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.

No Paradise

The beach sand is so soft my feet sank in them

the way my body sinks in yours,

 the sun is golden this late hour and warm

just like when you keep me in tight embrace.

I wait for your kisses like waves coming from the deep blue

crashing here into me, into white and light green.

The sky is cheerfully blue and cloudless

but there is no sight of you.

Do come to me soonest, bring me good news

for this is no paradise without you.

On the Table

I have stopped sending you flowers at this time of year
for you do not need it anymore, and I obliged.

We are past the color of roses, and their artful packaging
of rosemaries, sweet peas and pansies.

We are past the greeting cards, love notes,
and love letters written by hand.

We know love better than all these,
though we kept the night creams and day creams

and that mirror where we always see yesterday
drifting farther from us.

I still see my beautiful bride, whose eyes caught mine,
and whose laughter will haunt me in my loneliness.

Hold my hands, please, and promise not to let go
of memories, of who I am to you, of who you are to me

and everything else in between, for we will never be
just a photograph of two people on the table.

Undeniably

You still could not figure out how I found the path again through this

Visual confusion  of green leaves, brown sticks, and open spaces.

 

You wondered, did you ever leave a glow on the broken branches, 

or your scent lingering, afloat in the air, like a trail?

 

Or was there a code in the chirping of birds or a signal from sunlight

Breaking through the canopy, you, lit up from head to toe?

 

You wondered still if ever I envisioned you a fairy, rising from a stream

Flowing quietly, slowly, and you emerging wet, mysterious and sensual?

 

Let my fingers touch your lips, enough of your wondering,

For the sensations you left in this body, this skin, and these lips

 

Are memories swirling in my pool of recall, for I wanted to catch

Again those  eyes where delight once undeniably dwelt.

Shelter

I can feel the heat of the sun but where is the warmth of love?
I can hear the birds chirping but where is the sound of joy?
People all around wear their widest smiles but where is my happiness?

How can I stretch my lips to feign a smile when it is my mind that is stiff?
How can I be in a crowd, intermixing shadows, but feel so alone?
Why from all the mobile calls  I only get busy tones

when all I need is someone to wrap their arms around me,
and shelter me from this loneliness?

Umbrella-less

When I have walked this long, this far, in my life
I was like testing a string attached to mom
to see how far the string goes before it breaks and anxiety
like a sudden downpour caught me umbrella-less,
in a street full of cars,

with strangers rushing to find shelter from the rain,
and I can't see my mom anywhere, anymore in the crowd,
with an empty pocket, not even a centavo of a coin
and the tension made me hungry and cold.

I have walked farther in this life mommy-less
resigned to get wet in the rain for days I am umbrella-less
with no space in the sidewalk to find shelter for myself
I just have to be wiser not be sucked into some hole
without a string to life to keep me from drifting farther

and be plucked out from deep waters life-less, umbrella-less.
An umbrella once kept a girl alive, or so I heard,
because she held on to it while falling into a man-made hole.
I should have known better than be umbrella-less.

It is the next best thing when everything else,
everyone else do not have strings attached.

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.