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.