Words Like Goats

Words I have released from the confinement of a corral
Run all over the white expanse of a blank scroll
I disavow any hold on them as they skitter and
Frolic like young goats in a field of succulent grass
Some are playful and chase away the butterflies
Partaking of the bounty of the field sipping nectar from
Errant flowers in small clusters dotting waves of green
Black and white kiddie goats scamper with mayhem in mind
Bullying the runts, snorting as they scatter them afield
Others still go about peaceably munching fresh grass tops
Unmindful of the noise from the raucous and rowdy bunch
Some with amorous intent follow their noses and nudge
Coy she-goats into being mounted by one or two hot billies

Once freed from my mind words are on their own
As they get ingested, digested and regurgitated by anyone
Who happen to be within reading sight and distance
What words turn out to be after being spewed from my pen
Are transmuted by happenstance, disastrous or serendipitous
Some of them become uncouth and rapacious vandals
While others blossom into gracious courtiers with elegant miens
Others still put on the pompous and pedagogic demeanor
There are words who don saintly halos and others yet sordid horns
They become what they become, I deny authorship once released
From the confines of my teeming but well intentioned mind
There are so much more to worry about than being misunderstood
I write what I feel and think, not my fault if they don't get it
Caveat lector

Juan Makabayan's Quandary

Juan Makabayan, home from a rally
Sat down and contemplated on the gash
His forehead suffered, grazed by a shield's edge
The throbbing pain nagged on refusing rest to
A tired body just gone through a day in the streets

Can't even recall what it was they were fighting for today
Yesterday it was Gabriela's cause for battered women
The day before, an agrarian protest for disenfranchised farmers
Was it for the squatters of Tatalon, or was it for estero dwellers?
or anti Cha Cha demonstrations at the Palace perimeter this morning?

Too many causes so little time, so puny the efforts to make them count
What was it that he desired for the Pilipino or for Pilipinas?
Could he wish it to be like before? What was that?
Pilipinas was never great nor noble in the past. It has a history
Of subservience from one tyrannical master to yet another

The time of the maharlikas of early barangays was never a notable one
It even inspired a plot of an erstwhile dictator to make vassals of us all
In a glamorized new society which would enthrone nobility of dubious origins
A devilish scheme to perpetuate rule and reign through countless generations
Making Cha Cha a sophomoric effort and so crassly unimaginative

What could be more ignoble than our lot from our colonizers?
From the Spaniards who brought in more sword than cross
To the unmitigated cruelty of the Japanese governance by samurai
And Americans, not be outdone in craftiness and in feigned altruism
These are histories you wouldn't wish for us to go back to in time

What of our politics? Was there ever a time we can regard as golden?
Quezon wanted governance by Pilipinos though run like hell and they did
Through the worst of times, our leaders were dancing to the piper's music
Except for a few truly dedicated statesmen the best era of our politics were
Besmirched by duplicity, machinations, disunity through regional factionalism

The more immediate past and the grating present has not shown any virtue
Our governance from the time of our independence has been checkered
Rapacity and greed was not exceptional to Marcos as successors learned well,
And abuse by leaders and their cohorts was the hallmark of every administration
Varying only in the magnitude of theft, graft and abuse of the people's money

Even as now the presidential circus has set up their tents in our midst
Self styled nationalists, patriots, men of the poor, media propped personalities
Now scramble to hide their gruesome pasts: convicted criminals, the scandal tainted,
The intelligence and mentally challenged, the sycophants, the power obsessed
Raising millions, nay billions, for the best Makati and New York makeover experts

Juan Makabayan sat up from his uncomfortable makeshift wooden bed
What is it am I fighting for? Was it worth a hundred bruised noggins?
There were so many causes to fight for, all seemingly just and worthy
Yet he could not grasp it in its entirety, what all of it was supposed to do
To the Pilipino, to Pilipinas, for whose sake he protested in all of his young life

Do these protest moves change things? What changes do I want to happen?
Who among the candidates will be the proverbial white knight to make the changes?
He felt the crisp smoothness of a hundred peso bill in his pants’ pocket
A handout for the day’ protest, an allowance from rally organizer
For the first time in all his protesting days he felt uneasy and discomfited

The Flight of the Eagle

Up there, gliding on an ever widening circle of flight
The eagle hovers and scans the stretch of the land
Looking for some semblance of divine sense
But no, the carmine splotches on the desert floor
Offered no comfort nor solace for tired wings to rest
Everywhere it seems violent carnage has taken its toll
Indiscriminate slaughter of the ignorant and the innocent
The best of men lacking the resolve to stop the inhumanity
While the senseless and callous intently inflict their mayhem

Will God intervene or is this is the way of all things?
Natural laws enacting, a ruthless decree to save the many
From deprivation, from the inability of natural providence
To give each of God's children a share of His munificence
Who are the many? Are African refugees counted among them?
Are the people of poor countries not part of the many to be saved?
Oh the pain, oh the wretchedness of not being chosen
Deprived of a divine birthright, a promise of salvation reneged
Throw away humans, bargaining chips in the eternal balance

The eagle soars on, the land below will always be a hostile patchwork
No matter how stretched his wings, no matter how keen his eyes
No favorable wind will find him restful oases and idyllic Edens

A Long Day At Home

I sat listless
My writing chair is hard
I should change it
It occupied me too much
Instead of me occupying it

Nonchalantly watching
From a windy veranda
Birds alighting on twigs
Nice to see but
Threatening...to the birds

Walked towards the gazebo
No reason to do so
Just being led
By a chirping wee bird
Flitting close to a feral cat

Black Labradors growl
As I approached
Then the redolence
Of dog turds
Abused my nose

My lychees flowered
But they dried up
Withered early
Like young dreams
Robust but stillborn

I rushed down
My foot prints
On stony garden steps
Vanished traces
By blinding light

The pond fish
Greet with avid glee
Awaiting morsels
With barbs attached
They did not bite

The mango trees
Failed me again
Flowered like last year
But erased by the rain
My ax gashed a bole

The sunset lingered
Too long for me
Wanting the day's end
But the sun
Got entangled in the trees

Caracol In Rosario

it was the morning of the fiesta

crowds gathered in front of the old church

all agog in religious fervor and excitement

for the opening of the age-worn wooden doors

from the belfry bells clanged furiously

outshouting each other in joyful cacophony

bats rudely wakened burst out to the morning sky

scaring the sacristan pulling at the bell ropes

now emerging from the ancient portals

of the old stone Church, a big wheeled “carosa” bore the

Nuestra Señora Virgen del Santissimo Rosario de Caracol

bedecked in jewelry and rich satin robes rolled out

the swish and boom of skyrocketing fireworks

bounced off the plaza and faded as it hit the trees

while the faithful labored at tugging and pushing

the rickety carriage through the cobbled church front

cued by fireworks blast the baton was twirled and hurled

and sent hurtling back into the majorette's hand

with a shrill whistle she signaled the start of the “caracol”

and the “Banda Numero Uno” struck up a lively Sousa march

like ipil branches blown by the seaside breeze

arms and hips swayed one side to the other

shoulders to and fro, heads jerking smartly

midst cheers of little urchins by the wayside

the throng of religious “hermanas” and “manangs”

with righteous vigilance cordoned off their precious space

at the procession fringes their hands held a long nylon rope

while the other hand clutched their favorite beads

following the lead band and behind the “carosa”

flaunting their humble piety and pompous vanity

rings on fat fingers flashed counting Ave Marias

in misunderstood tongue but spiritual indulgence no less

not too far from rear of the pious ladies' group

another marching party bobbed and swayed to the lilt

of a second rate band's brassy and arrhythmic ululations

simple farmers, fishermen, vendors in honest dance

as the marching wended through the barrio

bystanders eating at street-side “caridad” kiosks

were cajoled by the paraders to join the revelry

and drop the sticky “suman” and “biko” by the wayside

at the tail end of the long procession

raucous riff raff and the town's other lowlife creatures

visibly inebriated swayed in cadence with the percussive

enticement of a mere snare drum and a tinny tympani

with both hands waving gin bottles, each sway

ending with a swig of gin and the potent “lambanog”

revelers seeking redemption and absolution dance away

accumulated misdeeds and malefactions in the year past

with the atmosphere of headiness and stupefaction

a few having one too many buckled and fell

dropping by the wayside but with the smile of the repentant,

looking innocent and with the blissful face of the forgiven

at the “aplaya”, just behind village barber's house

fisher-folks growing excitement with the approaching band

a “basnig” gaily festooned was readied to carry the Virgin

on a sturdy wooden platform lashed on massive outriggers

row on row dressed up fishing vessels lined up the shore

wide brimmed “talakop” and smaller “basnig” waved gay buntings

all in wait to board the townspeople for the “ligid”

the annual fluvial parade in honor of town's beloved Patroness

amidst shouts and cheers, our Lady was boarded on the main boat

a dozen bronze-skinned fishermen heaved at the heavy icon

planting it on a platform and lashed it steadfastly on the mast

with stout abaca ropes to secure it for the dizzying ride

with the bands now grouped as one, they struck up

a loud but tolerable rendition of the River Kwai March

mingling with the excited noise of people boarding their boats

and the staccato burst of “kwitis” in the bright noonday sky

It was a joy to watch the boats escorting the Virgin's “basnig”

as it glided on the calm waters moving towards an appointed spot

with the Virgin's boat securely moored a safe distance from shore

the “ligid” started from a standstill to making loops round and round

the “ligid” picked up pace as the band went up tempo

a score of vessels with cheering riders went on dizzying rounds

then without a signaling cue the roar of engines were cut silent

the boats continued to turn in momentum then to a bobbing halt

a young lad dived from boat side, the water went into a boil

as young men and boys all joined in like dolphins at play

some swam towards the shore and everyone on the pretty boats rode

back to the waiting bacchanal and temporal excesses on the shore

another year, another “caracol”, another “ligid” done

criminals and felons now forgiven for last year's sins

with homage done mansions above await the pious ladies and

the men assured of bountiful catches and safe faring on this year's seas

La Virgen de Santisimo Rosario is back in a chapel recess

watches over the faithful with hardened salty granules on her cheeks

everyday her hands extended for urchins and old ladies to rub their hankies

it is another long year before her moment of glory in a tiny Salinas town

The Seedling

A seed lay buried in tamped sod
Growing a two leafed head
Bowed and fragile yet breaking loose
From the hold of a determined bond
Of a possessive earthen cage

Earnestly it struggled to break free
Frail but prodigious creation
With its tiny roots sucking strength
To shove the heavy load pressed on
Puny shoulders and bent stalk
Eager to burst out into the sunlight

Somehow in its eagerness to grow
Its life was smothered by a blanket
Of mud slurry caused by a flood
Oh what a tragic and unjust fate
A seedling with leaves, a branch, a trunk
Snuffed of breath, denied of life

It would have been a grand acacia
With brawny brown branches
Holding up a heavy canopy of jade
Dominating a landscape of weak brushes
Majestic in its proud demeanor
Taming unruly and fractious winds

Clouds

It was a wonder why clouds were so gray
Despite the brightness of the afternoon, and
No one knew that you left on the three o'clock train

A surprise why the clouds burst into tears
When all around a dry and static air prevailed, but
I did not tell anyone of our parting

I am perplexed by clouds huddling in narrow corners
When the azure expanse was so wide and endless, yet
They could not have known of my despair

Mindless and mushy floating jumbo cotton wads
Seemed to commiserate and provide comfort, merely
Wished for by the conceit of abandoned men

The Last March

The summer sun shone exceedingly bright
Struck harshly on old men in a mid morning parade
Made the marching lane seem wider than it was
And, also, made it seem longer than they can walk

A late shutting lamp post cast its light feebly
A toothless veteran pointed to it and cackled
Mocking the uselessness of lamplight on a bright morn
The rest of the men understood and nodded in agreement

Old men out on a march on a hot cemented road
Dragging stiff legs and scuffing shoe toes with each step
Moving funny in a rhythmic shuffle caused by
An uneven gait of stubborn and unmatched legs

Little kids on the curb laughed heartily
To see a gang of elderly men marching to
The lilt of a marching band they hardly hear
Half bending stiff knees and stomping sore feet

Feet that have walked the long mile
Of death marches and humiliating retreats
Feet that carried comrades dead and dying
Midst the brutal prodding of ruthless bayonets

In the grandstand the local town officials
Sipped lemonade and munched crumbly cookies
Grinned amusedly as the old marchers passed
Their hands full of cookies, unable to wave nor clap

What a hilarious sight, they thought
Old men in raggedy faded unmatched uniforms
Gamely jerking tired legs offbeat with the drums
Kept pace with young maidens riding a floral float

Amidst the pomp and flourish of a glorious parade
Less than a score of decrepit derelicts of forgotten wars
Hobbled and plodded looking proud but hurting
On a hot and sunny day in the month of June

Marching to a band with faint drumbeats and muted fifes
Struggling to look smart midst the gaiety and glamor
Looking laughable to an amused crowd at the curb
Stepping in earnest to the beat of a remotely heard band

True heroes marching through indifference and apathy
Onward they moved, gallant and proud, yet, pathetic and comical
Through jeers and taunts of children yesterday born
And of uncaring men and women with amnesic minds

In a year their numbers would have dwindled and faded
No more heroes to take part in the celebration of our independence
Now spared of the unkindness of forgotten heroisms and won freedoms
Of the derisive fun and unwitting ingratitude of children and countrymen

Sweet Smell of Success

The sun on its descent
Bade the flowers
To unfurl their royal capes
And through the disappearing light
Shafts of fragrance beamed
Casting a shine unseen but felt

Through the graying scene
A lad waded through barbed thickets
Fighting off the heavy shove of branches
Tracking the delightful draft
A frivolous breeze pirouetted
There he sat waylaid and discomfited

It is the fragrance of laurels, fame and riches
How familiar it was to a learned nose
An opulence that conjured images of palaces
Of harem rooms and reclining odalisques
Magical concoctions brewed by apothecaries
For fortunes paid by potentates and kings

It is an evanescent grace that he desired
How vainly he pursued the elusive prize
Through uncharted courses and perilous treks
Braving other men's hostility and nature's whims
But don't we all, stake a princely price, going after
Holy Grails and sailing to portless Odyssies

Enigma

I give you three guesses and more, but
Even the oracle cannot make me out
The sphinx uses my mystery in riddles
I am dove, I am eagle, I am the sun
The forest is my son, the sea my daughter
I am the bread that you denied the hungry
The water you dried up to spite the thirsty
The gaping hole in the sky is my legacy
The polar ice caps sweating is my doing
I am the one here and over there
History is my handiwork, the future, too

I am the numinous, the ineffable

Transitions

Boyhood summers went fast
Passing through woodlands
In search of wild fruits and berries
River crossings and sandy beaches
Keeping cool from a torrid sun
Spider hunts at first light
Matchbox condos overfilled
Rites of manhood bravely faced
Tearful dips into the river
After risking a barber's cut
On the budding manhood

At the end, a thorny threshold,
A one way portal to an unknown,
A gate creaks close just this once

Merry Month of May

Lovely month of May
Lasses’ hearts aflutter,
Lads gather in the plaza
Watching the flitting moves
Of young maidens flirting
The swains eagerly show off
Glistening sun tanned bodies
While the girls coyly turn away
With reddened cheeks
And tinny giggles

It was the night of the “lutrina”
The girls dress up as
“Sagalas” in the barrio “santacruzan”
Hosted by Ate Delay, the “hermana”
The lads in freshly ironed shirts
And thickly pomaded hair
Huddle together underneath
The “palapala” playfully
Teasing each other at
The sight of the girls with
Rouged faces and false lashes

The procession went five blocks
Past the banca crossing station
Into the main road where
Houses opened their windows
With kids waving from the sills and
The elderly “manangs” thumbing rosary beads
Others watch from their thresholds of the yard
The village gossips having a grand time
Spreading rumors about the Reyna Elena
And the handsome escort, a guest from the city
While an irreverent scream of religious songs
Blare from a hitched megaphone behind a cart
Loaded with an electric generator for
Lighting up the Reyna and “sagalas” up front

A block away from the “hermana's” house
Little boys ran to announce procession's return
Neighborly womenfolk help make ready the
“Talyase” of thick “atole” and the “bilao” of “luglog”
Helpers with beads of perspiration paddle vigorously
The rice porridge, stirred and steaming
Now ready for the arrival of the marchers
After the recital of Hail Mary's, Our Father's
And Glory Be's three times over
The queue at the table builds up, chattering children
With bowls in hand waiting for their turn
At the “sandok” to scoop the steaming treat.
Some of the more daring boys edge over
Towards the young lasses and with awkward
Opening lines utter stammered introductions
With sweaty brows and sticky palms offered
Hands in acknowledgement of each other

The merry month of May in our barrio
Ushers in these jubilations year after year
Religious piety and pagan practice, flaunted
By the elderly folks mixing with the gaiety
Of young swains and maidens daring to shed
Timidity and defy parental admonitions
Answering the call of adolescent proclivities
Happening at the longish day of the summer solstice
Instinctive and mindless in the sweltering heat
It has gone on for as long as I can recall
A life's celebration the barrio folks never tire of doing
I'll be back next year in the merry month of May

Cat Woman

Wipe that sardonic smile off
Your teeth are showing through
Jagged and glistening
They grind exceedingly fine

I could make out the
Shape of malice in your mouth
Forming like stalactites
Threatening fangs sharp as razors

Still you smile, as enigmatic as a Cheshire's
You hate and still show love
My mind is mushed and befuddled
What is it really?

Purring and stretching
You sidle up and jump on my lap
Resting your padded paws on my arms
Hiding treacherous retracted claws

What's a guy to do?
I am tempted wring your supple neck
Or smother your innocent and trusting face
I tightened my embrace,but then, fondly

A Highland Hymn

White clouds rise from a patchwork lake
Soaring fast as if racing with the sun
My thoughts are of you at this sanctified hour
Only you and of the fishnet waters below

I saw you at the creation of the lake waters
You were there when they sowed the first wild flower
The mountains were sculpted from your silhouette
Waterfall cascades were copied from your tresses

I claim you as my soul's friend and bride
The mountain breeze echoes this declaration
Tiny songbirds fill the air with joyful song
In harmony with the resonant timbre of my words

My voice carries over the orchards, the waters of the lake
Past fruit pickers, fishermen, fishwives, horse riders
Bouncing off evergreens, fruit stands and diners
Proudly bannered, rising and falling on the steep ridge

Summer's End

I imagined the Bicol Express zipping through
the patches of billboards crowding each other
and I saw you seated nonchalantly by the window
oblivious of the hazy strobe of faces, trees and high wires
missing frames like a derailed film from its sprockets

did you have to leave earlier than all of us?
every hour gone from the time you left
were precious sands from a shore of memories
collected as keepsakes but now spilling in a waisted glass
as streams of regrets fast receding, collecting in tidal pools

now, there you sit on a fast moving train
nary a thought of the stretch of sandy dunes and starry skies
shared a few cherished days ago in a sultry beach in Legazpi
did you have to leave earlier than all of us?
I missed my chance to say what I wanted to say all summer

Worms

high atop a hill
the world looks bright and cheerful.
worms creep up to see
what mankind has wrought,
rebuilding stately edifices,
laid to waste just centuries ago
by early vandal worms,
now creep lively,
there's more ruination to be done

Village Secrets

long kept secrets
lay beneath a placid lake
move with scurrying fish and
into a brook they flow,
washed and cleansed by cascades
still the brook babbles through the houses
now the whole village knows
kept secrets of long ago

Into the Night

the blurry light of dusk
turns the world into slate gray,
a cold night treads on soft shoes,
ushering a scaly night sky
that hover over the city,
casting dread and gloom.
bats empty dark belfries,
singing the witches' evensong

I Behold You

The acacia tree
rained shimmering jade
below its bowers
where you and I slept the night
on soft ground, on a blanket of ferns.
Last night I chanced to see
the radiance of your face
in the first glimmer of moonlight
and in early morn the splendor of your bearing
imposed on the glorious light of dawn .
I wonder now if you are prettiest
in sunlight or in the glow of a full moon.

Caged Flowers

flowers caged in a glass
bouquet imprisoned within
then crystals shattered by
a wayward hand
a sunburst of fragrant beams
scattered on the wet doily
announced the felony
but repressed joy
now released to bring
wonder and pleasure to all
look away now
for once abet a sin

Ants

hush now and be still
listen to the hustling ants
leaves, kernel, grains
busy lugging and hauling
beams, planks and mortar
to rebuild a squashed community
flattened by hobnailed boots
not once but over and over
but man will tire of his malice
and the hill will be built
a testimony to the ants'
indomitable spirit

A Lovely Place

what a lovely place
and yet so cold and forlorn
warmth and light soon comes
let us frolic upon its coming
tramping down wild flowers
jumping low bushes
scraping your knees on sharp thorns
I will be glad to kiss away the sore

Wisdom of the Mountains

the mountain wind blew
whispered wisdom, uttered truths
from leaf to leaf then tree to tree
bounced from the rugged ridge
to the lofty mountain crest
settling on the pine covered glade
here is where I’ll camp

Purgatory

I was sucked in by an eddy of raging lava
An infernal hole of blinking redness and darkness.
My soul groping for some outgrowth in the rim
Of a gaping caldera brimming with toxic fumes

A wreath was tossed by a kind specter from an overhang
Brightening for a few moments the evil mouth
Some spark of hope before the engulfing of the light
Before the obliteration of all that is good and right

You were to redeem me from my wretchedness
But like an evil boil on the land's face
You only caused me pain and anguish
A throbbing ache on a quivering flesh

I sailed through treacherous straits
Via the doldrums and the lake of the Hydra
Into the mythical triangle of the Sargasso
You devoured and sunk me a thousand fathoms

You drove me with your feigned affection
How commiserating you seemed of my frailties and woes
The shamness of it reeked through shuttered portholes
As I viewed a false parade of masquerading sneers

I have loved you much, too much to my undoing
You were the words of my song, the furnace of my loins
My magic box wherein stowed my dreams, fantasies,
My creed and my joys, where dwell my passion and salvation

You have cast me to an oblivion of your creation
Oh woman loved, but heartlessly not loving back
A place of ungranted desires, of pain without remission
My soul in ruin and my heart pathetic in cold chains

I turn my back on you now, woman!
Whatever foolish notions I had harbored now departed
I have sobered up from a mindless stupor held so long
Worms neath the bark now exposed and evasive of the light

While ugliness have now sprouted from your brows
I look back with gratitude for all the momentary pleasures
Crushed but ecstatic in your grasping tentacles then
Relieved at last, gaining freedom from your stranglehold

Little Freedoms

Some freedoms will be late in coming
Not this afternoon nor tonight
Not ever hurried through resolute effort
Nor through exaction, nor imposition

We all cherish our little freedoms
Unfettered, not hemmed down
By strangers from ourselves
Proudly we stand foursquare on this

Forces abound around us
Other people's strong assertions
You cannot do this nor that
Why not, we shout back lamely

Freedoms are urgent
They are burgeoning forces
Throbbing in the heart
Wanting out from confinement

Easy to say
I want my freedoms
Whoa! hold it, keep your cool
It comes on its own accord

The Sea

One sullen day on a beach
I spread my beach towel on the sand
And posed as if in deep musing
But nothing came to my senses
Except the hiss of the sea breeze

I thought the cold of the water
Would stir me up from my lethargy,
I dipped my head twice
But it only numbed me some more.
I could have drowned in its iciness.

Instead I looked at the sea in the eye
And spat out an obscene oath.
If you couldn't solace a spent soul,
You are inutile, you over-rated majesty
Not able to assuage a man's discomfiture.

A Wake In the Barrio

Funeral wakes in our barrio
Are simple but picturesque

Amidst boiling cauldrons of
Rice porridge with strips of tripes

A gathering of mourners intone their grief
While downing jugs of native grog

The sakla master shuffles the deck
Cards bearing luck not auguring death

Children past bedtime hours scaring
Each other while hiding under the casket

Wilted floral wreaths line up the walls
Like sentinels with nauseous breaths

The honored one somber in slumber
Indifferent to the homage paid him

The widow worries about the collection
Fingers the knotted hankie bulging with coins

Will there be enough to pay in the morrow
The brass band engaged to liven the sorrow?

Oh, but her eldest will arrive from LA tonight
Bringing dollars, then there's nothing to fear

Picture yourself behind the coffin's misted glass
A life well led but ended with trifling ceremony

Funeral wakes in the barrio will always be the same
As if I care, but I wish I can do better on my turn.

Harana

A tune and its refrain hauntingly crooned
While a guitar is strummed in soulful rhythms
A mellow leitmotif for a kundiman
Plaintive words from an ignored swain
A lad emoting as only a lovelorn can

As if obliged the moon shone bright at
A night that was quiet except for the chirps
Of pesky nocturnal winged creatures
Thoughtless of the pain of a boy in swoon
In sympathy the dogs did not bark at the moon

The kundiman played on and on
While the strings struggled to keep pace
With the erratic rhythm of a dragged out tune
Sang by a smitten singer looking at a window
That stayed closed hiding a fair maiden's face

Oh, the promises were high and plentiful
The sadness and the sting of rejection heavy
For a moment even the mocking nocturne of chirps
Subsided as if relenting to the heart-rending pleas
Ever eloquent in words and in song

The nacred windows stayed unopened
All through the cold and hostile darkness
A song that can soften dark angels' hard core
Fell on unhearing ears and an indifferent heart
No matter, the harana will play on as it always did

Qualms

Your words inspired the letting loose of the ogres of spite
From your feigned naivete the silencing of a thousand flutes

You widened the chasm between me and my paradise
The gap between the eastern and western strands

A hint of betrayal in the guise of affection loomed
Enraged brightness that blurs and blinds totally

A nuclear head riding a blazing rocket running berserk
Carving its imprints of earth dents and bottomless sinkholes

Obliterating the clam diggers and the sandpipers on the sand
While I lie on shore with blackened and crinkled skin

Bleached skull and big bones emerging from crumbly ash
My soul flying off without bidding goodbye from the residue

On A Far Away Beach At Dawn

Your face is etched in the stars that dot a sky about to lose its black
Mirrored as a reflection on a luminous sheet of sea at low tide

The image skittered like sand pipers dissolving as the first rays
Of an impatient sun scattered light on the slate gray sand

A harsh westerly blew to shore and slapped my face
Assailed my nose with the briny redolence of shoreline waste

From afar clam diggers sat on empty pails digging and
Poking with bamboo spatulas the water logged sand

I heard your voice mingle with the twittering of the shore birds
As they skipped and darted leaving their V marks on the glistening sand

I thought of my easy chair, my garden, I thought of your smile...of home
A harsh westerly slapped my face, a briny redolence assailed my nose.

Reckoning

Into the bottomless depths of
an insatiable human vanity
Some vision, perhaps an illusion
Of youthful conquests, green laurels
Linger in a colorless reverie.
I, cradled in Morpheus’ arms
Unwilling to be awakened from
A blinking dark to light kaleidoscope
Trophies with dull gleams
Plaques with tarnished sheen and
Illegible citations of dubious merit
Brittle sheepskin with obscure Latin script
Are these all that I have wrought
In a lifetime of toil and invention?
How beggarly my existence has been
As I face the numinous One
To Him who bequeathed a legacy
For a life that is replete with promise
Of selflessness, of beneficence, of divinity
All of which were left stillborn in me.

In A Field of Daisies

Daisies arrayed row on row
On a blanket of mottled green
Marked by black and white monoliths
On the ground and above it
Only the sun to ease the reposed from
The tedium of morning, noon and end of day
Just stars and the moon give brightness
To the dark and cold of an unsympathetic night
Memories swept like dried leaves and cut grass
No visitors now lay garlands and wreaths
No more caring hands to pull weeds
And unwanted tare on the unkempt lawn
A beloved husband then overly grieved
Now in aloneness amidst other scattered bones
A son and daughter’s mortal remains interred
Beneath a coarsely woven impenetrable veil
Of forgotten existence and faded affections
Soon names and epitaphs on hard stone
Are erased by wind, rain and indifference
Not even the lowly worms delight
Over bare and dried up skull and bones
Only hypocritical daisies bow in the wind
As if in reverence, as if in remembrance
Are the dead thankful for the decay
And insentience of their mortal remains?
Surely they are for they can no longer feel,
Nor see the faithlessness of spouses and lovers
Ingratitude of children and the inconstancy of friends.

Poesy Defiled

What have I gotten myself into?
A dance of nances, a dilettantes' ball,
Men in mistaken milieus
Ladies feigning radical chic
In pretense of art and sensitivity
Of the unwanted and the ignored
Spewing vulgarity and unabashed behavior
Hiding behind the absurd and the ambiguous
As if fearful of being stripped naked
All in the name of mythical temperaments
And consciously fabricated personae

Poets with fractured verse gather
As in symbiotic safety
Unmindful of grammar formality
Spewing anarchic syntax
Senseless verbiage strung indiscrete
Metaphors unmatched and asinine
Words spelled as heard
Free verse shamelessly abused
Mouthing poetic license as an excuse to
Inflict mayhem on literariness
Drawing attention as avant-garde
The charade lives on, robust and raucous
In the circle of fools

The Wayfarer

Stranger from the highlands and cold climes
Your gaudy costume and cleated shoes
Speak of romance and never ending adventures
What can you tell me of the land that you came from?
Did a mother cry when you tightened your bootstraps,
And did a sweetheart pour her heart out and tore her golden hair,
In the highlands grooved with gorges and capped in white?
What made you turn your back from the warmth of the home fire,
From the safety of familiar haunts and comfort of kinfolks?

I look at you in wonder and in honest envy,
Did I not have the same urge to seek out the world?
The long road beckoned, a gilt lined horizon held promise
Of riches, strange loves, sights and sounds waiting to be felt
The wanderlust of youth never been put to rest
Now the resolve is almost gone though the urge remains strong

I listen to you with whirred hearing
Your tales conjure images unclear and lackluster
How pitiful that imagination has failed
To see the splendor, the spectacle, the thrill
Of faraway places from whence you came.
What is the color of a sunset from a mountain crest?
Are daffodils and edelweiss as bright as sampaguita?
Tell me again and again because the images fade quickly
Blurred flashes, a confusion of gray, black and white’
A mind-numbing monotonic haze is all I see.



Rest your tired arms and legs on my soft chair
Let the cool sweetened bubbly quaff moisten the dryness
Of a roughened gullet so that you can weave more tales
To regale my inquisitive yet hardly comprehending mind.
Looking at you now and trying to feel the pleasures
You must have felt throughout the years of wandering
Leaving your trail on foreign sod, seeing faces
Black, white, brown, yellow and other hues
Friendly, hospitable as well as hostile and cruel.

Tell me if it was worth it all
Leaving a crying mother and a woeful wife
Abandoning kith and kin, familiar and friendly haunts
Or is it just the folly of youth, the dare of the unknown?
Do you not regret having the hot winds sear your face,
The trackless routes, the gravelly path, the thorns in your shoes.
Do you not regret these?

Tell me I am right in staying put
The travel itch still unscratched, but, I would not know
If the pleasures are as my mind earlier envisaged
Or will I forever wonder what glories and fortunes
Have passed my way when I did not sail or fly my fancy.

Bare Assed

I come to you now unclothed, unwashed and unabashed’
This is my barest, lowliest, truest self,
With wanton passions brimming, ogling with animal intent
This is me wallowing neck deep in the sweet but unctuous tar pit
Nurturing my prurient delights, my wettest of dreams
I slink through dark parlors besotted and puking
I spew lewd orations enjoyed by kindred low life,
My gem of the barrel dregs!my jewel of sewer silt!
I come to you unclothed, unwashed and unabashed
Frenzied and clumsy in anticipation
I rush and come to be one with you,
So embrace me now my lovely, quickly
Before I don my clothes again.

The Morning God Sang

The sounds came rushing in, where did it come from?
Has it always been there? Angels’ halleluiahs, God’s riant laughter
Ascending, reverberating in crescendo at the gladdening hour,
Trilling with early birds, buzzing, whirring with the bees on morning forage
The day now begins clearly, with light spreading from the ridge to the lucent lake below
Love songs sung in gaiety, noble anthems, magnificent hymns and gentle pinings
Like Orpheus’ flute, the music wafted in the air, oh what euphony!
Tones winding in and out, weaving with the breeze, brushing against pine needles
Out-shouting, out-running each other in playful chase, playing tag with grasshoppers and soprano birds

Then as quickly as it appeared, the joyous harmony stopped, stillness began
The reality of the late morning sun caught up with me and imposed a silence in its recognition

The Medium Is the Message

Let’s not talk about terrorism, write, nor broadcast it
No more the sight of blood and gore from dismembered
Carcasses of men and women, young and old, and the tender flesh
Of babies scattered, alighting on treetops and eaves of houses
Unchecked hell, ball of fire singeing, bloody scimitars like
Venomous tongues of diamond-eyed serpents strike
With senseless abandon on bright sunny days of barrio fiestas

Innocents dragged for ransom, indiscriminate and ruthless
To forward political and religious causes, or is it just banditry?
The white flags drip red oozing from wounds of the unwary
Enough of this on tv, enough of this in newspapers and radio
Get your revenue from somewhere else, not from blood money
You only stoke the flames, ransoms go higher, embolden scum and make
Famous the infamous, opportunists into heroes ready for the polls

Enough of the false glitter reflected on the tube and silver screen
Let’s be done with silly plots, martyred women and crying waifs
No more the inane and vulgar dialogues and dragging scenes
Clothe the immodest, the mammalian freaks who bare as if in art
The sick and kinky pleasures penned by hysterical fairies
Selling obscene laughter from the tasteless slapsticks of gay ridicule
Lewdness and crudity are now clicheic fare regardless of audience

Let’s raise the cause for better media offerings
Uplifting themes, virtue rewarded, moral lessons to children
Heroes worthy of emulation, not the rich and the powerful who
Flaunt their ill-gotten loot, getting away with their insidious deeds
Let’s sing hymns to those who serve well, applaud exemplars from the barrios
Those who labor with honest toil, plowing and seeding the native sod
Let media deny those who self-aggrandize, those who create saccharine images
Reject bulging envelopes of releases with ulterior motives and wads of bills
News that disinform, make malice, besmirch the honest, lionize the crooked
The tube and the diode box are bad news, the press blotted by its own ink
Let’s now defer listening, seeing and believing the heralds of a muddied estate

The Foothills

The foothills seem rueful and evasive today
Its outline glow seems palled and
The twilight reluctant to give up the light
Its sun a dull emboss on weak pink,
With rays like wrinkled fingers crawling.
A lethargic passing of a day

Clasped by avian claws a hare’s mangled fur
Wriggly worms feasting on rotting mouse
Crafty spider weaving zombie bags
An aloof mantis lops off her lover’s head
A woodsman felling venerable trees
The air reeking with scents of battered wood

I promised to keep this to myself
As I looked away from the scene
I shudder to think of the mayhem
Happening everyday in a sleepy glade
But, some things in the foothills
Are better left veiled in gorgeous green

Bottom Feeders

Bottom feeders
In a cloudy tank
Eagerly watching
Dimpled pink morsels
Settle down on a pebbly bed
Watch out from the rear
Your gorgeous apertures
Jeopardized I fear
Sit tight
Bottom feeders
In a frenzy

If I Was Going –

If I was going
Surely I will come
And go as I went

I met three on the way
Coming back I met three
Should there be more?

The morning sun went
From east to north
A long day, today

If I was going
Surely I will come
And go as I went

But, I Wanted To Sing –

Sparrows in my mind
Scratching for ort
Stirring a host
Crowding in my bowels
Have the fireflies flown?
From a grumbling cavern
They fly up to
My uptight gullet
Pushing up bile
Tamped down
By peristalsis

Aach, what a sting!
But, I wanted to sing

Pastorale

The fog draped on
Mildew, mushroomed
In a field of wax
I lost foothold
Slipping and
Grasping straws
The wind denied my hands
Lost in a field
Of waxen mildew

I am blue
My horn I blew

Red Book (Juan Makabayan)

Red book pages were props
Up on the mountain tops
Slime green cascade
Spoiled my marmalade
Glo was here today
With dogs held at bay
Furious hands grapple
The doctor prescribed apple
Mike took them all
Nothing left in the mall

I had to go down