Yolanda

When we awoke to rummage through
Some memories that were swept
From the coast and inwards to the city
We had to tread the piles of debris,
Walk the littered highways with our tired dispositions
Past a ship that was easily disanchored
By the surging arms of a powerful ocean.
We overturned some cupboards for morsel
But got greeted by a neighbor’s carcass
Who once loved to belt out, in his karaoke pastimes,
Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”
Close to our location, a throng of people
Piling away from a store some plastics of rice
Never mind how they can make fire from wet woodpiles
Or where to get clean water.
Wouldn’t it have been better to be swept away,
let the Earth or the sea be left responsible for our bodies?
Here is another lesson that the world is teaching us
That we’re too hungry to comprehend.

(Note: I should have posted this 2 years ago.  Oh well, better late than never.)

Portrait of A River

Noon burns on

A river

Black as oil.

The smacks mauve

In color.

The rusts climb
Persistent,
Barnacles
On each of
The boats' sides
Easily
As if it's
Quite proper
To go forth,
Multiply,
Gnaw away
The iron.

And inside
Light transits
Some people
Gaze at clouds,
The outlines
Of cities
Growing old
And modern,
At the sea
Shimmering
Pellucid
And distant.

But no one
Dare look at
The river.

So I Live

So I live.

I have dreamt
better dreams
for myself,
my precious
miniscule
existence
plow through this
confused world
unknowing
what it wants
to become.


For my life
of missed chances
have remained
like a long
bucket list
of things left
unfinished,
cathedrals
of mountains
unconquered,
victories
unachieved.


Who ever
have been most
uncertain
about paths
and crossroads,
directions
to turn to
can ask me
"which wrong star
have you been
following?
How winding
has your path
taken you?"


I'll show him
countless stars
which I can't
decide on;

I'll show him
the far track
I have trekked
and tell him
"there, my story
loops around,
rarely straight,
sketch of lines
like brambles,
too much time
thinking twice,
diversions,
too much sin."



If ever
he reflects
the same sad
subduedness
that he holds 
in the glum
fogged landscape
not knowing
where to turn,
I'll tell him
"Now, watch me,
a confused
weaver of
my story.
Don't repeat.
The world needs
a creature
of lessons
for caution,
so I live."



(Note to self.  Check back on this after a year.  See if it still holds up.)

how to sell

In this age,
Digital
they call it,
secrets sell
more than loud
boisterous
announcements.
Little hints
of half truths
and half lies
beguiles more,
delights more,
captivates;
seductive,
sacrosanct.

Boys and girls,
men, women
who know how
to keep it
behind their
prettiness
allures more,
enchants more.

Sometimes I
wish I had
their strange whiff
of mystique,
this magic
to entice,
so that I
can pull you
here, closer
to my words
like monsoon
dragonflies
studying
a still pond:

You might find
my trifling
school of kois
int'resting.

I'm still poor

I'm still poor,
no jacket
for the cold
Antarctic;
no ticket
to fly back
to my home,
the islands
there, Southeast;
no good food,
only canned meats,
icicles
boiled for drinks.
My supplies
would dwindle
fearfully
the harsh months
ghoul over
the home base
like an old,
wronged yeti.

The world is
quite sad here.
Nothing proud
to share with.
I thought that
hefty rich
distances
would calm me.
Out here though,
the weather's
more brawny,
while my own
weather's quite
lunatic.

What I've done,
what I chose
flays me well.
I feel less
of my flesh
desire the
hold further
to my bones.
Almighty
Lord above,
Blessed God
the Father,
Son of Man,
forgive me
for I don't
know what I
have done, what
to do and
what I am
still doing.

Aldubbin'

She spots his
Twinkly eyes
And giggles
Girlishly.
He sees her
Funny face
Splash on the
TV screen.
Something quite
Fascinating
Magical
Boy meets girl
Love story
This way comes.
Something clicks,
Some crazy
Enchantment
We can't turn
Away from
What is now
This lovely
Fairy tale
As old as
Tricky time,
We're held still
Mesmerized
For that small
And sacred
Split second
When they saw
Their two selves
Possibly
Together,
Playing in
Their own small
Universe.

Saxophony

In the blue
hushed corners
he played soft
mournful tunes,
blowing through
his mouthpiece,
ring finger
pressing the
front F key.


A note flew
somewhere high -
out of place.


He glimpsed at
a woman
aroused from
her stupor
smiled richly
with a sip 
from her pink
hot cocktail.
He caught her
hurried wink,
thought it quite
nice to have
admirers
young, pleasing
to one’s eyes
that barely 
see those notes
scribbled wet
on paper.


He caught her
hurried wink
once again
but this time
past him though,
flying straight
to the young
cute cellist.


Readily
he laughed at
the mistake
and poured more
forlorn tunes
into space.

Your Garden

Your garden
had roses,
some orchids,
white jasmines
and thick shrubs
of santan.

My childhood
spent time there --
plucked some buds,
played with bees,
bathed in
lighter rains,
suntanned in
gentler heats.

Days have aged
quite too soon;
Years have passed
quite uncouth.

Now, grasses
squatted on
bare patches.
The flowers,
they're all gone.

And you, sir
of poor sight,
thinner skin,
weaker knees,
tend the earth
growing rocks.

Three-syllable poems

While I was reading a snippet of Takuboku Ishikawa's bio, the Japanese tanka master, I was amused at the idea of how his poems expressed their emotions and ideas as precise as the poet intended them to be in only three lines.  Much like its predecessor, the 5-7-5 syllabically arranged haiku, tanka attempts to capture that unique, universal human experience as concise as it possibly can.  Based on my observation (and anyone can school me on this), tanka appears to be the free verse form of haiku because it doesn't follow the 5-7-5 pattern that  haiku is well known for.

Inspired by the Japanese, I toyed with the idea of applying restrictions to some of my poems too.  Maybe I would publish a book if there's a sizeable amount of these beginning to loiter on my desk or in this blog for your entertainment and scrutiny.  And so in the manner of Gwendolyn Brooks' "we real cool" poem (Selected Poems: 1963), I came up with these three-syllable poems. 

Mind you, I actually wrote the first poem ten years ago where Mother Nature plays a very big role as the source of my inspiration.  I did some revision in order to fit the structure I wanted for it.    As for my second poem, it's something I wrote just recently.  I did not apply rhyming schemes as of yet because I'm not that much of an expert in doing it. So pardon if they're not quite musical sounding as I'd want them to be.  :-)


Stream

Clear water,
calm water,
flow silent
and smoothly
by the banks
around stones
under soles
of my shoes.

Cool water,
hushed water,
sing to me
your secrets
as shadows
of this world
flow in space
without sound.





   ....




Twenty-two

Twenty-two,
gun tucked well
in his old
underwear.
Quite a job,
scum career
learned with friends
since age twelve.

Dark, his friend,
true comrade,
covers him
pretty well  --
eyes hunting
leather bags,
gold bracelets,
new smartphones,
back pockets
bulging with
thick wallets.

Very hungry
hyena
on the prowl,
looking for
quick money,
waiting at
corner streets
in this city
where lampposts
for a long,
long, long time
never lit.

Pants: And because it is May 1, and I'm posting things....

                                          Time to make you big.  BAM!

Altitudes

Anywhere 10 meters above sea level,
Not suitable for us
Or the neighborhood we must accustom to
Because they are prone to troubles
Knee or chest-high
Or even beyond our heights.

Below 20 meters is cutting it close –
Who knows how soon the oceans will rise
Or how fast the city is sinking?
Wading is a skill that I’m not willing
To learn with fearful muscles and bones.

Look. There’s a house waiting for us
Between the city and a sly volcano –
70 meters above. That should do well
Quite nice to keep the roof over our heads.

We’re made smarter now by what we’ve lost,
Much wiser, more protective of the spares that’s left,
More wary of the world and what its winds might bring.


We should never have been too trusting. 

Rant: "traveling" versus "travailing"

I don't know if it's because of the stress from work, editing in real time the transcripts for the world's top companies. But I didn't notice in a poem I previously posted (April 10, 2015) I used the word "travail" when I meant "travel".  I'm pretty sure I keyed in travel, because I would only use travail if I wanted to mean something that was done with lots of suffering.  (Excuses, excuses.)


I checked on the etymology of the word travail. Google said (yes, I'm treating this search engine like a person and one of my closest friends, sue me) that the origin is the Latin tres palus, which literally meant "three" and "stake". This actually described an instrument of torture called trepalium, which is a Medieval Latin word.  If you're wondering what a trepalium looks like, think of the letter X stabbed vertically with the capital letter I; or an asterisk with a longer middle line.   


I then checked on the etymology of the word travel.  And wonders of wonders, it most likely may have originated from the word travail.  Some would argue that it might have originated from the English word travailen or travelen, which had quite similar spellings.  Either way, these words are synonymous to toil, strive, torment, strenuous.


So imagine this:

                  And here you are still, wide-eyed like a kid,
                  travailing a familiar path with a skip,
                  cheeks burning pinkish with heat
                  pulling a smile as wide as the sky.


I wanted that part of the poem to exude happiness, that carefree feeling of treading a known place where no one is a stranger and nothing feels strange and no one is judgmental to child-like awkwardness.  But that word completely ruined it.  

Or maybe it didn't.  Maybe it made those lines more interesting, because you question that child-like happiness having to go through toil. Could that be possible?  Happy suffering?  Toiling with a sense of wonder?  Am I making sense? (No.)


Damn it.  This must be because of stress from work.

Diva

She visited during the hottest day of April.
Nary an invitation, she thundered through the heat
And scratched the surface of a sweltering land
With the sharp nails of her crooked lightnings.
Dusky and heavily set, she boomed with might
And all the pale clouds surrendered over the horizon.
Everyone heard her deep alto ascend
And hammer the wind with such magnificent scale.
She made sure her tears would leave an impact
On the arteries and veins of a throbbing city
Whose palpitations are almost close to entropy,
Toiling through the chaos of its daily survival.
She made clear the meaning of her song registered
As a flood that accumulated on narrow streets
Washing away the sins of a slothful, lusty summer
Who was only halfway through his complacent reign.
For her finale, she hit the perfect note – 
The last surge of light that cracked the sky open
Into awakening.  And then, after the eventual crescendo
Dragged her dark gown as she vacated the space
That all the wide-eyed spectators are hushed with awe
Never to forget her tremendous range. 

Poem for Hajime

How quaint. The old pages,
Brittle shelter of forlorn verses --
Precise, concise as his life.

(After Takuboku Ishikawa, 1886 - 1912)

April 10, 2015

We followed the river to the falls
where the growth of rocks was thicker than the trees.
If we were lucky, a hint of rainbow
revealed itself in the white spray.
In the waters, the fishes darted quicker,
swifter, aware of the fisherfolk
who came in warmer months
for a more abundant catch.
"Nothing's changed much. That's good," you said.
"The world is the same as I left it."
You reminded me of a fire tree in the forest
alive with the reddest flowers --
a worthy treasure of your childhood adventures.
And here's you still, wide-eyed like a kid,
travailing a familiar path with a skip,
cheeks burnt pinkish with heat
pulling a smile as big as the sky.
Nothing's changed much about you too,
And that's good.

Going home, March 22, 2015

By the headlights, the rain
sketched its drops hastily
in quick needle strokes
before it smudged the ground.

In the traffic, the buses glistened
with the weather's new coat of paint.
The colors, glum at night
became lustrous under the city lights.

A Porsche careened the highway's 
empty pockets, swerving 
through the traffic that crawled like a snail.
Unmindful of the slippery wet road, it braved
the police cars parked before the bridge
challenging their sirens to sing "Order"
from the weave of chaos it had left behind.

The bus I rode stopped at the shed
and welcomed new faces 
and managed still to wait
for those who hurriedly went.

At the heart of the city, a river
thick with rainwater, bereft of barges
slithered by the banks and the walled borders
moving at its own pace.

President of the Potatoes

He preferred the red, white and blue cars
than the same colors draped on the caskets
of men cornered in the wrong field
cut like corn that's not ready for harvest.
The wide plain never recalled such friends;
he held no power over such a landscape.
Of the 45 who tried to solve a confounding riddle
one went back after wrestling a river.

And so he made certain that the distance
from the tarmac to the factory was that far
that when more and more questions were asked
he'd be scant and pretty much preoccupied.
But when the flood of inquiries touched the tip
of his earlobe, he'd have his remarks
readily scripted, "I'm bereft of details.
I wasn't informed on time. 
I just woke up."

Now some bird's wing got caught in the branches
and some part of the archipelago can still keep its secrets.
And we, his purported masters, were treated like root crops
yellow spirits dimming within our skins so brown
buried and confined like potatoes in the dark
waiting for truth's hands to harvest us into illumination.

January 25

Morning. She let the grains of rice ascend in its pot
beside a kettle that hums over a subdued fire.
The sun peaks behind the green curtains, a gentle
cold temperature moves its weight through the window.
Junior's asleep. The stuffed Teddy that was his
present last Christmas is doing its mission well.
He tucks it in his blanket, a gift from his hero
sojourning the dried earth, the brown stalks of corn
managing themselves beyond the curve of the river
in a day as peaceful as a cloudless sky
and the quiet shadows moving behind the trees.
She always gets his call on Sundays
before the church tremors the wind with its bells.
Today, nothing. A lump finds its rest in her throat.
The pot boils. The kettle sings a brazen song.
"This day is no different than any other day,"
she comforts herself slicing the lemons and onions
till the curtain dances over the window cabinet
where his portrait, wearing a black beret, fell.