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.

An Ode to Marital Bed

 

Your quiet sheets are lies

so is your sweet scent of fabric

and the once moonlit frame

now hides the violence

of lovers

punishing the wood and fabric

with thrusts and cries.

For how long can you endure

the absence of tranquility

so frequently visited, while

every night the moon light shines

on lovers

who struggle to keep the interlock

of bodies held in you?

The headboard often rammed by two

physical bodies colliding,

your legs might soon give way to the truth.

Oda sa Computer Display

 Ito lang ang batid kong gawin -

Titigan ka na mistulang nagayuma ng

iyong sinag.

Ah, liwanag mong parang buwan sa gabi

at mukha ko ay tila salamin

ng iyong mga kulay.

Hindi lahat ay wiling masdan

ang maliwanag mong anyo,

na pinamumuti ang balat kong maitim.

Magiliw pa nga kitang hina-haplos

minsay's pini-pindot-pindot,

hindi maalis sa labi ang ngiti.

Hindi Na Ako Tatakbo

 Abot-tanaw na ba ang katapusan ng simula ng pangakong 

babaguhin o gagaguhin, bagaman magka-singtunog, huwag

kang lumingon sa iba, ibang pangako ang maririnig

o mapipinid sa loob ng silid na may mga huntahan at

katuwaan habang hinahati-hati ang inaakalang yaman

na kikitain dahil sa paniwalang walang papansin

o susuri ng masinsin sa mga salaping tinapal sa palad

ng nagdadahop sa pag-asa. Malayo pa nga ba ang

kasapatusan o pagod na lang ang paa sa pagkalito

kung saan nga ba hahabol, masakit ang mga batong

tumusok sa talampakang mapagtiis? Para nga namang timpalak.

Bago pa magsimula, may magsasabi na,

"Hindi na ako tatakbo."

No Words Are Needed

Her popping up a question, 'Do you still write poems?'
is like opening up a path to a river that could lead into some falls,
'I still do' was my reply.

I could hear the rushing waters off a cliff, as she moved around
to peer at me asking 'Do you still write about me?'
'I still do' was my reply.

'All the words you wrote,' she said, ' and the love
and passion in them, are for no other but me?'
Yes, and they still do.

I can see the rushing river towards the falls, when she asked,
'Will you fall with me once more to unknown depths?',
No words are needed for a reply.

Inside These Walls

If all I see were walls every day, the little window 
where the guard peeps to see if I am still sane
before he serves my meal, I will give him a good look
and make him wonder if I am going to bite his hand.

An experiment failed in England in 1951 to keep the sanity
of a few young men for some weeks inside these walls
because they wanted out before the first week ended,
disoriented from these walls.

The skill is in my mind, what is in it, and who I talk to
every day and night. I look at these walls and ceiling
when I raise up my eyes to re-charge my brain
while my knees are on the floor.

I do mental drills every day just like a soldier would
and invent characters who I engage with in long talks, 
positioning them in every wall. Then, I would tap deep things 
from the deep repositories of my brain.

What my enemies miscalculated is the depth of that store,
how many years I pumped the knowledge that powers 
eternal life in me in the sea of connections in my head.
I lasted 7 years in these walls. O, how deep my repository is!

The Rain

You would rather be in the rain,
getting drenched by the downpour,
listening to thousand rain drops
hitting the pavement.
You step through pools of water,
and your weight lifts them up
to splash on your legs.

I cannot tell the difference
between your tears and the rain
washing down your eyes,
your cheeks, your neck,
but I can see from this window, your white teeth
and what seemed to be a smile
but the breeze and rain wiped them away.

Too bad, I would really rather be home,
in this bed,
to run my playlist over and over,
louder than the sound of the heavy rain.
I don't want to be where the water rises up
to become an angry flash flood,
and carry me away from you.

You are not ready to come home yet
to be warm and safe, and that is OK.