dream

Pardon my doubt on your
existence, but you pain me
when light opens my eyes.
In verge of despair.
You give false impression –
that I am encased in a
warm embrace. Of a beloved.
Only to realize that illusion.
I shiver in darkness. My bare hands
hugging my body. Cold.
Desolated in the shadows.
At times you affirm this loneliness.
With another loneliness.
Devastating. Please! I am hopeful:
don’t make my day an eternal night
of storms. Shine light in my darkness.
Make me fly when all else are in the sky.

in solitude

Tonight I write a poem for the lonely
for I am one – trapped in a cozy room
where the only light emanates from a
dying lamp; I hear the sound of silence:
it is deafening. But it reminds me I am alive,
for in this unholy hour past midnight, nothing lives
except me. The moon and the stars shine
brightly at the dark sky, they would not confess,
but loneliness overpowers their being. Like me.
As we live distance apart a single touch is
impossible. I want to shout to arouse the stillness
but I recognize the futility, no one will be awaken
except enemies. In this time, I am alone;
my mind though kept wandering, traveling
through time – past, present, future. Yesterday
I had the company of loving beings,
this minute I exist in solitude; will tomorrow
be the same, I ask. No one is certain, but me.
If I persist, paradise is a hand away.
So tonight I end this solitude,
tomorrow I will sow company.

waves

You are great – a part
of a vast ocean enfolding the whole terrain
I will drown if you swallow me, gasping
for breath as my air chamber
slowly crumbles;
the dangerous but wonderful, it is you.
Beauty: the scene of your palisades that churches
become dwarfs:
hue of blue and white intertwined with
splash of green all around. But be not too proud;
you are nothing –
the sun and sky gave you color,
color that nothing compares
and the tectonics dance you in great rhythm
choreographed in harmony.
Be simple, and in eternity
I will see you forever
living in grandeur. Waving.

room 209

Nakadungaw ang aking mga mata sa bintana.
Nagmamasid ng mga taong dumadaan. Sa labas,
may mga estudyante: masasaya, nagkukwentuhan,
nagtatawanan . Ang iba seryoso,
siguro may pagsubok sa klase
may nalimutang basahin; kawawa.
Sa kotse sa kalsada, masid ang
mga propesyonal may kausap sa cellphone
habang nagmamaneho, huwag naman maaksidente.
May mga nagtratrabaho sa kalye,
bantay ang mga panindang nilalako
dyaryo, sigarilyo, pagkain – sarap.
Mabuti pa sila. Nasisilayan ang pagsikat
ng araw, ramdam ang pagpatak ng ulan,
nakakapaglibot kung saan. Malaya.
Habang ako nandito sa loob,
nagmamasid ng buhay sa labas: isang bilanggo
– inosente pero walang magawa
nakatali ang kamay
bilang ang paghinga. Death sentenced:
ilang buwan na lang sabi nila.
Di makalakad ng malayo: nanghihina.
Puso’t katawan naghihirap na. Kaya heto,
nakadungaw lang sa bintana. Nag-aabang ng buhay.
May hinihintay. (Sa Hospital Ward 209)

to redeem

Look into my soul – a prisoner; detained in this earth
of broken dreams and unattainable peace, a Utopia –
a paradise for the fools, I would say. Day in and day out,
I breathe air. It brings me life, but I know it is poison: filled
with smoke of angst, and ill-fated, emanating from the
remnants of Sodom. This aura is omnipotent – fathoming
the ends of the universe, thus inescapable. Where life is,
it follows – rather it lives. From the most minuscule
organisms, there are parasites. And in every man,
there are a hundred who desires to siphon every entity of life;
they are murderers, robbers, rapists, criminals of every kind.
No one is innocent: the good is just a speck in a wholeness
of immorality. This is the world, where every being lives.
This is each being. I am a being. You are.
And to escape is futile. They say there is only one way: to die.
To die – and be brought forth again into new life.
A new life it is, yet destined to live in the same world of lies.
Therefore the way is not really to die; it is to live without
simply breathing. It is to live by inhaling all the maladies,
purifying it with pure emotions. Then the ultimate antidote
to the heinous world is breathed out. And the soul will live free.

the poet

That’s him. On the desk. Making himself at ease
on that wooden chair. Sometimes he would roam
around and finds his place of comfort. Then
he’ll try to weave simple scribbles into meanings
that convey thoughts, emotions, and experiences.
Struggling –
and forcing all the sweats and blood do the work
of creating imaginations. He smirks,
cries, laughs, smiles, frowns. He thinks about
or confuses himself with several feelings and
thoughts. About how the fish flies in the sea
without drowning, the real highest mountains still
unconquered by the toughest, on the continuous burning
of the sun after being buried in the horizon. Even the joys
and harshest of personal experiences –
how he loves to look at his beloved and wish
she’ll always be protected; certainty of a happy-ever-after
ending though it’s just a dream, and before long
the leaving. And the hope of being together again.
On being alone; companies of friends and the shared
moments. These – . Single words concocted with another,
and another. Soon a masterpiece is built. Oftentimes
only he can understand. But then, it will not stop
there. Words cannot suffice, he knows. And so he keeps
forming the world as he knew it. That’s him. Still writing.