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.