Poem

How fares the child whom sire forgot,
whose veins run cold from lying bare
against the wind, his bitter lot
resigned 'mid strangers to despair?

For I can't now conjure in mind
the sweetness of our early days.
Tonight, when even stars are blind,
my pain and tears their only grace.

Where are you, angel? Dearest friend!--
can parting be so final now?
For years I've loved. My eye and hand
forget the sight, the feeling? How?

And even mem'ry shall betray
amid adopted company;
to think I'll never tread the way
returning all so dear to me!

How fares the heart thus turned adrift,
bereft of familiarity?
Not knowing when the darkness lifts,
both past and future lost to me.

some short works

I have recently stumbled upon poems on my mobile, and though I blush to read them again, some of the feelings they encapsulate still ring true to me. And so I present them here--maybe some other person will find comfort, or see some "emblem of a secret brotherhood" in them.


Silver, silver pouring forth
from ebon skies,
why came you here?
My heart is filled enough with ice,
my soul with lies.

Unbearable weight

yet wisp-lightness, we indulge

in the sin of love.

'Tis a small distance

between earth and perdition:

space 'twixt waiting lips.

Can't let you kiss me, 

lest I be betrayed by scent

of bitter almonds.

I can only claim 

memory, you are apart,

achingly other.

poem

Put your feelings in your pocket
and let them stay there, safe.
Walk unmindful through the city--
now there's nothing they can take.

Or stay at home, where they can't get you;
shut the door and pull the blinds.
Set the music to the volume
where it can save you from your mind.

Write your poems and hide them somewhere--
is there a reader for them here?
Hush your inner soul rebelling;
that's what they did before, my dear.

a storm - poem

This is my kind of weather: cold,
windy, the type that sends leaves knocking
on my bedroom window, only to be laughingly
denied admittance--I would shut those panels
to have the pleasure of feeling
the brewing storm from the other side of the glass.

Inside my shuttered room, I now feel
a muting of the present's nagging sounds,
the prickling tug of the irreconcilable past, and I find
joy in this torture. I am back in my old school,
walking in a shower sans umbrella, dampened hair curling
against splashed white clothing. I call

and he answers, mingling laughter and rebuke
in the warmth of his cracking teenaged voice. I wish
for the thousandth time, each time this scene
has called me back, that with rainwater as his glass
and with darkness and dampness contrasting, he would
read the claim of soul's kinship in my eyes.

But it is always too much to hope for. Outside the window,
the rain had ceased falling, and I am here again,
immobile, awash with stagnant emotion. It is
during a transitional state like this, a pause
between showers, that we parted--sweetest
and most bitter of all misunderstandings.

M i n a h a l k i t a     p e r o    'd i     m o     a l a m.

Liberte

Give me flight and I will love you
with a range from earth to sky.
Give me wings and you will never
have to feel the rough, the dry--
for your feet will never touch them.
And though all the world should try,
love would stay forever nested
in our heaven, by and by.

Set me free, and swift as starlight,
I will sail through all of space.
There proclaim our transient loving,
in so doing, give it weight.
Much of love may be the doing
of that thing named chance, or fate;
but let our love be born of freedom:
free of distance and of date.

Memories in November

I stared in silence at the gray smoke curling up from the candles, as they burned amid the lazy afternoon light. 

What am I here for? What are we here for?

I can’t even remember the first time I've been brought to visit my grandfather’s grave. I can only remember snippets of the succeeding visits—the ones which have become regular features of the yearly tradition. Each time is so like the others. There was always the melancholy fragrance of burning wax, the haphazard flower arrangements, my grandmother’s biko and adobo.

The mausoleum started as a blank gray space, open at all sides—the raw monotony of the unpainted walls were broken only by their contrast with the white slab that was my grandfather’s tomb. The years have brought with them a lot of changes. There were now walls around the tomb, and windows with grills on them; and the blank space saw a splash of blue and yellow paint. Because the renovations made the mausoleum look so much like the "Big Brother House", my cousins and I dubbed it "Bahay ni Lolo Johnny". Now, even my cousins are gone--separated from me by miles and miles of ocean, building their dreams on faraway shores. 

I never met Lolo Johnny, so I can't exactly say I know what missing him is like. But even so, I had the feeling that the yearly visits to him will serve to teach me something. Do the living visit the dead for the dead? It may be, but I believe the living do this more for themselves--creating an image of continuity, "Why, our loved one may be gone already, but life goes on." I--we--can build on memory. Memory matters. Memory can be something worth fighting for.

I think of this as I watch the people dropping by to light a candle for my grandfather, my mother and grandmother busy with my cousin Ethan, who was visiting Lolo Johnny for the first time. There might have been a time when these very people doubted the possibility of moving on, but here we are.

Here we are--and we need not worry why. This will all be for something.

Poem

But drinkest thou of grief, alone,
O windows of my soul?
For then I'd fan thy fire out--
With weeping heart, condole.
Thou of our share of jewel tears
Dost hand out much too free,
And level to a piteous heap
All that is ours to keep.

And speakest but of darkling time,
O doors to feeble breath?
For then I'd lock thy lips and leave
Thy wailing noise unsaid.
Thou speakest only vanity,
Remaining e'er unheard--
No audience have thee to applaud
Thy waiting dreary ode.

Desert me to mine bleak abyss,
There sorrow flee, forget.
'Tis better to be there alone
Than speaketh but regret.

Poem: On wings of Thought

"When I wake up, the dream isn't done. 
I want to see your face and know I made it home. 
If nothing is true, what more can I do?
I am still painting flowers for you."
-Painting Flowers, All Time Low.

---

On wings of Thought, my mem'ries come
To touch my heart and spark my eye.
I hear my soul -- the silent hum
Of feelings that refuse to die. 

Mayhap it went too far, too fast?
My wounds have yet from time to heal
And dreams transport to moments past;
My mind does stray from what is real.

Your ghostly kisses haunt me still -- 
Those vows which we have left unsaid.
The ling'ring whispers fight my will;
I wake and breathe, but I am dead! 

What must I do to carry on
Without your voice to guide my feet?
And shall I call our wishes won
A triumph? More 'tis of defeat.

On wings of Thought, our idylls come -- 
Again -- to kindle hope, then fly.
Release! I beg, my heart be numb.
Else, let these long shed tears to dry.


---

Another older poem that I'm not so embarrassed about. 

Poem, untitled. 23rd September 2014

Think you this world's too vastly spread
to measure with our little feet?
So I do but, my love,
not here!

Think you that time moves far too swift
for us to trace the flow of days?
So I do but, my love,
not now!

Behold! Enclosed between our hands:
the distant stars, embracing.
And what of time? I lay with you
and measure by your heartbeat.

---

Poem: Pierce the veil

I long had walked upon the trail,

O’er barren fields and rocky hills,

A drive in me to pierce the veil

And find a balm to ease my ills.

I ventured asking what is right,

Amid a world of wailing noise --

A newly opened eye to light,

An ear that seeks a conq’ring voice.

But here I stand, my will confused;

The end is far and out of sight.

With what soul was my life infused,

For which I still have need to fight?

For what solution do I seek –

What purpose spurs the flame of life?

What heart upholds my flesh, though weak

And weary passing mortal strife?

I’d only ask, for none too soon

Could fabled answers come to me.

I cannot say if bane or boon

Would at the end be what to see.

So while I walk, I pray I may

Continue searching life for truth.

Thus, when it comes - the final day –

I’d say fulfilled had been my youth.

---

This is an old poem I rather liked.

Poem: Lovelornity

Why do still I recall, why can’t it be forgot;

this is a humbling fall, a most bereaving lot.

I know of chilling cold that solitude may bring,

 but ‘twas not ever told, how flick’ring embers sting.

How soon you do forget, how painless walking on

from where we’ve early met, where love so dearly won

began to make its claim on ev’ry little part—

too early given aim to vent from loving heart.

What then, shall I profess, when waiting long is spent

and time has helped redress, forgive myself, repent?

With only lonesome eyes could greeting be bestowed—

a wish that ‘twas a lie, or truth we’ve never known.

---

Poem: The Economist

What worth assign to this: excess,
abundance, overflow?
And when? the time to speak that less
is more, what sign to know?

I fear this flood that loving heart,
unbidden, gives to you.
To ask for even cast-out parts--
oh, loving! What a due.

Your kisses--scant--commodities,
For these I dearly pay.
Affection--with that currency,
I lose before I play.

---

For SB - Happy birthday, sir

Written in March 2013, while preparing for the NSPC. Happy birthday, Sir! I'm forever your Republic staffer.
--

I could only stare at the computer screen in shock. And when it passed, a black wave of panic and disbelief washed over me, until at last the tears streamed down and blurred the words on the screen.

I blinked my tears away, bit my lip, and continued scrolling, though each Facebook post I saw only intensified my misery. There are griefs that are eased by the sight of others likewise grieving for what you all lost, but this wasn't that kind of grief. "Rest in peace, Sir Bong", "You'll be missed"--all the different words and all those people--how could someone who had touched so many lives be taken away so suddenly?

He was the English teacher who became my class adviser in second year, the guy whom you'd never catch speaking Filipino. He looked like a foreigner even when he wasn't. He knew his students' stories: who's dating, who's crushing on whom, who's downplaying their potential. He came to class with knock-knock jokes and spelling words, asked us to write "My handsome English teacher will give us additional points" on our outputs. He listened to The Beatles, he was the kind of teacher you could sit with for hours, just talking.

I began to reminisce about him, hoping to stamp his influence permanently on my soul.

"I'm confident with my line-up," he'd said to me before the Regional Schools Press Conference. He said it so empathetically, I was touched. I thought, I'll be very much surprised if I met someone who believed in my ability more than he did.

Closing my eyes to that memory, I racked my brain for another. What I found was this scene of blazing light, too bright for me to make out faces in front of me. It was the awarding ceremony of the RSPC. I was standing with Sir Bong on the stage, waiting for the announcement of winners. I didn't even know where to turn my eyes, and kept shooting him with nervous glances. But Sir Bong just stood there smiling, like there was something he knew that I didn't.

Then it came. "Andrea Joyce Lucas, second place!"

My heart lurched in disbelieving joy, and all the words I wanted to say was lost to the excitement of the moment. Sir Bong remained composed, but his congratulatory smile said enough.

He was proud! I made him proud.

The realization brought me back to the surface, drowning as I was in chaotic feelings over his passing. I smiled a little through the tears. We shared but a brief time, but there was a lot, a whole world of things I learned from him. To just write and let loose. To embrace that streak of sentimentality. To believe in myself.

So I steeled my resolve and returned my attention to the computer screen. Whatever words I could muster at that moment may not prove enough, but I imagined him smiling at me for them nonetheless. He was always a believer.

And so I began typing my tribute, "Sir Bong Miguel..."

08-19-14

We lay together with our hands linked, but already we are sundered by form. Sight, touch, feeling, passing time--would that we shared the infinite span of each other's being... It is hard holding your hand and thinking how different it is, myself and the person existing in the recesses of your mind. Hello, stranger. Am I, or am I not... these random thoughts spill out of me like tears: soundless and sightless, flowing endlessly, senselessly. I fill a yawning void with unrelenting affection.

I'd have done better with your affirmation. Dost thou love me? But you are sleeping soundly, and there's only so much that you could hear me say. 

untitled

You are not one of a kind, and what we have is not much different from what others have. We hold hands like most others do. We believe we're entitled to that sense of possession. Like everyone else. We read the same poems they did when they were falling in love:

Had we but world enough, and time.


Would that we had all the world and all of time, indeed, but with this loving I am happy. I choose those eyes among many others, with its unending flood of stories waiting to be read. I choose those hands, rough and brown, to cradle mine. I choose to walk beside you beneath the acacias, I choose to wait for words to breathe in that space between us.

You are not one of a kind, and I choose you. I exercise the fullest sense of my being by so doing:

Siehe, ich liebe. Woraus? Weder Kindheit noch Zukunft werden weniger... Überzähliges Dasein entspringt mir Herzen.

08-09-14

I can't ask you to speak, I can't ask
to speak, I am used to so much silence,

endless nights pass without the merest whisper
of a dream or maybe I just couldn't remember

anything, everything is so blank, I can't ask
for you to come and make it bearable,

I am lonely, waiting for you to realize
I'm alone, will you ever come to me,

this palm waits for yours to clasp it,
and sunlight and color and words

and music will bloom between them,
I want it, I want to be silent no more.

untitled

I want to be saved by you, but only I can save myself, isn't that right? Loving was never about saving or being saved, but oh! how I wish it was. Tonight I sit on the topmost stair, head resting on the wall. I am waiting...for what? I am tired. I do not know. I wish I could say I was waiting for you, but I can't ever be sure. To wait means there's something coming.

I feel like I am stretched too much, the threads of my life spanning a lot more space at the price of wearing thin. Maybe that's what I'm waiting for. I am waiting for the breaking point, for the fabric to finally tear apart, leave me in tatters. I am waiting for the blow that severs life from limb, or thought from action. I wait for everything. Everything that is nothing.

I want to be saved by you.

I want to be loved by you.

I want you to deal the killing blow. Render me senseless. Exempt me from blame. 

entries

Written August 17, 2013

This will be by the people, by one who is kin to their innermost feelings, and for the people - for those who are, those who were, those who will be. This is for the "here" and the "there". This is for me.

But most especially, this is for you.

Written August 18, 2013

Word, then verb. Sound, then echo. Name and thought, then memory. Then everything fades to nothing. Life is pointless, isn't it? You're here very briefly, and then you go. You're not even sure if you are one of kind -- of all the millions that walked this earth, how can you say you're the only one who's like this or that? 

You're not certain, if you can say goodbye when it's time to go...

Written November 1, 2013

I can only remember snippets of each succeeding visit - the ones which have become a regular feature of each one. Each memory is so like the others, that I often struggle to remember which year they were from. It was always the peculiar scent of burning candles, the ugly white baby's breath flowers, my grandmother's rice cake, and adobo. 

Written November 9, 2013

It was always rejection: people too busy to talk, too sad to answer, too important to mess with. And I am tired -- tired of shouting out to empty space, weary of knocking on doors that I will never see open. I want to go. 

~~~

5 reasons why ‘social networking’ in the Net is an oxymoron

Coming from a geeky and possibly antisocial introvert who shies away from 75% of her upperclassmen and posts nauseatingly acridly sweet uninspired weird poems on Wattpad. Now, there may be several factors contributing to that unfortunate reality (being antisocial, I mean) including my upbringing, choice of books, exposure to mass media, the imminent threat of the proletariat rising up against the government, aaaand the zombie apocalypse (wat) – but for sure I can’t rule out the Internet. I’ve only recently realized how much of a joke it is, what with bridging gaps and forging connections, and am horrified to think about how it may be turning people my age into (uninspired, unenlightened) hermits. Say what you will, but you know it’s true. We’re becoming more socially inept by the minute.

And no, stop smirking - the grownups didn’t make me write this one. (Ha!) Although I can almost hear them cheering me on, as they sit and chat about the old times (cue SFX: Sunday morning FM music).

But you be the judge.

1.      Selfies – every day, every hour. DEAR LORD. Personally, I don’t have anything against selfies, and heck, I take pictures of myself once in a while too. Because pictures say a lot. So it’s hell week and I haven’t had any more than 3 hours of sleep? I’ll post a selca and let a cheery smile amid dark eyes and pale skin speak for me. Every picture is a story in itself – if I may be permitted the cheesy wording, each one can be a work of art.

Sure. My once in a blue moon posted selca. 

But I won't put any pretentious hippie captions.

(Er... even my own annoys me.)

2.      Documenting each and every moment of every day. I get it, that’s why we call a Facebook post, a status. We’re entitled to put what’s in our minds inside that little white dialog box, to be shared with the whole world. TO. BE. SHARED. WITH. THE. WHOLE. WORLD.

Every rant, every mean and sarcastic (in bad taste) remark, every sleep-deprivation/work-dilemma/alcohol induced stupidity. We put them out there where people can judge them. And the worse thing is that, unless we delete these posts, they’ll linger on and taunt us, “Oh, look what a self-absorbed twit you were. Bazinga!”

“Aaaaaaaarggghh! Stuck in traffic for the nth time,” quoth one FB user. Do we need to know that? Unless it’s an interesting traffic jam (in which case, post a picture) or your post contains sharply delivered social commentary on the state of public transportation in the Philippines, no one gives a rat’s ass.

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE THINK BEFORE YOU POST. And if you’re going to tell the story of how your whole day went, do it on Twitter. It’s a micro-blogging site - use it for what it is, dammit!

3.      Gossip on the news feed/Twitter feed. TV actor gets mauled. Two actresses have a catfight over an ex-boyfriend or two. Famous personality admits to being gay/lesbian/bisexual. Within an hour after getting posted on social media, fingers start buzzing over the keyboard, poised to fling a word of rebuke or an (unnecessary, rash) opinion.

            And as if it’s not bad enough seeing what we now consider headlines, there are people who actually fall for it. Hard. 

No matter what day of the week it is, no matter if the person in question is a student or already part of the workforce. (Although I haven't done much research on that, you can go check the stats yourself.) No one can resist the faux feeling of being on moral high ground when commenting on the day's hot issues.

             Everyone's entitled to an opinion, true. But we forget that these words we fling around like shit online are as potent as spoken ones. The Internet is a meeting place like any other - rules and etiquette apply.

             (And we're gabbing on about online libel? Cyber crime, my ass.)

4.      “Like my content, please!” Out of the blue, one of your 1 237 Facebook friends messages you – and it goes like this:

Random friend: Hiiiiiiii ateng maganda! Pa-like naman po netong picture nato: http://www.facebook.com/ajdgjahgjgdfbkjkjbncgwahag. Malaking bagay na po ‘yung isang like nyo. Maraming salamat po! :3

You: Okay, done! :)

      That went well… right?

But deep inside you’re annoyed, maybe even a little sad. That one friend was your preschool classmate – you added him about three years ago – and you’ve never really had a chat on Facebook before, until now.

Because that’s what (Facebook) friends are for, apparently.

5.      See what your friends are liking/favoriting/sharing. This is only a recent development. So you were bored one day and your thoughts were going from schoolwork (you model student, you) to that download that’s taking too long (darned Internet connection) to that girl you were crushing on forever (should you have asked her out?). You wonder what she’s up to now.

The healthy way to deal with it would have been to dismiss the thought and think of unicorns and marshmallows.

But of course you don’t. You go to Facebook and run a search for her recent activity. (Well, she wouldn’t know you’re doing it, right?) You learn that she’d recently broken up with her boyfriend (Great! Now’s your chance!) - but then, another guy’s posting sweet nothings on her timeline. And that leads you to this guy’s page, where you check if your crush likes his posts and pictures as well.

Positive. Whad’ja do now?

GOD, PEOPLE. DON'T YOU HAVE LIVES?

     Overthink. Obsess. Misconstrue meanings. Yes, social media's turning us into raging psychos.

HONORABLE MENTION:

"Seenzone"
Need I say more?

~~~~~

Have a good day, everyone. :)

Social tips from the timid

Actually, you’re possibly screwed if you’re taking social advice from me.

But, yeah, you’re welcome.

1.       Most people, if not all, are egocentric. Even you. Try not to let it show. It’s a turnoff, even if you have a strong personality. You’ll drain the life out of conversations and social interactions if you keep the thread revolving around you, you and you alone.

Adding a dash of “How about you?” (at the very least) never hurt anyone, hmmmkay?

2.       You were in kindergarten once. You should know how to say “Good morning.” Or afternoon/evening. And hello/thank you/sorry. (And tie your shoelaces too, but that’s not the point.) Before you disturb anyone, ask them for favors, engage them in interviews, at least give the impression that you’re not a total d*ck. ‘Yung wala man lang utang na loob, gano’n.

Greeting people makes them feel appreciated, and they’re more likely to give you what you want.

3.       Don’t be pushy. You don’t ask to see someone’s personal playlist, let alone his phone when you’ve only just met.

It’s kinda threatening. 

4.       Don’t be too rigid, don’t judge so hard. Don’t single out other people or openly give derogatory comments just because they’re in a different religion, taking a different college course, cheering for the other basketball team. If it’s an argument, remember that logic prevails. Dropping details like, say, seeing them pick their noses in public won’t help you win your case, attorney.

      And for the love of all that is holy, don’t bash people when they’re being too “intellectual”. You’re not only bringing them down, you’re also effectually insinuating that you’re too dumb to get it.

Just. Don’t.

5.       Learn how to work in a group. Don’t try and say you’re an introvert just because it’s cool nowadays. And actually, even introverts know the value of teamwork.

      In collaborative publishing, for example, remember that whatever you do separately from your colleagues casts a reflection on the institution as a whole. You’re all under the same banner (and the same logo, and the same dreary and depressing drink-to-cope office). Without their company it would be extremely hard to produce outstanding output, maybe even any output at all just to save face.

6.       Spare us the drama. It’s for kids. At the most, for high school girls swooning over and having catfights over bishie-pretty guys. Even if you’re actually still in high school, this isn’t acceptable behavior—university is just around the corner now, reality is beginning to hound your footsteps, poised to jump and strike at any moment.

      Spare yourself from giving the wrong and unreasonable impression that you’re the weak and weepy type. And don’t risk repulsing potential allies by the childish “silent treatment” and backstabbing practices you’ve mastered over the past few years—you need all the friends you can get, young one. Brace yourself, winter is coming.

7.       If you know you’re good, let others say it for you. Granted, little instances of bragging here and there will probably be acceptable and not too repulsive. Heck, at some times you might even be justified for being proud of something. But there’s a fine line dividing honest, deserving, look-what-we-Filipinos-can-do pride from just vulgar boasting.

And, yes, hello, even Wikipedia requires secondary sources.

~~~

Have a nice day, everyone.

words

Let me tell you what the problem is with words. Let me tell you, with the warmth of greeting from a mute palm or at that moment when I wordlessly turn from you in misunderstanding.

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, and tells a tale it never feels.

See this, and see how discriminate words are. We walk under the city sky and feel the rain falling on our heads, all of us beggars and bourgeois alike, be it that the shower is a blessing or an annoyance. Not so with words--sugared and yielding where something hangs in the balance, scathing in scorn, merciless in indifference.

Deceit the guilty lips impart, and hush the mandates of the heart.

But there is one thing where rain and words do not differ. You may have seen it. In the busy streets of Manila when it rains, when each little drop of water comes knocking on a sheltered heart: metal, concrete, asphalt--lies. No one listens, no one cares. Not you. Water gathers dirt and floods the city, the tears of an angel unheeded. We might have tried to listen if it wasn't here. If it was parted from us from a long time.

But souls' interpreters, the eyes, spurn such restraint and scorn disguise.

When rain, when words have left us, all that's left to do is to look at the skies. That's when we seek communion, in the silence looming more ominous than words. With tears in our eyes, a prayer in our parched lips, our palms outstretched to clutch the memory of a blessing.

We only love it when it's gone.

~~~

Italicized lines from Lord Byron's To a Beautiful Quaker.

Poem: Definitions

To miss you   

is to miss the words   

blooming on your stuttering tongue,

filling the space between us.

Words are our emissaries, giving

sight and sense of touch, drawing you

to such proximity

that I could smell

the scent of summer on your nape,

on your skin.

To hold you

is to be fulfilled, as satisfied as one

enjoying a plate of food

after a long spell of hunger, only that,

I don't devour you, no, I take pleasure

in the bareness

of everything you stand for

in contrast to myself.

What we do

is merge together, witnesses to light and darkness

making love in the starlit sky,

likewise witnessed. As such,

I put one, two fingers into your waiting

palm, and think, There is no other

place I'd rather be

than here.

Poem: The life cycle of a lyric

It begins, as all things do, within

a darkened room permeated with untamed,

uncivilized feelings—being too full

and too sweet, unrelenting, unforgiving, begging

for release.

She will stir amid the troubled sheets,

and grant it entrance to herself, warm and once

too young, a whole new world

to be stripped of wide-eyed

innocence.

Time will pass to see it

born: crumpled and dark and raw. Rude

unbidden tears will spring from it, wailing, wild

as the night, as the heart

that had borne it.

The process of refining then begins,

the pain of taking away parts and pieces,

the wild words stifled, the crudeness checked

by judgement, the child reprimanded, sped on

to maturation.

The lyric finds itself in the dim, dusty light

of a teenaged boy’s bedroom, there to be

unburdened of its eloquence, released—its soul

to be perused. Wailing, wild, yielding, moaning,

begging.

Desiring—its undoing, the lyric fades

into vague memory: ink on paper weeping,

paper swept beneath the bed to tell its tale

to dust, static, one day to turn

to dust itself.

But maybe one day, you will recall the specter

of a smile and snatches of lovelorn words

knocking on chambers of a forgetful heart—

spark to memories, light to candles

on the lyric’s grave.

Poem: Closeted

Ours is a culture of loss,

and forgetfulness—to enclose the shadows

of pain, perhaps put them in a box

to be stowed away in a closet, never

to see the light of day again.

Perhaps one day you will forgive me, let me

bask in the sunshine of your presence,

though that smile be cold, and distant,

saying that I was never

yours, “Who are you?” 

Poem: Free

Flying over a twilit sea
With borrowed plumes upon my back,
I pull them roughly off
One by one. I fall,
Colorless now, into brick-hard
Oblivion. But this death,
Or whatever it is called,
Is mine.

Poem: Transit

Fingers on the windowpane,

in transit, communing

with the falling rain.

Up from the streets, the too-cheerful weary breathing

of the city. Thousands of homeward-bound

hearts latch on to the rising vapors

for a ride.

Down through the clouds,

marshmallow-soft and glowing white.

We begin the descent, to fall upon

The sun-scorched sidewalk, to go

from there and back again.

Fingers on the rain-streaked glass,

we ride toward the spectra

born of water and dust.

Roll down the windows, and open the doors -

closing time has gone way past, and we are

finally, blissfully 

home.

Poem: Mockingbird

Darling, that sky of silver and blue

You’re peeking into,

D’you think it’s for you?

I hear your friends from my window,

Singing the songs

Of smoky dusk and brand new beginnings.

Flutt’ring feathers cross

Our line of sight.

They seem so sure, that way they’re flying

Off to the haze, the setting sun.

Whose dreams are being dreamt at night?

Whose wings are those that span the skies?

Whose star guides journeys heavenward?

I’ve long been wondering, while listening

To you – whose voice is that?

Those songs are the only things

Free from bars. Free to fly.

That song is you. But are you that song?

Poem: Esperanza

To scar your heart and teach you how to dream again –

To plant unto your soul this how, this where and when,

We'll spread untiring wings and dive into the blue,

The heavens to discern, its judgement to subdue.

My sweet! Think you that 'tis a storm of no import –

We've given up our blood and dreams for paltry worth?

 Sometimes the gods destroy with merciful intent;

 Mayhap those tears are for my loving kisses meant.

The leaves upon the trees, they fall all red and gold,

Their perch abandoned at the whisper of the cold.

But when the warmth of spring defeats the cruel frost,

We'll stand, forgetting how it was to pay the cost.

This meeting born of pain shall never be effaced

And ever shall I crave this wounded love's embrace.

For after tasting of the plight of hell and death –

The more we'll learn to love the gift of ev'ry breath.

Unrequited - Poems IV

It's getting dark, the streetlights start

To light up the buzzing city.

Stuck in traffic, I stare at the waiting

Cars exhaling

Smoke - humming the song

Of going back home.

It is a small, small world but I need it

To be smaller still.

~~~

The raindrops drum against my windowpanes,

The rhythm spelling out your name.

But you can’t hear it, can you

From a thousand miles away?

The room's a mess, the only thing

That's making sense is our song

Playing on the radio. I wonder,

Are you tuned in, too?

Chorus:

When rain falls like this, I miss

The sparkle in your eyes.

And in the silence I can hear

The echo of goodbyes.

I know that dreams are calling you

And it's hard to keep the faith.

But sorry, I can never say

That this ain't worth the wait.

Blinking streetlights guide me home,

Walking from the places we called our own.

But how does it feel to just walk away?

I know you're strong alone, but we were invincible.


Chorus:

In dark days like these, I miss

The sparkle in your eyes.

And in the silence I can hear

The echo of goodbyes.

I know that dreams are calling you

And it's hard to keep the faith.

But sorry, I can never say

That this ain't worth the wait.


You know that even when

This shower turns to a storm, I can stay.

You know that even when

All the lights go out, I can find a way.

Alone, there's only so much I can do

But you know I'll always fight for you.

Chorus:

In dark days like these, I miss

The sparkle in your eyes.

And in the silence I can hear

The echo of goodbyes.

I know that dreams are calling you

And it's hard to keep the faith.

But sorry, I can never say

That this ain't worth the wait.

In the silence I can hear

The echoed song of 'us'.

So I will never, never say

That love ain't worth the wait.

 ~~~

I sit on the staircase waiting to fall,

Hoping that love is a panacea

For all my ills,

Or a heroin habit.

Where are you now?

I’m dancing under a sky of stars,

Waiting for my shooting star.

It’s growing cold and my hands

Are in need of something to hold.

Where are you now?

I’m waiting to be driven senseless

Chasing after butterflies.

I want to get my child’s heart broken

And then reassemble it or maybe

Just lose some of the pieces to you.

Never the same,

Never quite whole again.