Talk

There are still things
You cannot talk about
And when I talk about
These things you cannot
Talk about
I see you fade to a
Faraway place
A place where no one
Not even the gods
Can reach you

That look in your eyes
Like an iron curtain
Falling between you
And the rest of the world
Makes me wonder
About the unspeakable
Truths you discovered
The monsters that do not
Have names
And the demons that ride your back

You seemed unstoppable then
Like a holy stone
On a downhill momentum
Perhaps never knowing
That downhill it’s going

You’re still unstoppable now
Going neither downhill nor uphill
Going nowhere, no place
Still meandering
Like the river that’s headed to the sea
But you don’t swim
So will you let yourself sink

You’re unstoppable
Don’t let that fool you
You’re a force that doesn’t speak
Do tell, how will you be
Reckoned with
Do tell, how will we break that spell
That holds you in a trance
Leading you to a dance
That’s certain
To be the end of you.

Alms

Beggar


I am a mendicant for mercy
Have begged for it a million times
In my million lifetimes
I beg for love and affection
As if they were not my birthright
I do not know what it is in me
That makes me believe
I am not entitled to
Affections freely given

If I do not beg, I work for it
The sadness in my heart notwithstanding
I beg, I work
For a little love, a little understanding
I am a slave to the selfish
The haters, the arrogant
I cry copious tears for their denial
Of the simple joys my heart desires

My self is not my own
I am a beggar of the highest order
I cannot live without love and joy
And for them, I abase myself

I am a mendicant for mercy
I am a beggar for love
Therefore I am no one.

Heat

Have me

You have me in a grip
Mean and merciless
Unforgiving and scathing

I am nothing but a slave
To the heat in your eyes
The fire in your heart
That matches the flames in
My belly

I do not need you
I want you
And wanting you is a
Feverish longing in my veins
The lust in my blood
The racing of my pulse
The unslaked thirst
That eats into my being

You are a fever
That impairs
My judgment
Near you I am a mass
That only feels
That only warms
Like a lamp lit at midnight

You have me
In an inescapable hold
That burns like sun on skin
And I don’t want to escape
I just want to be here
Near the fire
That incinerates me
To nothingness.

Over

Seeing you

Seeing you doesn’t break
My heart anymore
No it doesn’t bleed
It doesn’t crack
Every time
You walk through the door

It took a life time
To get over the past
Over the memories of you that
I bought
I give you what has been
But what could be is mine
A pauper, I claim
What’s left
Of the fortune lent me by time

It’s not much
But it comes with a heart
Free
Free to be given
To the next one who stirs
The bloody flames
That excite it to affection

I will not have much
When you turn your back on me
Finally for the last time
But what I have
I’m thankful for
A heart that beats once more
And the hands of time
Ticking
For once
In my favor.

Sa may bulkan, poesia

Whisper

O would the mountains whisper
The names of the departed
The sacrificed in the name
Of the Father who slaughtered
Dread, fear, evil
Demons that demolish
The edifices of defense
Against martyrs who march
For the common goal

Would the valleys sigh
Would the trees sough
I’d whisper I love you so
But the Father has not set foot
On the doorstep of my heart

And so I am a slave
To the bitter, the envious, the arrogant
I am not proof
Against the arid
Hills that burn under
The cruelty of summer

Would the ocean wash
The saline in my eyes
Clear my vision
As I see you, a shadow
A passing silhouette

Would I utter your name
And my heart pray
Be yours, o be yours
But all I am is the breeze.


Substitute

You are not the substitute for a dream
You are the dream
That died with the
Withering fires in my heart

You are not the substitute
For an existence
Meaningful and meaningless
In its eccentricity
You are the life
That pulses through my being

You are not the substitute
For me, who is nothing
Without you
I am you, you are me
You are inextricable
From who I am
And who I am is you
Without an end
Without a beginning
Only an infinity in being.


Suko

Ayoko na
Ako’y mag-aalsa balutan na
Tatapusin ang palabas
Na walang patalastas
Hihingin ang pagbabasbas
Ng Amang kumalinga
Mula pagkabata

Umambag kung sino
Ang lalabag sa batas
Na iwinasiwas
Ng hihip ng Haring Hangin
Sa tatlong sulok ng parisukat
Na mundo

Bakit ayoko na
Sa palabas
Na walang wakas
Dahil ayoko na
Mag-iwan ng bakas
Ayong may makaalam
Naglakad ako
Sa langit na malamlam
Ayokong may makaalala
Humukay ako
Gamit ng gintong pala
Ng libingan para sa
Mga patay na tala.

For a god daughter

If you wanted

You are a star
You could light up the sky
Make the heavens sigh
And the angels cry

You could be
Anyone you want to be
You are as good as your dreams
Nothing’s harder than it seems

Hold the hand of God
Love who you are
Let life take you as far
As you want it to

And if your wings get broken
If your dreams don’t come true
I will be beside you
To teach you to fly again, show you
It’s always up to you.

On a Sunday, a Prayer

For a Saviour

I walked through the hand span
Of my landlocked journeys
Afraid to take on the sea
Afraid to see
The empty spaces that stretch out
Like the endless miles
Of this dirt road

The empty spaces in a life lived
After memories of You faded
From my mutilated mind

Forgetfulness was no friend
Forgetfulness is a foe
In my struggle to swim through
The emptiness
Leaving You
Left behind

For it is the sad truth
It may have been me who left
But it was me who was left
With a hole in my soul

And as I walk to You
I do not doubt Your forgiveness
The unconditional, infinite love
You have for me
Humbly I beseech Thee
Take me back
For I am drowning in the empty sea
Of who I used to be.

Poot

Nawawala

Kung poot ang aking poon
Kung ako ay maligaw
Tahanan di na matanaw

Bakit kailangan pang lumingon
Sa pait ng panahong
Di na pinapalipas
Ang lunas sa mga sugat
Na natamo sa sandaang sandaling
Digmaan sa pagitan mo at ni Satanas

Bakit titingnan ang nakaraang
Binahiran ng pagkutya
At paglibak sa hitsura ng
Kabusilakan.

Kun poot ang aking poon
Ako ay maglalayag
Papalayo sa pulo na nalunod
Ng kalawakan ng pait

Hahanapin ko ang diyos
Na nangangasiwa sa mga himpilan
Ng mga kaluluwang nawawala

Pagkat ako’y nawawala
Naligaw
Tahana’y di matanaw
Hindi poot ang aking poon
Sumasamba sa busilak na Paginoon
Lumilingon sa mga nag-ambag
Sa aking pagkatao

Hindi poot ang aking poon
Nawawala itong kaluluwa
Na humimpil sa pier
Ng kawalang pag-asa
Hindi ko kagustuhang madarang
Ng alab ng pait
Tarheta ng Diyos aking naiwala
Nguni’t kung ako’y Kanyang matatagpuan
Walang atublili akong palilinlang.

Serendipity: A Short Story

Occupy

She lives on the loft of an old building in what used to be an industrial part of the city. It used to be a textile factory but the owners ran into hard times and rented out the space to anyone who would take it.

She took it. She was neither rich nor poor, was comfortable but not well off. She liked that the building had security and amply open space where she could sit and draw.

She lived with her uncle all her life. She never knew her parents, never learned of the circumstances that left her in her uncle’s care. It was a secret no one, not even the gossips in the family, ever spoke of. But she was okay with that, happy to be someone’s niece because as someone’s niece she was never neglected, with a lot of people caring for her. Her uncle gave her a good education and his estate made her an independent woman of moderate means.

She moved back here after living in Malaysia with her uncle after finishing college. He pursued an illustrious, but not quite lucrative career as a freelance visual artist for state publications there. He liked the atmosphere of the place, despite its many restrictions because he felt it was a good place to raise a reasonably attractive and gregarious young woman. He could not keep an eye on her all the hours of the day so he relied on the quite restrictive society to do his policing for him.

He died of a heart attack, and when his remains were cremated, she took him back to their home country. She yearned for the hustle of the Philippines even as she traveled with her uncle to various parts of the world where his work took him.

Her favorite place in the metro is her university campus, north of the city. After coming back from Malaysia, she made it a point to come here every weekend, after painting for hours on end on weekdays. She would eat fish balls and all manner of food hawked by street side vendors. She’d walk along the cobbled sidewalks and watch joggers and bikers pass by in a Technicolor blur.

She first saw him there, sitting on a concrete bench, reading a magazine. He had a not so flashy camera with him and on occasion he took it out from its case when someone interesting passed by.

He must have been 60, give or take a few years. His salt and pepper hair was wavy and cut in the fashion of 1960s matinee idols. His brown eyes seemed to be mirthful, even as his jaw drooped sometimes in disapproval of a jogger’s skimpy outfit.

He sat on the same bench every Saturday at exactly four pm and stayed until six. On rainy days, he did not show up. But once he brought with him a box of French macaroons to give to the fish ball vendor.

She loved observing him from her spot near the trees. He looked so out of place in this tropical country, despite his regulation flip-flops, Bermuda shorts and white cotton T-shirt. He looked like he belonged more to a formal English garden or an Italian piazza.

Once she mustered up the courage to speak to him. She could not resist. He was a regular character and characters like him were rare in this part of the world.

“Love the weather?” she asked

He looked startled, as if unused to strangers coming up to him to talk about the weather.

“Lovely,” he observed.

She could tell he was laconic not because he was being curt, but because habit dictated his economy of words.

“May I look at your photos? I couldn’t help but notice. My uncle loved photography,” she wondered if she was making sense.

“Certainly,” he handed her his camera with a nonchalance that belied its precious monetary value.

She flipped through the digital photos on the LCD screen and was impressed with what she saw. One could tell he was unschooled in photographic techniques, but he more than made up for it with perspective and style.

“These are good,” she said with a smile.

“You’re too kind,” he flashed well kept pearly whites.

“Do you have anywhere to go for dinner? My apartment’s a thirty minute drive from here. I make a mean puttanesca,” she grinned to cover up the nervous dejection she knew she’d feel if he rejected her offer.

“I must admit I do not ride off with strangers to their apartments, especially not in this country. But you seem nice, so I’ll say yes. I don’t eat dinner though. I’d be happy with tea and biscuits.” She marveled at the number of words that came out of his mouth.

They walked companionably to her vintage Austin Mini and drove in the direction of her digs. Once there, she switched on all the lights so he could see the paintings that leaned against the walls of her spacious loft. She was a modest young woman in all the other aspects of her life, but she knew she could rival her established uncle’s talents as a visual artist.

“Might I return the compliment? Your paintings kick arse,” he said in jest.

“Come on to the kitchen. I won’t cook if you’re not eating. I only bother when I’ve got company, but you said biscuits would be okay. I’ve a few raisin scones left from breakfast. Will they do? They go well with lemon ginger tea,” she asked.

“You really think my paintings are good?” she asked, surprised that she needed to be assured of his good opinion of her.

“You’re a regular Van Gogh. Or do you like Manet better?” he queried.

“How’d you guess?” she asked, amazed.

“The books on the table. They’re equally dog-eared,” he grinned.

She was about to bring the tea tray to her molave dining table when she felt a searing pain shoot through her shoulder. Her next vision was that of her visitor bleeding through his neck on the floor. His eyes were still sharp, he was handing her his cell phone, as if telling her to call for help.

Trying not to mind her own pain, she dialed her downstairs neighbor’s number.

“Hey. I think I’ve been shot. Please call for help and send them to my apartment,” she was out of breath before she passed out.

She woke up in a hospital room with a police officer peering at her like she was a specimen under a microscope.

“Miss? Your father’s okay. He’ll live. The bullet almost hit his jugular, missed by a couple of centimeters. Lucky bastard. But he’ll have trouble speaking for a while,”

“I’m sorry? I’m sorry. What did you say? Which father?” she croaked.

“The man we brought with you to the hospital. We conducted DNA tests on the samples in your apartment to determine if there were other victims of the shooting. Your blood and that of the man in your apartment match. You don’t have to press charges, the court martial will. We traced the bullet to a gun issued to an army officer. He was drunk when he fired the gun in the open space near your apartment…”

She heard no more. Her mind was in a whirl. She could not believe that she found a parent she wasn’t trying to find in the unlikeliest place in the world. No. How could it be unlikely? She was born here. It only made sense that her parents be here. But in the same city? After being absent from her life all her life?

The man was weak from losing a lot of blood when she visited him in the next room the following day. His eyes didn’t seem to have lost the sense of ridiculous that made him such a likeable person.

She brought a notebook with her and a pencil so she can communicate with him even if he still can’t speak.

“Here,” she handed him the paraphernalia. “Write the answers okay? First question, you know about our matching DNA?”

A “Yup” was scrawled shakily on paper.

“Did you know who I was when I came up to you?”

“I had a feeling…” He erased it and replaced it with a “No.”

“What now?”

“Wait ‘til I can speak. It’ll take a few weeks. I’ll explain,” he wrote.

Her aunt, her uncle’s youngest sister, brought both of them home the minute they were discharged from the hospital. The doctor gave thorough instructions about the care of their wounds and the antibiotics they still needed to take. They were also referred to a physical therapist and her father made a sour face when he was instructed to exercise daily to regain function of his muscles.

“Hate exercise,” he scrawled.

“So, are you really my aunt?” she pestered her hostess once they were settled in her roomy home in the suburbs south of the city.

“That’s a question I’m in a poor position to answer. Just be patient, dear,” was all she could get from her.

She tried to paint, but it was something that did not come easy to her. Expressing herself on canvas used to be a breeze, now she wondered if not knowing who she was had a lot to do with it.

“I’m not my uncle’s niece anymore. I’m somebody’s daughter. I have a father,” she wrote sadly in her journal.

“What’s your name?” The familiar voice tugged at her consciousness one day while she was replanting her aunt’s herbs in the sunny garden.

She turned and saw he looked almost like the carefree bystander she saw at her university campus.

“When did you start speaking?” She asked accusingly, the trowel falling from her gloved hand.

He consulted his watch mockingly. “Just about a third of a second ago. What’s your name?” He repeated.

“Patricia,” she blurted out. “But maybe you can tell me what my last name is.”

He burst out laughing. “What’s so funny? Since when was my name such a private joke?”

He held out his hand, “Since you learned that your Dad’s name is Patrick. Patricia, Patrick is pleased to meet you.”

Laughter got the better of her as she herded him to the folly the corner of the yard.

“So tell me my story. How did we come to be here?”

She was born 36 years ago, exactly on the same birthday she celebrates. Her uncle seemed like a former spook, because some of his friends looked like the secret agents she saw on TV. She was right. He and her dad were best friends in the secret service, but they parted ways when the former decided to retire and pursue a quiet civilian life.

Her mom died giving birth to her, because it was in the boondocks far from a maternity clinic in a province south of the country. It was a difficult pregnancy to begin with. Her father only had enough time to hand her over to the man she knew as her uncle before being assigned outside the country.

“Your uncle kept me updated on your progress, when you said your first word or when you took your first step. I always bought you a birthday present. I thought my solicitor’s office would send them to you after I died. This is a great, great surprise. I wouldn’t have had the courage to seek you out on my own after turning my back on you then. Even I wouldn’t forgive me for what I did,” he mused. It was the first time she saw the laughter leave his eyes.

“Well, forgive yourself because I have. I want to hug you. Can I?”

“Certainly.”

She scooted close to him on the bench and wrapped her arms around his considerable girth.

“That easy?” he said to her tousled hair.

“That easy.”

Bilog na

Kundi buwan (ano ang kahulugan)

Kung hindi man kita masilayan
Sa pagsikat ng buwan
Huwag mag-alinlangan
Ika’y kakandungin
Sa marangyang pangarap
Hindi kita pababayaan
Hindi ako mapipigilan
Ng limang dipang karagatan
O ng mga kabundukang
Humahalik sa kalangitan

Nandito ako, mananatili
Mananalig, tapat sa mga pangako
Na namutawi sa labi ng kasarinlan
Hindi mabubuwag
Pananampalataya sa mga panalangin
Na itinuro sa paglapit ng tukso

Dahil ito, ikaw, ako
Ay bahagi ng isang mundong
Kayang saklawin ang mga pangarap,
Karuwagan at paninimdim

Hindi ka akin
Ngunit ikaw ay aking dugo
Buhay ko ay kahati ng kaluluwa mo
Sa ibang pahina ng aklat ng
Buhay
Aking nilimbag ang mga pangalan
Ng mga kakambal na katinuan

Sino ako para tumanggi
Sa pagbabasbas ng Bathala ng mga ninuno

Ako ay nandito
Para makinig
Nandito para
Tumuklas
Nandito para
Sumaksi

Ako ay nandito
Para sa iyo.

Encomium

Ode To the Spring Faerie

It is springtime in my life
Like a benevolent god
You brought me here
In this place where I never thought I would be
Where I thought it would be impossible
To go back to the start

But you made it possible
The faerie queen of childhood wishes
Even when I am at the age
When I should have stopped believing in
Wishes, magic and miracles

You’re no Jesus I know
But maybe you have magic in you
Because for every naysayer,
There is a believer like me
And I believe, I believe the gospel you preach
Of choices, happiness and joy

I am here in the springtime of my life
Because you waved your magic wand
Of compassion
Scattered faerie dust of benevolence
Your magic found me
I won’t be lost again.



You saw

I was a phantom, invisible
Who only appears
When they need hot meals
And clean clothes
Shut away in an upstairs room
Transparent, never opaque
Ephemeral and without form

I looked in mirrors
I could not see myself
I tried to take shape
In their expectations
And demands
But the bodies I occupied
Killed me

Then you saw me
You became the mirror
Where I could see
Not a phantom, not a ghost
But a corporal being
With a life of her own

I saw what you saw
I saw the strength
The flaws, the feelings
The elements of being

When I saw what you saw
I came alive
I nurtured hope in my heart
I realized I was more
Than the sum of their expectations

When I saw what you saw
I believed.

Vicarious

I have watched the world
From this armchair
Comfortable and removed
From the scum and the drudgery
Of human contact
From this armchair I have judged
Multitudes ridden by guilt
From pleasures of which they partook
I handed out penance
To peons of sin
Granted comfort
In chaos, in order and in between

I listened with an impatient heart
To confessions of
Petty infractions
That to my mind would not warrant
The notice of the Omniscient One

I listened with a prurient ear
To sins of the flesh
That I could not commit myself

Through it all I saw and heard
Sometimes touched and smelled
The dirt that lies beneath
The respectable lives of the collective

For I was put in this armchair
To remind this race
That in the midst of the trouble and sorrow
There is One who listens
There is One who cares
And there is One whose hand guides
The will to be free
And the freedom to have a will
But they are mistaken
For I am one not unlike them
I just commit my sins in this armchair.

Power nap

Without fear

The angels on the tide
They’re coming closer
Speak
Let go of the iron fears
That grip your heart
Let go of the lucid silence
That has enveloped you for so long
You slept to escape
The decades that pass
As if they are the tides that push
The moon into orbit
Do not hide behind the dreams
That keep your eyes closed

You are more than the sum
Of the daybreaks you have seen
You are the screams that you
Chose not to hear
The begging you were too proud to stop
You are noble in your poverty of courage
Only because you chose integrity
Over the bags of silver
The coffers of earthly wealth
Offered up to you by Ezra

Who knows where you will go
Not even God would reveal to you
Who are favored among men
The plans that will map our destiny

Walk, go your way
But say the words you collect in your heart
Speak with the mouth you kept young
With disuse
Be free, face this world
Wake up
Shed the fears and wipe the tears
Because the time is now
And dreams are only dreams
Tomorrow is not yours
The only gift you ever get is
The present.

Inspired by Akap, A Music Video

Boot

The trick is to not breathe too deeply and to keep movements to a minimum. Leona knew this from the hundreds of times she’s ridden in the boot of her husband’s car over the years. Breathe through your mouth, keep quiet and do not cry. Easy as pie. Before you know it you’re at your destination, the door will pop open and he will help you out.

Leona is a psychology professor in a prestigious university in this part of the country. She is an accomplished artist; a few of her paintings have been peddled by Christie’s in New York. She knows that being made to ride in the boot of her husband’s car is wrong, yet she is powerless to say no every time he makes her do it. Actually, that is the wrong way to put it—for sometimes she volunteers to ride in the boot to appease her husband, especially when their arguments become too heated for comfort.

You could even say she is addicted to it. Over the years, through arguments and tears, riding in the boot developed into a ritual that now seemed to be a part of their married life.

Her husband is no redneck. He belongs to a long line of businessmen and runs the oldest business house in the country with his younger brother. He was educated in Harvard. They live in the toniest neighborhood in their country.

The ritual started shortly after they returned from the European honeymoon. He was livid after discovering she misplaced his love letters. He kept nagging her about their historical importance, since he comes from an old family and how people a hundred years hence will want to know how he courted his wife.

She retorted, “I don’t give a flying fuck. I live in the here and now, not 2100!”

He slapped her and forced her into the boot. She struggled then; struggled with everything she’s got, banged on the door and screamed as if there was no tomorrow.

To her dismay, there would be many more tomorrows, tomorrows spent in the boot for infractions as minor as taking off her engagement and wedding rings while scrubbing pots to going out with a fellow professor who happened to be lesbian and in love with her.

It was fortunate, Leona thought, that their union did not produce offspring who would surely be traumatized by the sight of her being imprisoned in such a small space, and increasingly with her consent.

“I used to have a spine,” she thought, way before she met her husband. Friends always marveled at her audacity. She could not count the number of times she came up to a stranger to chat with him because she found him attractive. She once streaked through her college campus on a dare. When she was much younger, she was a real tomboy and all her friends were boys. They’d moon teachers and are frequent occupants of the detention room. Now, she’s even afraid to break out of her routines, habits formed to cope with the stresses of her marriage. She learned to do the things her husband likes and discard the parts of her that she believes offends her husband. It was a slow process, the atrophy of her real self so that she barely noticed how far she left who she was behind. When she did, she thought sadly that it was too late to retrieve the pieces of herself that she’d let go.

This was their biggest row to date. He confronted her with pictures of her being affectionate with her lesbian co-professor. He had every right to be angry because she really was cheating on her husband. Their marriage, after four years, inevitably moved to the arctic regions of both their hearts. She could no longer feel the initial spark that attracted her to her very eligible husband back then. She sought to find a way out of her ennui, and she thought an affair, something forbidden, would breathe life back into their soulless marriage. She was wrong, she admitted, oh how very, very wrong!

She did not argue, she swallowed all the insults and epithets her husband threw at her. He had every right to be angry, she conceded. All that she asked of him was to let her go, break up the marriage because it was obviously making both of them miserable.

He was adamant, he threatened to hunt her down and bring her back if she ran away, and he could. To appease him, she popped the boot open and climbed in. He stared at her for a good minute, as if vacillating between getting her out and hitting her or closing the door and taking the long drive that always calmed him.

“Get out,” he commanded. He took off his tie and bound her hands, and then he stashed her into the front passenger seat of his silver blue Jaguar. He started the engine and drove eastward to where the mountains were. “Let’s end this.”

He drove up the mountain road, through hairpin bends until he reached the highest ravine. He stopped the car, pushed Leona out and hurtled into the deep abyss below.

Leona screamed for him to stop, trying to untie her hands.

It was too late. She loved him, loved him with all her heart. It was her who was moving away from him, who shut him out because she had trouble staying in an intimate relationship. It was her who had him twisted up in knots because he didn’t know how to engage her in their marriage. She knew that now.

But it was too late. Too late to change, too late to say the things she’d been longing to say to her husband, too late to undo her miscreant past.

Leona felt cold sitting on her knees on the side of the road. Maybe if she screamed his name he’d come back

“Simon!”

But all that was left was the singing of the crickets.

Panalangin

Sa araw-araw
Aking hiling
Katahimikan sa mga
Gulo ng mundo
Turuan mo akong humingi
Turuan mo akong maniwala
Na ang paghingi ng pang-unawa
Ay hindi masama
Turuan mo akong tanggapin
Ang nakikita sa salamin
Buksan ang puso sa mga
Matang nakikita ang
Mga bagay na hindi ko matingnan
Kung itong lahat ay
Magwawakas
At wala akong maiiwang bakas
Panginoon, aking tanging hiling
Bigyan mo ako ng lakas
Na huwag piliing tumakas.

Bulakenya, kababayan ni Balagtas (mula sa 2009)

Sa pagsala sa pag-ibig
Ako'y humilig
Sa iyong brasong makisig

Hindi inakala
Na matatagpuan
Minimithing kanlungan

Sa aking paghimlay
Pagmamahal mo ang taglay
Pag-unamwang tunay
Huwag sanang papanglaw

Kailan mabubwag
Karamdamang huwad
Na nagsanla ng katahimikan
Ng pusong sinugatan
Ng isang daang taong hidwaan

Kailan susuko ang
Mga hukbo ng pag-ibig
Sa tunay na umiibig

Kung walang hanggan ang katapat
Walang atubili
Itong hihintayin.

Postprandial

Wish

I wish to play in the ground
Frozen into stillness
By loss and conclusions

I wish to swing to the beat
Of the deathly toll of a bell
That bore witness to the passing of life
In a time when the pace was faster
Than the speed of light

I wish to bear the marks
Of an existence made meaningless
By wars waged in the name
Of a god nameless in his uselessness

I wish for a deity
Who would hear me
And take heed of my penance
A penance that is a bargain
To reach the higher depths of being

I wish to be blind to the
Faults in the crust of my life
The tremors I feel
But are intangible to everyone

I have nothing, I am nobody
Important in the universe of a pebble
These wishes are prayers
Written up in the bible of deceit
The epitaph of a prophet
Listened to by no one.

Afternoon Poetry

In defense of thunder

You came, rolling, timid

As if denied of the right

To remain where you’ve always been

The lightning is bleeding

Sharp blood, the shade of light

It is impossible to injure

Ephemera, yet you did

You did not conjure the courage

To come up and scream at the top

Of your invisible lungs

And pretend to be invincible

Like the eternal mountains

You terrorize

But the wounded decibels

The unheard seconds

They are a testament to the abuse

You endured

So the lightning was injured

You always had to walk a step behind

Serve up the hot and be left

With the cold

Your wrath made you braver

Than you could ever be

When it is gone

You will not miss it

For cowering is precious to you

And being a coward is all you want

Because it is easier

Than being who you really are

And who you are is a wish you

Wish you did not make

The lightning is dying

It is your fault

The gods will hold you

Accountable

But it is of no consequence

For for the first time in

Infinity

You are free.

Prize

I have not heard the beauty

That the eyes cannot see

I could not feel the reds

That cushion each

Fall from grace

I cannot forget the sanity

That lodged in my head

After the battle scars

Have faded

And flew away like a

Visiting breeze

I am not the person

I will be after I have drawn your blood

No precious pearls

Will ransom your life

From my grip

Because you chose to escape

When you were needed

And you were cruel

When kindness was in order

Vengeance has made me forget

The principles of war

Because I disappeared

The moment it appeared

I cannot be who I was before

Anymore

The four letters on my palm

Spell death for someone

I cannot be meek

I cannot be the lamb of salvation

I cannot be blind

I cannot be deaf

To the call of creation

Yet here I stand

My sword is drawn

Ready for the dubious prize

The heart

That no longer beats in your chest.

The Letter W: A Triptych

What I do

No matter what I do

The same things come round

I could cry til the heavens come down

Still I’d hit the ground

It’s the same place I go

No matter where I go

I end up here where you are

Can’t believe you’re still so far

I’ve burned, I’ve been burned

Had the ashes come down

Had the flames crash the crown

I’m still here in the place where I was

I’ve slept the sleep of children

I’ve slept the sleep of criminals

Cried a thousand crocodile tears

And wept for a forgotten Messiah

But it’s no different whatever I do

It’s this infinite déjà vu

It’s not me, it’s you

Because you’re the same no matter

What I do.

What if the water weeps

What if the water weeps

Sheds tears of lightning

Over hearts that keep breaking

For mountains it cannot climb

For seas with whose depths

It has been intimate

If the water weeps,

The world would be deluged

By schemes and plans

To unbreak hearts

For liquid sheds liquid

For homeless souls

For children who are

Whipping boys of a

World that has lost its way

The tears of lightning

Will strike at the tree on the mountain

In a country, in a continent, in a world

In a universe devoid of a God

That cries for the heartless

Because the water must weep

For the heartless

For where the heartless rule

Hearts break

Over lilies, over foxgloves

Over linnets, over robins

Over stray dogs and orphan rabbits

That might go without a

By your leave, a bye-bye

If God lets the water weep

What would be left there to sweep?

When I look at you

I remember what days were like

When I was unbroken and whole

When I look at you

The timid light you shine

Shows me that imperfect could be perfect

That flaws are the mark of strength

Left there by circumstance

To remind us of the deaths we cheated

I look at you and I believe

That my God is not lesser than their gods

That His love is infinite

And reveals itself to those

Who dared the limits of living

The sight of you is my port in a storm

That threatens to overwhelm me

As I sail through seas too rough for

The fragile vessel that is my soul

My earthly life will end

But between the finish and now is a journey

And when I look at you

I know there could be more, so much more

Only had I the courage to touch you.

Windows

I live in a house with just the right number of windows. Two in every bedroom, two in the living room, two in the dining room, three in the kitchen, one in the utility room. They are glass windows encased in grill. They are just the right size to let enough light and air in without letting in the draft during the cold seasons.

I do not like looking out the windows, it gives me vertigo. Yet I appreciate their presence in my house. In my solitude I look at them from a distance, watch the light stream through them morning and night.

I was not always alone. I had a husband and children. They were my life, until the car accident that claimed Joseph, my husband and my daughters Martha and Ina.

It happened years ago, but the pain is as vivid as it was the day I learned I’m all alone in this planet. I was inconsolable for a time. I would cry for days on end, grieve over a twist of fate that left me feeling helpless. Then, my life turned around. The epiphany was not sudden; it was a gradual thawing of my heart that came after I made small realizations about the bad choices I made in my life and how I used my husband and children to escape the demons of my past.

Mine is an unusual story. I was raped, when I was quite young by my stepmother. My dad had died and in her grief she turned to me in the most destructive way. I was seven, an outgoing, extroverted child who wanted to be friends with each classmate, each teacher, each play mate who came my way. Jean loved my father; you can tell it by the way she looks at him. She loved him maybe to the point of obsession, but after a fashion she loved him.

Dad died of cancer, it was a lingering illness that claimed every ounce of love in Jean’s heart and stripped her of the ability to feel joy. She mourned him for years on end, and after I lost my own family, I saw the world through my stepmother’s eyes.

Now that I look back, I think maybe the grief made her a little crazy. Which is why she did what she did to me. On nights when she was lonely, she’d bid me come to her room. She would stick a scratchy moustache over my upper lip and make me lick her there at knife point. There were nights when sex toys were involved. I’d get sick afterwards, in my bathroom and life became hell from that moment on.

I wanted to run away, but the thought of becoming a street urchin did not appeal to me. I liked to know where my next meal would come from and I liked going to school. I knew at that young age what it would mean to give up the privileges that came with living with Jean. So I hatched a plan. I’d study real hard, make good grades and get a scholarship to a university north of the country, where seas would separate me from Jean. I made good on my promise to myself. I finished college third from the top of my class and got an invitation to teach English studies at a prestigious university in Singapore.

There I met and fell in love with Joseph and we were married after a two year courtship. Being a young mother to beautiful twin daughters occupied my time, along with my part time teaching stint in this foreign country.

Then the accident happened. I could not bear to be alive while my daughters and husband were six feet under. I thought how unfair that I be left behind when my family was already gone. I questioned God. I asked, why when I have made so many sacrifices, been through enough already, was robbed of my parents at an early age, was robbed of my childhood. Why, I asked.

I flew back to Manila to try and pick up the pieces of my life. I thought, maybe if I stayed far from the memories I would get to keep my sanity. So I took up a friend’s offer to look after her home here while trying to get a job in my alma mater. The house with plenty of windows and space enough to begin anew was to be my salvation, if only because I could not believe in my girlhood God anymore.

But it was not to be the start I hoped for. Jean found me through old friends I contacted upon coming back to my home country. I got a condolence card from her, along with her phone number, “if you want to talk,” it read.

She was not how I expected to be. The years were kind to her. Jean looked as if she has settled her dues with the universe and could take any curve ball life will throw her way without going berserk.

And I remembered. After her year of grief, it was like the sky cleared. The abuse stopped and through my years in grade school and high school I was given the chance to heal. And heal I did. She let me be, and intuition told me that she was doing so to make up for her crazy behavior. I had freedom to choose my friends, my subjects, my hobbies, my music, my ideas, even my clothes. She never said no, but I was wise enough not to abuse the liberties she granted me. I became the most cultured (I love theater and the orchestra), best dressed kid in my class. I blossomed.

But I forgot all these things because I chose to focus on the wrong Jean did to me. That year of hell canceled out the other years when she gave me the best gift of all: freedom.

Now that I am here face to face with her, I am torn apart. It’s like meeting God and the devil at the same time. She smiled tentatively, I smiled back. Jean did not look like her 63 years. She looked 45. And her eyes have lost that wild, crazed look I wanted to remember about her. In its place was a kind light, as if she discovered a way out of grief and into joy. I was amazed.

“How did you do it?” I asked. And then I sobbed and cried out all the anger and frustration that would not leave me.

Jean took me in her arms and suddenly I was five again and it was the first time I fell from the playground swing. She was my mom, because my real mom died while giving birth to me and there was no way on this earth that I could remember her.

“I want to talk about that year, so please let me. I feel it’s the only way we can ever move on from it. Every time I abused you, I wanted to say sorry. But I was proud. Then one day we were at the playground and I watched you. It was like I saw you for the first time. You were withdrawn, not like the kid I used to take care of before your Dad died. And I saw you, and that’s when I realized I had no right to do what I was doing to you. You are the offspring of the only man who ever made me feel love and I thought it would be unfair to destroy your childhood so early in the game,” she pleaded.

I wiped my tears and blew my nose. I said to her, “Say you’re sorry, and then let’s put the past behind us. You were good to me, all things considered.”

“Okay. Jasmine, I am sorry from the bottom of my heart. I did not mean to do you harm. Let me make it up to you,” she said, squeezing my hands tight.

“So tell me, what’s your secret? I can’t remember you being this happy,” I probed.

“I got in touch with you because of this,” Jean uttered, as if not hearing me. She took out two identical looking pills, both beige and the same size. “A friend gave me this on his deathbed; he said he didn’t want to waste it since he was sick and already dying.”

“Explain,” I urged.

“One is a sleeping pill, one is a cyanide pill. It’s poison. I need someone to take it with. It’s like a Russian roulette; you don’t know what you’re getting. If you wake up, that’s fine, if you don’t even better,” she said with an infectious grin.

“Wait, wait. Let me get this straight, you’ve been walking around with those—those things in your purse and the thought of skirting the immorality of suicide is keeping you happy?” I was incredulous.

“I haven’t thought about it, quite frankly until I heard about what happened to you. I thought, you’d be in the same boat, losing the man you love, losing your kids. So here I am.”

“Do you really want to die?”

“Nothing would be better. I go through the motions everyday. I’ve made my peace with the loss of your Dad, I did it with so much help from you, you know seeing you live at the edge of being, and it gave me a sense of purpose. But when you left I had to do it all over again.”

“I don’t think I’m ready Jean, let me think about it,” I balked.

I took my time thinking about Jean’s proposition. Here she was again, presenting me with a conundrum, putting me in between a very hard place and a rock.

I spent my days in the windowed house, contemplating the light that beamed through the windows and onto the owner’s beautiful things. I grew an herb garden. I started reading again. Jean and I met for lunch every other day and I would recall the fun memories I have of living with her and discovering the person I was meant to be under her roof.

I sifted through my friend’s recipe books and decided to make dinner for Jean and a handful of close friends.

One friend was a violinist so we had live entertainment for the night. When the party was about to end, Jean took me aside.

“I think we both made up our minds about the pills. I’ll come for you tomorrow morning. We’ll go for a drive,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

I did not sleep that night. I thought really hard about the possibility of putting an end to my life after only 34 years of being alive. Yet, if it meant a consequence free means of being with my departed family then, I was all for it.

Jean came in at seven a.m. We drove southwards to Tagaytay. When we got near Taal Volcano, she parked her car and hired a boat that would take us near the volcano, which was in the middle of a lake.

On the boat, Jean took out the pills and gave them to me. She said, “It’s your decision.”

I stared at the beige pills in my palm for a long time. I did not think about God then. I thought about my husband and my girls, and how they always looked to me to do the right thing. That made me want to do the right thing.

I dipped my palm in the lake and let the water wash away the pills. Jean smiled and hugged me. Then I knew, I’d be alright and my time would come, if I just waited— gracefully—as Jean was doing.

********