Ordinary Words

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(DRAFT)

O rdinary W ordsBy Regino Joel B. Josol

Compiled 2012


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INTRODUCTION

I have never considered myself a poet, just someone who writes poems. My first try was in my teen years. It was more

like an outlet for me to release anger or love bottled up inside. I would later discover such exercises were more

cathartic rather than art.

Then, the world of the web came. I chose to meet with other people who write poems. The online workshop helped

me mature my writing from what it was until then cathartic. I associated online and offline with the PinoyPoet Yahoo!

group who cared about their writing and whose individual members received recognition for their writing. It was this

association that help defined what I wanted to do with my writing.

I consider my pieces as work in progress. I tried to write about anything that provoked me. But mostly they were just

exercises. I wrote them for what I felt then was the beauty I found in it. There were many times I was lazy and did not

have anything specific to say or wanted to say in a poem. They ended up in the trash bin. In fact, a lot did.

Of the pieces I felt were worthy to be compiled, these were mostly experiences that had some significance in my life. For

ease of recognition by readers, I categorized the compilation into categories.

I dont have formal education in this. But I did educate myself from books of several authors and critics of anthologies,

and history and philosophy of writing in literature.


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Contents

Sections ........................................................................................................................................................................... 5

Word Play ........................................................................................................................................................................ 6

About Poems ..................................................................................................................................................................13

Sex, Love & Marriage ......................................................................................................................................................16

Death ..............................................................................................................................................................................42

Images ............................................................................................................................................................................52

Others.............................................................................................................................................................................59

Index...............................................................................................................................................................................63


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SectionsWord play

About poems

Sex, love and marriage

Death

Images

Others


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Word Play


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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.

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?


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No Rule of Three

To get a message across a screen using bullets,

follow the rule of three. The rule of thirds

keeps subjects in focus too.

But, there are supposed to be exceptions. A riddle

may not subscribe to rules. A bullet-riddled body

violates this rule.

To count is a basic skil l. Can you reach beyond

56? What is the sound of 100 guns each firing

three bullets? and more?

You would have discovered no new rules.

There are no women or children to isolate.

There are only objectives.

Even in peace time, the earth is wet

with bloodied bodies.

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?


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Your exit

You are here. There is no site map as guide

to find the nearest exit.

A scan for the familiar (I am no liar)will not yield the path. Stay

and check each word instead.

Get drenched in the meaninglessness.

Don't look at your watch wondering

when will I point the way out.

How much time do you have? I only have

one period left.

Fly*

There are lies and there are

flies. These will not take you to the moon

or flay you before the stars.

Interestingly, like parent-birds,

the instinct is to fight back, kamikaze-like:

fly to the depths and crash.

But, the advertised phytochemicalsaren't scraping the fat off my veins:

Come on, burn, baby, burn.

What do I do with you now

and how? Look, the plate left unfinished,

has a fly feasting on it.


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Black Sky*

There is no visible city crow circling

this sky, blackened by smog, by night.

But I am here. Are the little wings crippled

or is this the loneliness of my pillows?

I demand your daily tribute of smiles when

the sun is up high, in that skyscraper. That window

glass cleaner is blocking my sight. Yet, she does not care,

of the printer's being out of paper.

If the power goes out while in a lift, don't panic.

I will enjoy the drift. Who knows? This could be

my black sky.

Silence

surrounds me,

irritating

your inability

to fill in

between the sound

from lips

that wishes to open

up,

to send v i br a t ion s,

and jar

the shield

of yellow light

where I

am- a coffee-table

book,

closed.


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Puppet

What if gestures incline a word,

how much weight is there before dropping

out of view?

Saliva drips

________________over

________________the

_______f

________a

__________l

____________ling

_____________word

but gravity is a separate

influence. The ground offers no affinity.

The black, inclined _______________word

___________is a puppet

controlled by key-strokes.

Insight

The enlightenment desired when reading lines

lies in control, purely arbitrary,

and ergonomic.

Reach out to that knob, turn it clockwise

and see the brightness rise and pupils dilate

in search of meanings in b

______ r

_______o

____ken

lines.

The only li__ m____ i_ t__ a___ t i o n

is not in the

___________depth

but the w_ i__ d_ t h

of your screen.

It could be w__ i___ d ____ e______ r.


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Seminar Notes

A lecture is the music in the room,

but it is neither time for ringing alarms

nor for the pop-up windowoffering a view of friends

asking questions about lunch

on the Chinese restaurant five blocks,

all Lego, that a young boy found

after riding a tuktuk whose driver charges

fast forward, a media player

on Windows, with bumpy DVD presentation.

The screen blanked,

the laptop powered down.

What is after forever?

The precision of a caliper

is not in question.

Regardless, old math counts

in whole numbers

much simpler than algebra. Is it

definable by numerical positions

relative to base 10? How distant

can spaces be from each other?

So, what's after forever

lingering is a question mark.


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About Poems


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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

out of view.

Homecoming

The dinner is cold,

a seat remains vacant.

I wait like a wifefor a knock

on the door

of my thoughts.

Perhaps, tonight,

like a husband

words will come,

to spill like seeds.


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Zero degrees Celsius

The weather forecast for the city

is below zero degrees Celsius.

But it was silent about the freezing rainover piled up snow, the sort that makes people

fall asleep or warm themselves up with books,

overhead lights, and colored blankets.

My poem chills in the cold, the paper murkier

than the road. I try to lead it somewhere

but it didn't have winter clothes to bear

with the rain and wind.

With every word frostbitten, lines fall apart,

words give up their spirit while coffee and melatonin

deliver their coup de grace,

leaving the TV set on all night.

A dead poem

His poem

lifted my eyes

to the ceiling

of his ambition,

from where his lines hang

down to expose a body,

twisted,

breathless.


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Sex, Love &Marriage


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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.

Still Clear*

It's not exactly clear which words became

the vow we made before God and men,

but I do recall the only wild 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.


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So Dry and Still*

In this summer heat,

anything I touch is too warm.

I miss the coolness of your skin-my fingers wrapped around your arms.

I wish for your shade-like presence

in this air so dry and still.

Distracted

To fall asleep on this seat,

on a long haul flight,

may appear to shake you

off my thoughts,

but the air turbulence

will shake me awake instead.

The airplane's ceiling lamps

are all turned-off

but you are my reading light,

spot lit on the laptop,

my fingers

busy on the keys.

Maybe, it's the best way

to ride this disturbance:

you-

distracting me.


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This is not a love poem (again)

The sort you'll find in bookstores

and greeting card racks,

with nice colors and illustrations,with words, simple and sweet.

It doesn't have a dried rose petal

with leaves and stem on the page.

It doesn't come with a bouquet either

wrapped with eucalyptus or rosemarys.

It doesn't know how to start,

and not sure how to end.

It's like that nimbus

hovering in your sky,

but never letting go

of the rain.

In the shadows*

To where shadows

and road wind as one,

I descend,

testing my resolve

against the steepness

of the mountains,

looking back at you,

the sun gone

leaving what we have

between us obscured,

those parts of you and me

unenlightened.


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To return

To return is to shuffle recollections,

to superimpose images

against what is seen, what is feltunder this different sky.

Where we stood has been altered.

Before us are rocks, black

against an earth, browned

by lack of grass and trees.

I fear the rains took away

whatever is left between us.

I can plant seeds here and there,

if you let me.

This side of the mountain

can return its color once again,

its past and present will be one,

if you just say so.

Have you seen love?

Is it something we can speak about

or pass over in silence?

Is it warm like a poem on paper

lying on the pavement at noon?

Can it be contained in a bottle

and instructed how to spring from it?

Can it be measured like a meter

in rhythmic pulses along a line?

If I say 'I love you'

is there a picture

in your mind?

Is it the same as mine?


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Starboard*

Tonight my eyes chance upon,

on this starry night, your star's glow

just above the horizon of this plain heart.

You fell onto this orbit, my love's weight

denting space where you spin. I studied you with maps,

to predict your journey across my sky

while sleep agreed to let me be intoxicated

by your sight. Your reflection starboard side,

made me grip the railings

lest I fall,

into love's unmeasured depths.

A Promise to Keep

The heart is treacherous, but by it our love we pledged,

wary of its fickleness unraveling what we held.

So, I promise this as God demands of me

to love you with all my mind, will, and integrity.

A poet wrote, 'i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)'.

I will carry yours in mine so you can fill up all the space.

So, declare to me this-

Dilectus meus mihi et ego illi qui.


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Half-Open Door

I do not know what to expect standing before this old house.

The dust, rocks, and leaves of my memory are no longer here.

The breeze is still cold, on what is now a paved road, clean

but stiff like your eyes. Your welcome is only for the pet dog.

Soon, it is going to rain and I am still here looking at you.

I can still see some trees left from my childhood but without fruit.

The breeze has gotten stronger, slapping me outright, as if demanding

why I had not moved on instead of lingering by the half-open door.

It's alright. I will leave, you can close the door.

The shortest distance between you and me

I once read a poet who wrote a brief poem

he said something like the shortest distance

between two points is love.

Were those points eyes I would have believed

him. But mathematicians will disagree,

citing Euclid's axiom number one.

So, I tried again, one more time approaching

the water crashing by the boat's side

with its thousand moving points.

Tap my shoulder and turn my face

towards you. Do I see an end-point in your eyes?

I think I like what I see.


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After the rain*

While the downpour blurs the colors

outside the window pane,

you alone appear

like a torrent washing down my face.

I let you cling to me

as if to drench my shirt,

but you left so soon,

the sky breaking out in blue

and here I am

still soaking from you.

Cold breakfast

With half-engaged brain, I woke up to this day.

The cup of hot coffee can't sip away

the cold space between you and me.

The warmth from my omelet did not reach you

to thaw the icy silence from your lips.

I wished I had remained in some dream scape

where stories can be altered to bring up

better endings. Instead, I have a pair of shoulders

served cold for breakfast.


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Bleeding wound

Like a bleeding wound from bullet holes

of the ambushed soldier in the street of Mogadishu,

passion pours out from love.

The black Mogadishu boy smiled, firing his rifle

at the right moment, his target within range,

a different Cupid but as sharp.

Like black smoke ascending from the military jeep,

burning, with rebels dancing around him,

love knows when to claim victory.

Like burns from explosives, love can scorch

your heart with passion, leaving behind scars.

You will remember even after wounds heal.

Lumphuni Lotus Flower

It was overcast in Bangkok the day we met,

light rain was falling on Ploenchit Road.

Your Chinese skin was the only bright thing

next to the white coffee cup.

Your eyes seemed brown as they studied mine

but really, you were gazing at the Powerpoint slide.

Your lips squint like your eyes, your accent Thai,

Your fingers keep sweeping through your black hair.

Your eyes were sharper than my glasses,

tapping my shoulder for each visual lapse.

You have my respect, beautiful lotus flower

afloat in the waters of Lumphuni.

I smile recalling the laughter in your eyes

as rain drops drip on the jumbo jet's window pane.


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This bed*

This bed is different without you. I'm not used

to its silence, inactivity nor to its bed sheets

and pillows over it, well-arranged.

My body sinking into it is not the same

as yours sinking into it too. I prefer it to be

creaking, overflowing with sensual sounds,

while the full moon peeks through our curtain,

perhaps wondering what we are up to.

I prefer it to be disorderly

when we play love's games, the blanket removed,

exposing our skin to the moon, so that she

may envy us, as she outlines your desirable curves.

I prefer that you fill it with your sound bite

in every corner, in the pillows, in the bed sheet,

with each space locking your scent, your laughter.

Let us fill it with groans

mixing with the embers of your passion

heating up mine, as we ignite a brilliant glow.

This bed is different without you.

I am not used to space draped with loneliness.

The blanket is not as warm as you,

from where you would have been

staring at me with the moon in your eyes.


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Cold weather

I whispered, "The cold weather is upon us." The cold breeze

breathed to my face when I opened the fridge's door.

Can chocolates really make me happy? But what ifthey are cold and stiff like a wife? Can my palms melt her?

I went back up the stairs into a room, dark, quiet.

The blanket parried against the cold; you, curled up into a fetal posture.

Were you conserving whatever remained of your love's heat?

I slide back into our marriage to exchange body heat with you.

There you are with eyes rapidly moving, were you dreaming

of someone else keeping you warm?

After Dinner

I caught her gaze across the table,

her eyes lingering in mine.

Her lips lighter than the cabernet sauvignon.

I wished I were the glass she sips from

and that she would sip from it often

while her hands envelop the glass,

holding it firmly, tight,

bringing it close to her breasts,

as her eyes remain

fully-locked on mine.

The entre is served

as I glanced down her thighs,

both of us anxious

to be satisfied.


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Your absence bites

Your absence bites

like ants that swarm on my skin,

overloads my nervous system,holding it captive.

The longing lingers in every synapse

where you used to be.

I tried the shower to wash away

bites of longing for you,

to cool it down, drain it off

from consciousness like water to the sink.

But your absence left its marks

all over my mind, painful and itchy.

When the saxophone moans

Melancholy fills the wine glass, while despair

hogs the seats around me. He is playing Mangione

like a broken-hearts groan.

The saxophone moans, its cry lingering

filling me up with notes, drifting high,low, then back as I drink the wine.

If I were the saxophone, agile fingers

would caress me, echoing ripples of rhythm

across my length

And I would not let go of passionate lips

blowing solitude away from me

until the sax and I groan as one.

Instead, I sit here with the wailing tunes

listening to a lady bawl her lines

as if they were mine.


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Worth more than twenty-one roses

The flower vendor called up today,

asking for my order of twenty-one roses,

one rose for each year.

The first rose came with a promise

of longevity in its long, deep green stalk-

my simple, unadorned vow.

I learned to evade the thorns of life

while I held you, my red rose, sprinkled

with little white flowers, like children and mother.

We were bound together like a bouquet

of twenty-one roses, artfully hiding

the complexities and compromises of our lives.

Twenty-one years is a long journey

from 'I do' to I still do,

our very own endurance race.

You went from lovely to lovelier.

I will join you to loveliest with this hand

and eyes for you to hold and behold.

I thanked the vendor for remembering:

our twenty-one years is worth

more than twenty-one roses.


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This heaven

This morning I was lifted up to heaven

at a speed of 500 miles an hour,

piercing the massive clouds to where the sun

shines with clarity at 31,000 feet-

if these were ordinary strings

they would have snapped,

but they remained tied up to you,

my heart's thoughts with yours.

The wine didn't weaken the threads

weaving in my head about you.

Up here, the sun is unhindered,

blue skies stretch all over.

Ten hours in heaven did not do me good,

the isolation kept me anxious

of our fragile link that held on

like sunlight to the window.


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Empty Space

The sensuality of the curve flowing

downward, touching the stiff black arms,

on its two sides, is undiminishedby the checkered, grey and black fabric

hiding the strength of steel partly exposed

underneath its structure.

It remained still, stowed under your desk.

No sound from the rollers pressing

on the carpet every time you shifted

your weight,

nor a squeak from the metal support

whenever you turned around my way.

But unlike me,

it doesn't care for your absence

nor for the silence of the space

where you once were.


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Vanishing point

The jet engines' increasing decibels fill up the runway

while the body of the plane shakes, the earth expelling it into the air.

I want to roar, to boom myself, to dislodge the lonelinessdraping my heart, to let go, like the earth the plane.

I look down at earthly objects vanishing to a point,

but my attachments stall my lift.

Above the clouds I see stars appearing. I waited

for a star to look into my eyes, to tell her my good-bye.

I unlock the belt that held my thoughts that could stagger

in the corridor while the safety-belt warning sign flashes in the ceiling.

The blanket did not warm me the way her smiles

or the light from her eyes would have.

The featured movie played, ended but I didn't care.

Sleep came over to turn off the lights

while all my thoughts scampered away into its own sky-

cloudy and black- where she probably hides.


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When wounds heal

Do you recall?you asked pointing to the scar

on your knee. The moment flashes back:

First out of the boat,the view distracted me-

a green sea of shrubs and grass mixing with blue

of mountains while ocean waves break up

into white foam

stumbling on the beach.

I hear people raise their voices:

Turning around I see-

you, fallen on the pier,

lost your balance

when the boat moved and all your weight

was carried by your knee, now bloodied.

Yes, I recall.

You didn't cry nor wince. Your eyes were drained

of tears long before by countless wounds

from tripping over unsteady hearts.It doesn't feel anything, you noted.

Something else dies when wounds heal,

I sighed.

Internal Fracture

I thought denials would not wear me down

like metals straining against load but their repetition

pressed my endurance to its limit.

It fractured me in ways invisible to you

spreading like a crack until we are pulled apart

like metals tired of each other

where the sex hurts like the weight of a jet engine

sheared from the wing, then free falls.


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In the New Station

The transit time was brief as promised. The window

offered only blurs of colors and shapes for distraction.

You either move forward across this hazeor watch her diminishing in importance,

anchored in the past with eyes still legible

despite the tears and rain.

That turn, a mild jolt, finally moved the train

away from her. But your sigh is too far

from the window to smear it with doors

now closed to any afterthought.

Arriving in the new station, doors open again.

If only one's heart could quickly do the same.

Raining in Orchard Road*

Though an alien to Singapore weather,

I went ahead like other tourists

to Orchard Road, pretending to rush

to dinner and meet a friend,

while everyone else hurried to MRT

or a bus terminal as the rain poured.

I crossed Orchard Road in the rain

without my rain coat, left behind

like someone I wished

should have been here.


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On Valentines Day*

He returns the card to its display row

as if letting go a spent balloon.

His eyes did sparkle like a soda drinkbefore the acid strikes a hungry stomach.

Picking up another one,

he studies it like a pretty face

in a coffee-drinking crowd,

then shakes his head.

Home*

He has never done this-

trust her memory

that when her wings get tired

from wandering and looking down

she sees the houses

and recognize this nest,

she will choose to land.

The distinct sound of her wings,

whistling, confirms her reprise.

Parousia*

He waits by the table like a disciple,

keeping watch for signs of her arrival-

her feet shuffling, her shadow sliding

underneath the wooden door

until a knock ruptures his silence--

she calling out his name.


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Centerfold

She is not done yet browsing his thoughts

like she does his magazines,

scanning each one from his eyes,determined to find

an image of herself

in the centerfold of his mind.

Miniloc Waters*

She is the dawn

striking tent off the waters

leaving behind the crags,

each one aloof.

At the pier's platform,

the horizon remains sunless,

withdrawn like a lamp's glow,

reduced.

Her stay is quickly dispersed

but her blue cast on his face lingers.

Starting Over

Like a thick smoke, the clouds dim

the tinted window glass. His image appearing

before wind-sent rains splash on its pane,

breaking up his thoughts. But he knew

this storm could drench him. Its flood waters

take him away, unable to find a high ground

from her good-bye.


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Unrestrained

The warm fluid swirls,

surrounds like a tight knot

breaking into,

opening access to depths

where breaths are pushed

like rapids among rocks.

Detox

You don't come home to my embrace,

wanting instead the bed, sinking into it

like a cut-down log, face down.

Tired to say hello or share an evening meal,

you know I don't mind missing another one.

After all, fasting sheds weight of anxieties.

But I am past the fog induced by your abstention.

My craving disappeared. The new clarity is as striking

as the gap between us in the bed.

In a couple more weeks, the detox will complete

purging us of each other.

Unlit Road

Unable to hold my quench after the first sip,

the taste of your love on my lips made me swerve

on this road I thought I knew well-

its curves, pot holes, and humps-

unafraid of a little hassle on the wheel,

foot on brake pedal, unwavering: I know when to stop.

Tipsy, euphoric and red-faced yet my vision

is still clear, speech still smooth.

While car in full speed, you disappeared

like a headlight failing on an unlit road-


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You

Are as quiet as a city street

after the evening rains of September

but prettier than this scenein black and white,

the brilliance of lamp posts

reflected on the pavement, wet with rain.

You are far more beautiful

than all the maple or birch trees here

ablaze in reds and oranges, with mountains

and snow to complete the photograph.

I don't miss Boston

looking at your photograph:

Not its coffee shops, river,

nor the shade of trees.

But this I remember-

you on my camera viewfinder:

your dew-glazed skin

shimmering under autumn light;

your long, ebony hair quietly fastened

on your exposed shoulders, arms;

your lips, pouting against

the sun's red-purple light.


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Our Skies

As a pair, I feel unsure

if we see the same sky.

Mine is full of blue,and you are its sun

but in yours, sunlight

concedes its space to grey.

Come, see your roses

appear vibrant in this light

if only you would leave

your cloudful sky for mine.

The Train Ride is Over

The train ride is over

like a love song slowing down,

the time to part has drawn near.

I mean to say good-bye like friends

but you would not let me

catch your eyes.

Outside the train car I stand

to gaze at you

as the doors snap back:

just like a refrain ending, sweet, sad.


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Cold Seat

The day's first rain restrains

the morning light

but the coldfrom the waiting area's metal bench,

is amplified by faces and voices

unfamiliar, distracting.

She would have smiled

across to him,

said hello

to raise body heat

or kept her hair

as cover for his arms-

the things he needed

to unlearn.

The PA announces boarding time.

The metal remains cold

while daylight struggles

to break out.

This New Years Eve

You used my pants' pocket

as drop box, slipping into it a note

(a raffle entry to win your heart?),

signed with your name, I bet.

It was New years eve when I pulled it out,

in time for the fireworks.

This new years eve it reads

like an expired claim stub.


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A worded math problem

She is a worded math problem,

a complex set of algebraic equations.

Don't be distracted by her voluptuous datain long-winded clauses.

Go ahead, simplify her complex polynomials,

and break her down like a puzzle.

Plot on paper what you found-

points of tangency.

April Fools Day

I laughed when you said good-bye

on April Fool's day,

as sunlight broke through the trees

dotting the expressway.

I replied that I myself was leaving

just biding my time

expecting a screen full of smileys

from your reply

but all I got was you

insistent like the sunlight

flashing against my eyes

on not being there

when I gethometonight.


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Epilogue

She will let him go like a book,

whose cover once attracted her,

its pages once held down her gaze.

She had moved on past his breadth,

their time together flipping over

like scanned pages towards the end.

With her reading done, his laughters consumed,

will she miss nights of him laying on her breasts,

exhausted, under a lamp's glow?

She takes note of what's left

of his borrowed time.

Pieces

There is no bridge____________ nor causeway between

your absence____________and my desire. It is

a heavy log to carry____________whose weight will plunge it

down my mental chasm,____________to undefined depths of insanity,

from where anguish____________does not rise to be heard,

but muted by____________a thick air of uncertainty

where love like a flame____________ can only glow faintly.

There is no reminder,____________nor signal, nor smoke

that can rise____________to advertise my longing

or traces of it in____________burnt ashes or embers

for you to look upon,____________the monsoon rains drenched them,

pushing them onto our gap,____________crashing down on sharp surfaces

to break up_________________________like pieces of myself.


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Death


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Not Being Here*

On the window panes, sunlight flashes on and off

while 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 Box to Fill Up*

Once in this room, one afternoon,

while rain water dripped on the window glass,

and the room was deprived of daylight,

I kept peering at the ceiling for no reason.

Signs of you were in every corner:

that small picture frame that kept your smile,

those magazines you asked me

to buy regularly,

that graffiti you wrote on the wall

with your lipstick,

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 start filling up.


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This summer has ended

When reds, yellows and greens

have lost their brilliance,

and the lake's deep bluehas 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.

Ripped Apart

This is a perilous season.

Some content may not be suitable-

In color or black-and-white,

they are still dead.

Why count bodies in peace time?

Something about parts and whole.

I agree. This is more than just

an inconvenient fact:

keeping your feet wet

in disease-infested waters.

Today, I asks,

while watching early morning TV-

Have you found a newspaper

to cover them?

In the calm morning

flexing his two arms,

father lifts from the flood waters

his dead son.


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To my brother, Jonathan*

'Tis not when a heart beat goes full stop

and eyes then lose the power of its stare,

Nor when the sheet is stretched to cover upyour full length, no longer gasping for air,

that my pain like skin scratched by thorns

ignored when running away from hunters,

can now rest, bleed and cry for attention.

There never will be a good time ever.

To nurse loneliness like a wound,

and dress it every day until it dries,

is to hope a healing can be found,

to finally say my good-bye-

We have few words for each other,

but love is not bound by them or any other.

Rainy August

A sunny 8am did not

come true,

the sky looking grayish white,

the color of the bed sheet.

The weatherman did forecast

lots of rain for August.

As clouds keep shifting,

a gust hits the window pane

just when I looked away,

your body still warm,

after the doctor said

you are gone.


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Lost*

He confides

'She only has a few days left.'

Fighting the loss of breathI ask, 'So, what is up next?'

As he lays out what to expect,

I lost you in the details

of many new mornings-

mourning.

The day you leave

I will be somewhere else

looking for you in places

we have been.

W(Age)s*

"Stipendia enim peccati mors gratia autem."

Breath-deprived, the marriage is given up like doves

let go on wedding day. Where before the bride wears white,

now black is the motif, the sun eclipsed by clouds.

Soon, we'll reach the terminal(si non sola mors me et te separaverit)

but the road is still bumpy up ahead.

We haven't paid ours

but the debt collector will soon find our address

and he might not care about the house or the old car.


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Threads

If life were measured like a thread, who will cut off

the fly from a spider's fiber, dead and swinging like a pendulum?

How many threads can bury a spider with legs dismemberedby soldier ants crawling over his upside-down body?

Stirring the mud, the rain digs on the earth a shallow grave.

You left before I could

I miss you mom whenever I am happy.

I did run to you, sought your warm embrace,

and wasted your time with my crazy lines.

I miss you whenever I am sad or lonely,

recalling times I rested my head

on your slim shoulders.

I miss you mom whenever I felt returning

all the love you gave and shared.

You know I would but you left before i could.

I miss you mom whenever I felt like saying

'thank you' for standing up beside me,

for the choices I made

that differed from yours, made you sigh,

and broke your heart.

You know I would but you left before I could.


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Knife in my throat

The sharp knife pierces through as it were

my malfunctioning mind where once inside,

the opening encloses an anger that has ruptured

as violent as the blood filling up my lungs

to an overflow, crowding out the life-force

until choked, the gasping for breath as if drowning,

all entry points sealed, all doors opening

to life locked, the warm sensation of finality,

as the full blade goes through my throat.

MacabebeThe landscape has changed after Apo Omeng died.

Lahar came to bury the memories in mud, sun-dried.

Where is the "magtitinapay's" honking horn, in his morning ride?

It used to be the day's call, a summer morn' has begun.

The landscape has changed after Apo Omeng died.

Where now is the "aplaya" that was green far and wide,

and the lass with her lad, both in bloom?


Where will the "anaks" play under the watchful guide

of an apo calling each back when the day is done?


The old river carrying the motor bancas lost its pride.

In the mud, heartaches, frustrations took residence.




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No Better Time*

It was a matter of bad timing.

Einstein asserted enough about spaces

and for you it meant no vacancy.

Death happens here regularly.

In this vacuum, there is no room

for the sound of your agony.

In a purposeless universe,

disappearances are just too far

away from us,

like nebulas signing off

above our night sky beyond

my span of attention

as your dust is dispersed

in this air, demonstrating Einstein,

his physical laws.

There is no better time for gravity

to bring you back to me.

Green Grass

I watch the flowers fallbetween the small spaces of earth

surrounding your new home

before my tears blur my sight

as I look down,

but the earth's embrace

keeps you from us,

on this sunny day

with the grass all green.


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Simple Statements

It started with your simple disclosure:

'I have a tumor in my lymph nodes.'

I looked at you then, calculating my words,their tone, their weight, to match yours.

'It has not reached Stage 1.'

I thought I saw something in your eyes

that reminded me of mornings after my wife and I

had quarreled- a search for hope, a different life.

'The chemo is not working. One gallon of liquid

was taken out of my lungs.'

So you went on like husbands and wives do,

except from this you couldn't divorce.

I heard your violent coughing,

echoing the pain I never knew.

Today, a brief statement was sent out

to all of us friends,

that you passed away 8:30 am-

the moment when death did us part.

Rightist Burial

When you're dead and grass has sprouted off your grave

with flash flood rushing to pile mud over you again,

only the agent of coercion-

the one who bored a hole into your head,

who tried to make your blood spill to the right

instead of left-

will remember this place,

how they dragged you away from your routine.

When the earth dries up and the grass over you withers

then perhaps one stray dog's nose will help us find

your skull with a hole that the bullet pierced.


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Instructions for Timothy

She lifts him up, holds him tight,

and keeps him warm, daylight fading,

the cold advancing to this moment.

She kisses him as morphine flows,

before complying with doctor's orders

to remove him from equipment.

The stars come out in the autumn sky

to be her witnesses when the nurse

pulls away the tubes from him.

Thoughts of another morning make her cry.

The clouds came like a blanket over him,

the cold completing its embrace.

Craftsmanship

Violence has levels of craftsmanship,

displayed in the bodies destroyed.

She was like a fortress broken through.

They pulled down her underwear like walls,

stormed through doors as it were

to expose her vagina, slit her throat,and leave blood under her nape.

The old man is like a tower fallen

on the pavement. Grease, dirt stuck on his skin

like ruins of a fallen city.

His tormentors fried up his brain,

his wide-open eyes confirm.

The young man is the look of a city

destroyed. His tongue was cut, teeth broken,an eye bored through, finger nails pulled.

His head was severed off,

for their collection.


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Images


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New Year Fragments

Darkness breaks up

into colors then black.

The ears catch first the silence,then the blast.

He carries on

between the presence and absence.

You are still here, in his thoughts,

blinking off and on

in his memory,

like a New Year's eve fireworks.

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.

A red rose

A red rose held in my handcaught my tears on its petals like dew

shimmering from the sunlight's

kiss, leaked by rain clouds

above the garden

where I stood.


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The Chinese sprinter

He lies on the ground, fallen

like a house collapsed by a great quake,

whose door was used for his makeshift bed,

after clearing debris off him.

The tremor sprinted past him,

as his legs failed to deliver more,

stumbled over the shaking earth

and the tumbling concrete.

His friend later found him

among the rows of the dead,

found him curled,

as if running away still-

with white rubber shoes,

jogging suit in red and blue,

and a Chinese textbook over his face.

Morning after Halloween

The masks last night worn under the Halloween full moon

Were kissing each other on the floor unmindfulof the beer cans and confetti lying around them.

Strange masks, each one celebrating death, blood, gore

When the wearers meant to enjoy life to catch a glimpse

of wandering eyes that may find themselves locked in yours.

In this side of town, every night is Halloween

As hands catch another, lips locked with another

Sucking life in from each other.

Every morning exposed by the window light are bodies

littering the floor from another night of revelry-

Bare and unmasked.


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Starry Nights

There is sadness in the midnight sky

Starlight trapped within the circles of the night.

Have I seen a bird fly on your canvas

across the coarseness of your strokes?

There is sadness in your midnight sky.

You love stars to decorate your canvas

White and blue against the orange lamp light,


Why so much red and green inside a cafe

with roomful of folks, estranged under the stars?

There is sadness in the midnight sky.

Were you the lone, black tree on the canvas

Strong, upright, touching the stars?


There is sadness in the midnight sky.

Fireworks

Fireworks rip this black sky

to shreds of multi-colored streaks;

its pieces fall, rain down

through a powder-dense air;

only to recollect

and repair itself anew.


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Work space

He will miss this work space:

a laminated desk, smooth, matte-yellow,

a chair turned away from skyscrapers.

From left to right-

the job, the customer, the deadline

and a few other things

placed there for a reason-

a framed family photograph,

for example,

where everyone smiles,

proud of their white teeth,

a fixture sitting there

for years beside the clock.

But, a work space

is neither home nor family,

despite the long hours,

the friendships, the thousand meals.

Another thing placed there

for a reason-

that pink slip.


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Sacrilege

The children break out into laughter

at the dining table turning his skin blood-red

who holds sacred quiet communion meals

as he raises his hand

to break a bottle of ketchup

on the nearest child's fair head.

Old Quezon Bridge

The network of steel trusses

embed themselves on concrete

like shadows of barbed wires and fences

on protesters skin.

Typhoons and earthquakes have not

displaced them,

their pillars immovable like trash stuck

in the river bed by Malacanan.

This man

These punctures on the head, blood, dried, masked his face,was pierced by mockery and thousand insults weaved

like spikes in thorn branches, his crown for his head.

This skin, these lesions, sank death closer to the bones.

These bruises came from lies so wicked enveloped in fists

whose blows spared neither body nor limbs.

This back was disfigured, lacerated, and torn open

by sheep bones of hate. Each clawed itself into skin,

into flesh with every flagellum's whip.

These ribs, this open fissure, jabbed deep by a spear,

poured forth water of forgiveness, streaming

to cleanse an earth, blood-soaked.

His time of death-

3 pm, Friday.


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Sketch

The sea water stumbles,

falls on your thighs,

the linen clinging tightlyon your skin,

sketching the shape

of your flesh

like fruits, dew-washed,

in a glossy spread.

The waves pound your thighs,

glazed in this early light.


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Others


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Siesta

in the afternoon's siesta,

head bowed and silent-

breeze flips the book's pages.

Mobile Church

The jeepney has an entry way and corridor

leading to an image of Christ above the windshield.

Here, a poor boy serves like a sacristan.

He cleans the passenger shoes as if to make them holy.

When his service ends, he raises his palms

not to pray but to collect for alms,

Before his altar, he looks up at the Christ

gazing down on those seated.

He leaves but another passenger gets in

with his own Bible and pouch.

Faulty Exegesis

Without a map, the next best thing when evening driving is to learn fasthow to read signs, and even here critical thinking is key or be misled

by false and make-shift signs some self-imposed authority,

put up for his convenience. It can distract you

like a high beam from an approaching car or much worse

misread a Right-Turn traffic sign on the asphalt road,

where the next thing you see is a policeman's hand waving,

his stern look, a fair warning of an approaching discourse

of a supposed error starting with definitions, then exegesis,

to etymology of words, and its consequences.


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My friends ear

My friend's ear is my kitchen sink of stainless steel

where I puke, bitter words pushing up like acid

on my esophagus, rushing past the throat

full of indigestible vocabulary others made me eat.

I use it as my toilet bowl to defecate on,

when spasms and cramps contract my abdomen,

my bowels unable to halt fluid like secretion

crashing against the white-glazed porcelain.

My friend knows when to press the lever down

on the pop-up drain, to clear himself of all my stains.

That Seemed Good

He found me wandering in Quiapo* and offered

to take me home. That seemed good.

He said, 'You need a good bath to remove

all that grease off your body.'

He led me into a room where there was

water and a bucket.

He cleaned me up with soap. His handspolished parts of me to his satisfaction.

He led me to a bed and said,

'You need rest.' That seemed good.

He laid me down. My hair still wet. He said,

'I will take care of you' as he undressed.

First, he let go of the pants then underwear,

dropping them on the floor.

I watched him get close to me, his weight

pressing heavily. Then, he got up.

Leaving a twenty-peso bill he told me,

'Buy yourself some candy.' That seemed good.


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Resignation Letter

He's browsing some papers

on the table

where I extended my hand lastunacknowledged

hanging like a bridge fractured-

ties, chords, beams severed

when I disclosed

my need to move on

from all these manuals,

row of thick books,

Gantt chart and calendars

on the white board.

The letter is left unopened

on his desk

like metal-bending waters

that stayed.


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IndexA Box to Fill Up* ..........................................................................................................................................................43

A dead poem...............................................................................................................................................................15

A love poem* ..............................................................................................................................................................17

A Matter of Fact* ......................................................................................................................................................... 7

A Promise to Keep .......................................................................................................................................................21

A red rose ...................................................................................................................................................................53

A worded math problem .............................................................................................................................................40

After Dinner ................................................................................................................................................................26

After the rain* ............................................................................................................................................................23

April Fools Day ...........................................................................................................................................................40

Black Sky* ...................................................................................................................................................................10

Bleeding wound ..........................................................................................................................................................24

Centerfold ...................................................................................................................................................................35

Cold breakfast .............................................................................................................................................................23

Cold Seat .....................................................................................................................................................................39

Cold weather ..............................................................................................................................................................26

Craftsmanship .............................................................................................................................................................51

Detox ..........................................................................................................................................................................36

Distracted ...................................................................................................................................................................18

Empty Space ...............................................................................................................................................................30

Epilogue ......................................................................................................................................................................41

Faulty Exegesis ............................................................................................................................................................60

Fireworks ....................................................................................................................................................................55


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Fly* .............................................................................................................................................................................. 9

Green Grass ................................................................................................................................................................49

Half-Open Door ...........................................................................................................................................................22

Have you seen love? ...................................................................................................................................................20

Home* ........................................................................................................................................................................34

Homecoming...............................................................................................................................................................14

In the calm morning ....................................................................................................................................................44

In the New Station ......................................................................................................................................................33

In the shadows* ..........................................................................................................................................................19

Insight .........................................................................................................................................................................11

Instructions for Timothy ..............................................................................................................................................51

Internal Fracture .........................................................................................................................................................32

Intersection.................................................................................................................................................................. 8

Knife in my throat .......................................................................................................................................................48

Like a dog ....................................................................................................................................................................14

Lost* ...........................................................................................................................................................................46

Lumphuni Lotus Flower ...............................................................................................................................................24

Macabebe ...................................................................................................................................................................48

Miniloc Waters* ..........................................................................................................................................................35

Mobile Church ............................................................................................................................................................60

Morning after Halloween ............................................................................................................................................54

My friends ear ............................................................................................................................................................61

New Year Fragments ...................................................................................................................................................53

No Better Time* ..........................................................................................................................................................49

No Rule of Three .......................................................................................................................................................... 8

Not Being Here* ..........................................................................................................................................................43

Old Quezon Bridge ......................................................................................................................................................57

On Valentines Day* ....................................................................................................................................................34

Our Skies .....................................................................................................................................................................38

Parousia* ....................................................................................................................................................................34

Pieces .........................................................................................................................................................................41

Puppet ........................................................................................................................................................................11


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Raining in Orchard Road* ............................................................................................................................................33

Rainy August ...............................................................................................................................................................45

Resignation Letter .......................................................................................................................................................62

Rightist Burial ..............................................................................................................................................................50

Ripped Apart ...............................................................................................................................................................44

Sacrilege .....................................................................................................................................................................57

Seminar Notes ............................................................................................................................................................12

Siesta ..........................................................................................................................................................................60

Silence ........................................................................................................................................................................10

Simple Statements ......................................................................................................................................................50

Sketch .........................................................................................................................................................................58

So Dry and Still* ..........................................................................................................................................................18

Starboard* ..................................................................................................................................................................21

Starry Nights ...............................................................................................................................................................55

Starting Over ...............................................................................................................................................................35

Still Clear* ...................................................................................................................................................................17

Straight Lines* ............................................................................................................................................................. 7

That Seemed Good......................................................................................................................................................61

The Chinese sprinter ...................................................................................................................................................54

The shortest distance between you and me ................................................................................................................22

The Train Ride is Over .................................................................................................................................................38

This bed* ....................................................................................................................................................................25

This heaven .................................................................................................................................................................29

This is not a love poem (again) ....................................................................................................................................19

This man .....................................................................................................................................................................57

This New Years Eve ....................................................................................................................................................39

This summer has ended ..............................................................................................................................................44

Threads .......................................................................................................................................................................47

To my brother, Jonathan* ...........................................................................................................................................45

To return .....................................................................................................................................................................20

Unlit Road ...................................................................................................................................................................36

Unrestrained ...............................................................................................................................................................36


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Vanishing point ...........................................................................................................................................................31

Violent waters .............................................................................................................................................................53

W(Age)s* ....................................................................................................................................................................46

What is after forever? .................................................................................................................................................12

When the saxophone moans .......................................................................................................................................27

When wounds heal .....................................................................................................................................................32

Work space .................................................................................................................................................................56

Worth more than twenty-one roses ............................................................................................................................28

You left before I could .................................................................................................................................................47

You .............................................................................................................................................................................37

Your absence bites ......................................................................................................................................................27

Your exit ...................................................................................................................................................................... 9

Zero degrees Celsius ...................................................................................................................................................15


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