like a hail of bullets.

Still Clear

It's not exactly clear which words became
the vow we made before God and men,
but I do recall the only thought I kept:
to run away with you.

You worried too much about the cold
air inside malls when strolling
along its wide corridors. I only took notice
of your hand, its weight, its texture.

You enjoyed the mountain hikes,
the sound of water falling from a height,
and the thick crown canopy, but I
only looked to the glow of your eyes.

Your conversation recently has turned
to therapies, of bottles and pills
but hey, I only see a bride's face fair
and unblemished as the day we said our vows.

A Box to Fill Up

Lying in bed, in this room, one afternoon, 

while rain water kept dripping on the glass window, 

depriving the room of daylight, I kept peering, 

for no reason, at the ceiling. 

Signs of you were in every corner: 

that small picture frame which kept your smile, 

those magazines you often asked me to buy, 

that lipstick-written graffiti you wrote on the wall, 

and the laptop full of logs 

of our chat. 

Today, at 36 degrees centigrade, I've got a box 

I can't get myself to fill up.

Colony

Over 50 million registered voters are expected
____If you want to know where the sweet is, follow the ants
to troop to polling places today.
____Not one ever hoards information or loot. They like to share.

All in all, nine candidates want to be president
____It's hard labor until they die
while eight are vying for the vice-presidency
____carrying loads of sweets into protected vaults.

There will always be complaints but 85-95%
____Others are destined to mate first then die,
success rate will be good enough
____others to fight to keep the sweet intact then die.

Voter turnout is expected to be higher
____But there is one who needs to survive
than the 70% registered during 2004 polls
____and for whom they live. The queen who woudn't quit.

So Dry and Still

In this summer heat,
anything I touch is too warm.

I miss the coolness of your skin-
my fingers wrapped around your arms.

I wish for your shade-like presence
in this air so dry and still.

Changing

The furniture was re-arranged in the same space.
Don't expect any kaleidoscope likeness.

But what does the pattern disclose to the viewer who
just wants a seat in the sofa chairs and gets lost in their pillows?

Pillory is not a play on words. It is war in peace time.
Vocabulary furnishes the ammo. Cold metal, dead

metal like the gun fire on the tarmac. It was perfect
range but the picture puzzle dropped on the floor.

His image on the glossy is not the real picture sure.
But flipping coins forever will not alter things.

Perhaps it is time to try this again. I need help
to move that single-seater here.

The Profits of a Vow

In the age of Tiger Woods, cars hit trees from loss of direction.
But loss is a not an action word. It is about now not later.

Late arrivals disorient movements, eyes follow the shifting sound
Like hound dogs. They can search and kill with nuclear payload.

This is the era of abandoned homes. Before the drones came,
they were deserted. The destruction is just formalities.

So, to keep one's sanity intact, shut a partner's mouth
with a kiss. Very pacifist, muffling dissent with affectation.

When you come to, try hard to peer into the heavy floating dust.
I recognize myself, organized and structured like a poem.

She does not bother with meanings or intentions.
The familiarity of words is an enough welcome.

Come is such a risky four-letter word. I ask,
Is our adventure so far profitable?

The Other End

This road, to the first time traveler, appears to have no end,
just forever winding. Like her, no sharp edges, only curves to learn.

His audit of the sceneries are adding up like expenses.
The totals are getting heavy in the pocket until they bore them.

"I wish I learned a foreign language, perhaps Russian,
these people don't know and read a Russian book as if I can."

The dizziness can make you puke. If she jumps out into the open,
totally unexpected, that will be indecent. Creditors will note.

Will anyone stay riding a runaway project? Must act fast.
Ahead might be a big hump from which you cannot see the other end.

New Year Fragments

Darkness breaks up
into colors then black.

The ears catch first the silence,
then the blast.

He carries on
between the presence and absence.

You are still here, in his thoughts,
blinking (on and off)

in his memory,
like a New Year's eve fireworks.

X'mas Love?

There was love in No Man's Land. You don't ask,
what is war? What is killing you for?
The answers were confusing for politicians.

There were no stars but lacking GPS was not
a disability. Each one found his way to peace,
in an enemy's laughter.

It was not a funny word, slaughter.
A bullet pierced though a Christmas card,
after the carols were sung

and soldiers were pulled away from peace,
were poured together like a mixture
on a holy cup.

Could this be the end of things? To the enemy, dead,
one said, 'I had wished him a merry christmas.'

No Rule of Three

To shoot a message across a screen using bullets, 

follow the rule of three. The rule of thirds keeps subjects 

in focus too. 

But, wait, there are exceptions. A riddle 

may not subscribe to rules. A bullet-riddled body 

violates this rule. 

To count is a basic skill. After the kill, 

who will finish the body count? Did we do 

more than three?

There are no new rules. There are no women 

or children to isolate, only objectives, keeping the earth 

wet with blood.

Ripped Apart

This is a perilous season.
Some content may not be suitable-

In color or black-and-white,
they are still dead.

Why count bodies in peace time?
Something about parts and whole.

I agree. This is more than just
an inconvenient fact:

keeping your feet away
from blood-soaked pavements.

Today, I ask, while watching TV-
Were the bodies covered by newspapers?

The Issue of a Singular Act

The rains erased what had been
a whole picture of you.

Reduced to myriad pieces
on the marble floor like a puzzle,

I see no single match
to light a fire inside a room.

A broken voice is insistent.

The need to act is a reaction
against the sound of tick-tock.

But the seriality of my singular act
is no match.

Am I enough?

El Nino comes

El Nino comes-
dry ground gets buried by
rushing flood waters.

In the calm morning

In the calm morning,
father lifts up his dead son
from the flood waters.

Another Dawn

Dawn breaks. I rise to wait,
for this curtain between us,
to be set aside.

As the light exposes the horizon
of our thoughts, my wish is
to see your eyes, brilliant, again.

I wish to welcome you back,
to walk with you, with joy
that belongs to pride of possession,

to revel in your details-
black hair and eyes, on your fair face-
clear, distinct, once again;

to enjoy a small talk,
with your sanity back,
strong, no longer shaken.

But a gust has yet blown again,
the cold is back, in your eyes-
but I will try again.

Distracted

To fall asleep on this seat,
on a long haul flight,

may appear to shake you
off my thoughts,

but the air turbulence
will shake me awake instead.

The airplane's ceiling lamps
are all turned-off

but you are my reading light,
spot lit on the laptop,

my fingers
busy on the keys.

Maybe, it's the best way
to ride this disturbance:

you-
distracting me.

To My Brother Jonathan

'Tis not when a heart beat goes full stop
and eyes then lose the power of its stare,

Nor when the sheet is stretched to cover up
your full length, no longer gasping for air,

that my pain like skin scratched by thorns
ignored when running away from hunters,

can now rest, bleed and cry for attention.
There never will be a good time ever.

To nurse loneliness like a wound,
and dress it everyday until it dries,

is to hope a healing can be found,
to finally say my good-bye-

We have few words for each other,
but love is not bound by them or any other.

Rainy August

A sunny 8am did not
come true,

the sky looking grayish white,
the color of the bedsheet.

The weatherman did forecast
lots of rain for August.

As clouds keep shifting,
a gust hits the window pane

just when I looked away,
your body still warm,

after the doctor said
you are gone.

Dump Truck

I missed the dump truck this morning.
Now, I am stuck, counting garbage bags

the neighbors hate to see torn open
by scavengers. I wonder should I

be sitting here, checking
your pictures on Facebook

or be ridding all this
trash? But your smile, new company,

longer hair, without me seated
anywhere close to you-

I can't keep on piling up all these
thoughts and keep missing the dump truck.

No Better Time

It was a matter of bad timing.
Einstein asserted enough about spaces
and for you it meant no vacancy.

Death happens here regularly.
In this vacuum, there is no room
for the sound of your agony.

In a purposeless universe,
disappearances are just too far
away from us,

like nebulas signing off
above our night sky beyond
my span of attention

as your dust is dispersed
in this air, demonstrating Einstein,
his physical laws.

There is no better time for gravity
to bring you back to me.

Friendly Skies

What if I were thirsty and 7-11
ran out of styro cups?

What will hold the overflow
of words, stinging to the ears?

This is an escalation
of the weather's status.

In Manila, a government man aimed
his thermometer gun

to those out in the sun too long.
Its laser hit a forehead.

But this is not Iran
where standing up could fetch

a stray bullet
from a hostile sky.

Get out into this rain,
umbrella-less, to be counted

as ex-warm bodies
under this red-shifting sky.

If I were in Boston,
I would say,

'The snow has mixed
with mud'.

Mobile Church

The jeepney has an entry way and corridor 
leading to an image of Christ above the windshield.

Here, a poor boy serves like a sacristan. 
He cleans the passenger shoes as if to make them holy.

When his service ends, he raises his palms 
not to pray but to collect for alms,

Before his altar, he looks up  at the Christ
gazing down on those seated.

He leaves but another passenger gets in
with his own Bible and pouch.

Glow

While the flame was there, she left,
like smoke dispersed by the breeze.

He is left with embers, wavering
against his breath, the wind.

Remaining seated,
he watches the death of a glow.

Independence Day

A holiday excuse is coming, flags notwithstanding,
do you recall the answers to serious questions
from your last exam? You failed again, thinking memories
are so volatile and your recall of the national anthem were
like a game of jigsaw puzzles, singing the wrong lines at the wrong time.
What did you do with that Chinese media guy now
that you are in Hong Kong? Right, it has nothing to do
with Disney world. Don't shake my hands for now.
Everything American seemed to have caught a virus-
their peanut butter, stocks, and airports.

Another Project

Hands, clapping, voices, boisterous,
high-fives, and a document, signed:
after this, I worry about you and me
if we are to see each other again.

Soon, this room will host others,
after blanking whiteboards
and removing papers posted on walls.
The hours had been logged, accounted for.

I am losing you like a re-assignment
to a new room, another set of numbers,
deadlines, late meals, delays,
and change requests.

Maybe, you are like another project
I need to close down to move on.

Homecoming

The dinner is cold,
a seat remains vacant.

I wait like a wife
for a knock

on the door
of my thoughts.

Perhaps, tonight,
like a husband

words will come,
to spill like seeds.

Lost

He confides
'She only has a few days left.'

Fighting the loss of breath
I ask, 'So, what is next?'

As he lays out what to expect,
I lost you in the details

of many new mornings-
mourning.

The day you leave
I will be somewhere else

looking for you in places
we have been.

A dead poem

His poem
lifted my eyes

to the ceiling
of his ambition,

from where his lines hang
down to expose a body,

twisted,
breathless.

This is not a love poem (again)

The sort you'll find in bookstores
and greeting card racks,

with nice colors and illustrations,
with words, simple and sweet.

It doesn't have a dried rose petal
with leaves and stem on the page.

It doesn't come with a bouquet either
wrapped with eucalyptus or rosemary’s.

It doesn't know how to start,
and not sure how to end.

It's like that nimbus
hovering in your sky,

but never letting go
of the rain.

To Return

To return is to shuffle recollections,
to superimpose images

against what is seen, what is felt
under this different sky.

Where we stood has been altered.
Before us are rocks, black

against an earth, browned
by lack of grass and trees.

I fear the rains took away
whatever is left between us.

I can plant seeds here and there,
if you let me.

This side of the mountain
can return its color once again,

its past and present will be one,
if you just say so.

Have you seen love?

Is it something we can speak about
or pass over in silence?

Is it warm like a poem on paper
lying on the pavement at noon?

Can it be contained in a bottle
and instructed how to spring from it?

Can it be measured like a meter
in rhythmic pulses along a line?

If I say 'I love you'
is there a picture

in your mind?
Is it the same as mine?

In the Shadows

To where shadows
and road wind as one,

I descend,
testing my resolve

against the steepness
of the mountains,

looking back at you,
the sun gone

leaving what we have
between us obscured,

those parts of you and me
unenlightened.

Dismantling You and Me

The instruction was
in the one page manual,

of us in pieces
and disassembled.

After inventory of all the parts,
of wood and screws,

we located where we need
to hold fast together.

We were happy then
with what we have put together.

Today, with a different tool set
on the floor

we pull out each screw,
as in a rush,

uncaring if we damage
the threads

or splinter the wood
or hurt ourselves.

We just want
to be dismantled quickly.

A Small Factory

Outside the window-
the children watch cars, vans, trucks
fill up lanes with soot;

under the floor-
black water, still like stalled automobiles,
their mufflers blowing carbon;

in the floor-
black with flies blanketing
a baby lying on the mat;

home-
a human factory
in two square meters of black space.

Starboard

Tonight my eyes chance upon,
on this starry night, your star's glow
just above the horizon of this plain heart.

You fell onto this orbit, my love's weight
denting space where you spin. I studied you with maps,
to predict your journey across my sky

while sleep agreed to let me be intoxicated
by your sight. Your reflection starboard side,
made me grip the railings

lest I fall,
into love's unmeasured depths.

Alterations

You probably know
what an emptied seat means.
How blinking an eye could miss
the minute changes in the shadows,
and be burdened by what seemed
to be a desertion.

I am still here but yes I've changed
my seats, desiring a viewpoint
on how I can look at things, or you
not with loss of interest, no,
but with never ending wonder
of how you remained the same

despite the alterations
of the visible.

V-Day

Here comes Valentines
like a deadline,
and I've got nothing
to show for a result.

Unable to secure
a scarce resource,
a lover, for example,
it has all been a struggle.

I think I know
what's up for me come V-day-
a pink slip on my desk,
minus the chocolate and roses.

A Promise to Keep

The heart is treacherous, but by it our love we pledged,
wary of its fickleness unraveling what we held.

So, I promise this as God demands of me
to love you with all my mind, will, and integrity.

A poet wrote, 'i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)'.
I will carry yours in mine so you can fill up all its space.

So, declare to me this-
Dilectus meus mihi et ego illi qui*.



* My dear one is mine and I am his.

(w)Age(s)

"Stipendia enim peccati mors gratia autem."
Breath-deprived, the marriage is given up like doves
let go on wedding day. Where before the bride wears white,
now black is the motif, the sun eclipsed by clouds.

Soon, we'll reach the terminal
(si non sola mors me et te separaverit)
but the road is still bumpy up ahead.
We haven't paid ours

but the debt collector will soon find our address
and he might not care about the house or the old car.

Moved by a poem

To agitate the eyes, drive them fast
first here and then over ... there.

Between the distance of a millisecond,
was there consciousness of Newton's law?

To be conscious,
does it require conscience?
or science?
is there a con and a pro?
or a quid pro quo?

Is there a poem incapable
of moving a reader,
their eyes,
by a single letter?
or space?

This poem has traded
its abstract existence
for death.

To Lose Weight

Stepping on the weighing scale
is a sanity check for him
this morning after his head overflowed
with sound bites, moving images
and snapshots of her.

He tried many self-help books
on losing weight, compared the risks
and gain. He agrees it helps to have less
of her clogging his system,

that it takes time to lighten up,
to remove the weight of her arms
around his waist and love handles,
but he will do it the smart way
not looking damaged by the loss.

His new year's resolution:
Lose all of her this year.

Defaulted

This blank paper
is my report

about the poem
I meant to write.

I laid off words
when thoughts defaulted,

sans attachment-
clinical, precise-

to keep the piece afloat
in this difficult time.

But, I failed to live
within my means

and so the rest
had to go.