You never know the hours I have spent tapping the pencil on my recycled paper ( I still do writing my drafts in pencil), and let the ideas sit at most a week or two, some stretches up to six months or a year before it gets published on the blog. I had lots of writing ideas when I am at my peak and my poetic muse normally runs a season of three months before I embark on any other personal diversions (music, arts, photography and any other writing stuff).
Facing a blank paper is like facing a blank canvas to a painter. And to be able to do a poem, is like giving birth to a son or a daughter. What’s scary and fearsome, is that you can’t move the pen to write a phrase or words if the direction it wants to lead you is unclear. Oftentimes, I just scribble words and let the words reveal a life of their own.
Keeping a poetry blog continuously streaming with new poem material is hard but all the more, fulfilling. It trains the poet to experiment, and find a new voice. It keeps the poet at the top of his game by sharpening his creative writing skills. It humbles the poet to continuously seek peer support of fellow poet friends and exercise the habit of reading other works as well. It’s in a community of writers that a poet can thrive with brimful of inspirations.
Eight years have passed, and still my poetry blog is still pushing the pen. I never regret mine, having a passion for words and making good poetry. For me, poetry is never a dying art and I continue to do so, sharing the best I could ever have.
So to continue the second half of fifty more poems I have published on Hames: Solitude Against the Maddening Crowd beginning August of 2010, it’s a lifetime of literary legacy I am willing to continue and keep everyone inspired, confronted or provoked by the honesty I laid down on paper, here they are:
I wrote an haiku about people who might think their life is plain ordinary in Status Quo,
“ gray is the color of the blank space
which separates the day into the night
I am caught in between…”
Another haiku in Zen, celebrates the importance of solitude in silence,
“ low tide reveals the sandbar,
my soul on barefoot walking calm
searching where I first came in…”
Inn Side, is a poem about the many thoughts, all of us are thinking at the moment making us unable to sleep,
“ all room’s full tonight
for restless thoughts,
will you make another?
Something resides too long
without paying any rent
unwilling to go…” and
“ forgiveness
is the name knocking
at my door, I would not
let it in, at a price…” and
“ you know, it’s hard
to clean up the mess
of those nightly visitors…”
And the unordinary poem about our sibling’s lovers, wives and husbands as intruders in Those Sister’s Men,
“ those strangers’ hand snatching spaces,
of familiarity, never uttered a word about apologies…” and
“ suddenly somewhere appears picket fences,
territories, boundaries and cages
which were meant as a warning
not to encroach their line, their property…” and
“ ah, they would never understand
the weightier aspects more than
the union of two bodies to breed…”
The poem that tackles domestic violence is aptly reflected in Stitches and Tattoos,
“ love holds no record of wrongs-
that’s a lie. In fact, the stinging sensation
of your repeated inflicts of pain
made the wound even worse…” and
“ see my heart full
of needle holes from repeated
sewing and knitting and mending
patchwork, of quilts bleeding…”
And the agony of writing is vividly remembered in A Story Ending,
“ write. It is almost like
the plot explains why
we keep on repeating
the same mistakes again…” and
“ stubborn writers only listen
to their own opinion
of what’s apt and what’s not…”
The deep pangs of homesickness and the sacrifices of being an overseas worker is captured in an haiku Homecoming,
“ my world’s consist of four corners
and a square but miles apart to home
I get to travel back in my dreams…”
In Diptych, the writer confronts himself about the honesty of his artistic expression,
“ you wish to say something but the words swerved
to its opposite direction-sugarcoating the angst
frothing bittersweet at your mouth verbalizing
euphemism…”
And a portrait on a life of a saleslady tending to her wall display in Shop Girl,
“ the dress fit well
and the gods must have been happy
to mold a gypsum to form,
speechless and never tires of standing up
to impress. Look here, the mannequin is alive…”
The lyrical Puzzle Pieces, is a poem about how a song can piece together the memorable and beautiful journey to the past ,
“ the lyrics would
tell you how I cling to the rhythms
getting through the rough days
veering deeper into a hiding place
I sought against tough times…” and
“ never to remember the episode
of those sad melodies that I strum
on my guitar. Weeping…”
The sensual poem Come, breaks the barrier of lust and love in beauty of words in its double meanings,
“ hear the sound
of the first rain after a drought
and how it falls on the parched
earth…” and
“ have you felt something taking
root beneath you, peace.
Lullabye of the mermaid
lulling you to sleep
and believe in love
like the shooting stars…”
Then a deeper angst is evident on Aching Thread, delves on frustration of getting through,
“ my mantra of calm are as restless
as the grasshopper hopping
to some isolated and jotted
islands of images, dark-
that painterly abstraction…” and
“ some questions will burn tonight.
And answers will die on my bed…”
A portrait poem on the life of a gambler is indelibly marked on The Gambler,
“ it’s another night playing jack against
the king. He will have to pawn his aces…” and
“ the gambler lost that day on his deck of cards.
No bailout. No tolerance. Just lost his control,
when speed and luck became his greatest traitor…”
The philosophical mockery of the society and its migration policies in Zoo Logic, delivers its true to the grit dissection in a poem,
“ freedom is an open door to a cage.
Yet another cage must be opened
like animals, we are hesitant to move…” and
“ the city streets became a zoo
and life has turned us into one.
We migrate and roam like animals do…”
The semi-autobiographical poem about a starving poet in The Portrait of A Poet is a favorite,
“ the chandelier sways a little
when the ceiling sheds its skin
to show its old bones…” and
“ you worry
about the constant reminders
from the electric company,
those unpaid bills overcrowding
this three-legged desk…” and
“ breakfast unprepared, it’s another
long hours without eating but verses
of poems you chew in your mind…” and
“ here is the knife and slice something
open, now. It might reveal a thing
that you don’t understand…”
And a discourse on thriving with understanding even in disagreements in the poem The Conversation,
“ we do not need to hide
the arguments on intellectual
acrobatics nor choose to mislead
honesty in fallacy…” and
“it is not
in the amount of words nor
the eloquence of the language,
but in this fraternal bond
that even in disagreement
we thrive in peace…”
In I’m Not Here, the poem explores the state of one’s absent mindedness one’s disguise of truth,
“ a balloon hollow as air
I float miles farther away
no one could catch me.
I’m not here. Drifting
past the roofs of cities
and a maze of streets.
No one could see me now…” and
“ lingering among clouds,
playing with dreams,
breathing a reality…” and
“ in a skin I lived in
may not reveal who
a being- hidden within…”
An allegorical poem I have written about my almost exact personality in Like Water,
“ water drop in my universe,
echoes from afar becoming distinct
sound. Drip, drip, drip
circles expanding colorless
and still blue…” and
“ little waves
breaking long stretches
of silence seemingly placid.
Roll. Roar. Rage…”
In Wane Like The Moon, the poem searches and struggles to survive within the bouts of longing,
“ your orbit may find you
in an unending cycle of hiding
and showing up across the sky.
Like a shepherd tethered
to your protection I slip
a chance and probe the map
where you lay all your secrets…” and
“ leaving a trace of dewdrops
glistening of little stars
to my skin aching and wanting…”
Then it continued in Evening Rain, with a poem that was written to dig deeper about isolation and loneliness,
“ an afterglow
radiating and pulsating
with warmth of whispers
and silent promises” and
“ like the shepherd moon
it clings in the presence of moments,
of minutes and hours, sweet
love talk by the angels of youth…”
An upbeat and sprightly modernistic poem Monday Blues, is a poem that describes days on the life of working wounded,
“ it is Sunday (I hope it’s Saturday)
still I dread about the things
that need sorting, or mending
or keeping the weekly life in order…” and
“ pretending you work hard but counting
four more days and you slam down the paperwork
bolting out for freedom. Still it is Sunday…”
Then dragged as a prisoner of the corporate life in Steel Bars, a poem that conveys the image of the booming cities,
“ I am perched here inside with distances to roam
only my eyes can see. You are out of reach.
The wind blows from distances afar
bringing me in yesterday’s news. It’s cold.
And the noise reverberates like a broken record…” and
“ tell me about freedom. Day in, day out.
Of walking in circles, and the light travels into the night.
Tell me about resilience. No matter how it looks-
a hard shell but brittle and fragile within my mind
where it builds edifices of dreams. Towering
over my need to run away…”
An elegiac poem about love lost and forgiveness written from the perspective of a dying man in For The Ones We Left Behind,
“ rescued from the years of forgetting the ones
that mattered most. And the dreams that never
meant to be owned like the earth where I stand…” and
“ but the scars of our love-thorned lives remains relived
in our book of days. I wish the summer winds will carry
the ashes until forgetting. I wish sleep will banish the things
which I failed to tell you when you left me. I moved on…” and
“ and my waning mind gave birth to words I have bookmarked
with fresh flowers that blooms from the same earth I will lay
with my dreams. I am not afraid anymore of the longest night
until tomorrow…”
Tipping Point is a poem that deals with the question about narcissism and the dangers of perfection,
“ you always say that you can’t let them ruin you
but it’s a plain lie you wish that all is perfect…” and
“ for you, everyday is a waging battle of wits and reason.
Perfection is costly. Holiness is fatal. Which one are you?
Nobody is born a saint and you won’t believe it too?..”
In Occupy Spaces, the poem seeks to understand the reality and unwillingness of someone who’s self restrained of opening up to the world,
“ it is like me, filling the blank spaces with letters
and thoughts I- only I could understand you
and me. And why do we need to belong each other…” and
“ it is like a bottle of wine emptying its last night’s discontent.
It is like a pack of cigarettes I consumed of inhaling
and watching the wisps of smoke thin out of dreams.
Wind will carry the tides farther away to the horizon
but you know it will land on somebody else’s shore.
I need not to bring my own footprints…”
Tendrils is another allegorical, sensual love poem using botanical elements to intensify conveying the image,
“ fragile arms reaching out
the other. Bends
in the soft wind
like gentle caresses
searching for warmth…” and
“ innocence crawl into the light.
They climb to support
each other and touch
as lovers do. Affection
grows like a vine…”
The struggle to survive in the midst of isolation and loneliness in a no man’s land is chronicled within the poem Push,
“ why flipping a page from the book is necessary
to pass time and you know that the hands of the clock
won’t turn back the hours that have been…” and
“ why talking within your mind in monologues nags you
with guilt as if your life is a mess and you are helpless
about the future and guessing how it will ever end.
And nobody knows that there is a deep cavern
that you can’t escape…”
And the timelessness of unshared poetry against rampant commercialism is encapsulated in Strange Foreign Beauty,
“silence is a little thread that binds the pages to a life” and
“ beauty hidden in a labyrinth frozen
in time. Never to be opened for a reading
and not for sale…”
When the reader falls in love with the writer and its passionate travails is aptly described in Bookworm,
“ what started out as an occasional tryst
with printed words began an insatiable desire
to eavesdrop some imaginary lives on pages…” and
“ there must be a fine line between the reader
and the writer as to dreams is to eloquence
of the pen. Drifting to lucid spaces, shelf upon shelf
I began to shuffle it between my fingers. Skim-read
passages and clues I wonder-
where to find you…”
The bittersweet and poignant love poem and its eventual love lost in Hands Clean, keeps a heart enthralled fit for a valentines day greeting card,
“ sometimes, I catch myself
wondering about you
on some moonless evenings
or misty mornings, drifting-
where have your pages brought you
on some ride in the wind
or tail of a comet’s end…” and
“ somewhere
hidden beneath the shadow of stars
thinking
who’s reading you now…” and
“ inhaling your scent
and leaving fine, little circles
of fingerprints
much softer than mine…” and
“I wonder
who’s reading you now,
whose mind can fathom
the deeper meaning of you.
Whose hands were
much cleaner than mine…”
And love’s everlasting reverberation in the vintage classic love poem Message in the Bottle,
“ there’s a message in a bottle
washed up ashore.
Like the wave
knot by knot reaching out
for the love he lost
by the sea…”
A punch of sarcasm and laconic truth in Altruism, a poem that speaks for itself,
“ I give and you receive
and you get but I didn’t
expect it to return. To pay
forward and give
to another. Until I beg
and ask the other.
He gives but never
asking back. Help…”
The elusive stroke of luck to hone a masterpiece and the lack of time is bleeding in Small Pockets of Time,
“ what will it take you to remember?
The light and shade of beauty
in minutes and seconds within hours
in a day or a year…” and
“ I carry within me
waiting to be expressed
in time. Little by little
a masterpiece…”
In the poem Orphans, it explores the artist’s continual lamentation about artistic regression if he cannot devote a time for his passion,
“ you see the bookshelves collecting dust
and the pages of books banded together like
comrades and no one stop by to break the line…” and
“ you may gone flirting into new diversions
gobbling your attention and forget the allegiance
you made to Mother Art and create orphans
watching when you’ll pick enthusiasm…”
That struggle continues to be evident in Watercolor Sky, the artist is coming into terms with his art,
“ I see words
swirling past shadows
of a hand restrained to speak them
but paint the sky
with reds, blues and yellows
in circles and dots
of dreams I am afraid
to wake from…”
In Flood, the poem have painted an imagery of the desperation and hardships of work tipping off the equilibrium on personal life balance,
“ labor becomes a habit. Of numbness
and enjoying the suffering…” and
“ like the way the thinning soap glides
my body and the necessity to wash
away yesterday’s worry-rat smell-
that doomsday spell…” and
“ like the constant whining of the weekend
laundry, hoping detergents rinse the stains
and filth of missed deadlines. And overtime.
And I got the time to soak away thinking
about the next line to a poem, capturing it
before it goes down the drain. In limbo…”
Vigil is a deep prosaic poem about death, religion and redemption, gritty in its poetic delivery,
“ by someone whose scythe has killed
and slit the necks of flowers too eager.
And push them into garland and vases
as if sudden death is a beautiful thing…” and
“ whose spirit wafts the room to shake
and pound the doors with its fists
while the priest can no longer hear
the trite confessions of a sinner…”
Coming to terms of a flawed past would not deter someone to create a new beginning is the essence of the poem Indigo,
“ empty handed you go into spaces
searching for souls like collisions
of grey shapes stumbling down
into staircases heading for exit…” and
“ you will not allow it. You will pretend
as if you’ve come a long way from there
and someone has to understand
that they need to break down
the concept of the old life you are not
now. Though they won’t applaud changes…”
One More Mile is aptly a poem about perseverance to fight for your dreams,
“ skid some marks,
dash the line
but I’ll never say
a dream goodbye…” and
“ and the minutes
stretch too long to count.
But I hold on
until it burns
a path uniquely
my own…”
Then after all, Who Says Poetry Is A Dying Art? is a poem that holds the beacon to continue poetry and its literary legacy,
“ who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.
For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds
of men and keep them going…” and
“ art that was losing chances and losing hope.
That made poems became songs sung out loud.
It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.
And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy
affection…”
Another poetic gem, I believe is Our Own Little Places, explores life in the country side and why it matters,
“ a simple life- who knows when to retire
at night time and hug long-time companions
called pillows and dreaming dreams…” and
“ and we have to wage battles
with boredom and her sisters- called mediocrity
and irrelevance. But not all were lost.
Somebody needs to learn how to befriend them…” and
“in the darkness, we hope our soul in its own little spaces
can see the moon and stars light up the evening sky.
While the wind whispers- all is well, we’ll be calm as the sea…”
If life is a stage, so it is powerfully described in the poem They Are Silent, truth stings like a bee, a warning to gossipers,
“ they are silent, yes, they are silent.
I imagine them talking on corners
sounding like the bees ready to sting.
And the beehive is ripe and heavy
with gossip running over like honey…” and
“ I wish the sword will tangle with tongues,
lacerate the innards and spill the beans.
I wish the fish will bite the bait
and see the hook clasp hard the mouth
to stop fishy things from overflowing…”
Shadow Son, is an intimate portrait of a son who longs for his father’s affection,
“ because the sun hides its face
like the way a tyke, fatherless
and left out into the world
to fend for himself. Alone…” and
“ someone has to refuse
to become the victim anymore.
You knock some doors
and it is locked. You are not
welcome there. And a hand
is restrained to touch his own
shadow or an image reflected
a life mirrored in water…”
A gutsy reminder to the readers about the writer’s brand of literature in The Confession,
“ I do not offer a life
nor its manicured rhyme
but a disjointed rhythms
of words. Of thoughts
messed around misaligned
tensions of surviving
to live and exist…” and
“ I do not
offer a solution to a malady
but I am willing to bare
the broken bones.
There is no guilt
for a man who stand
for what he is
and would offer no
facelift to his present
circumstance…”
A poem tribute for the refugees and victims of civil wars in Narrative of the Wounded,
“ about an aching hand, bloodied by history
wrapped in white bandages soaked
in spiritual rhetoric. It didn’t stop
the bitter flow. This hemorrhage…” and
“ while bullets of sunlight streams within
dark passages to freedom fighting,
floating clouds above charred ruins.
The innocence held captive
in the hopes of winning
a logical war for a bitter peace…”
Cocoon speaks about poignantly longing for freedom, breaking from the everyday mold of monotony,
“ I would like to remember
for the sake of remembrance
without fear of talking on corners
where echoes reverberate
within these four white walls…” and
“ I would like to visit a place
that is only half-remembered
where the streets are fading
against the foggy morning light…”
Writer’s Bloc, is a ode to the many celebrated poets and writers of not so distant time who helped shape literature as their gift to the world,
“ he keeps me shrouded in shredded pieces
sprawled and reclusive and momentarily
locked up vanishing in mediocrity.
Like someone who is afraid of the sanity
and Charles Dicken’s tale of two cities…” and
“ lucky is Jane Austen for she can choose
not to be shrouded and shredded but
privileged unlike some Emily Bronte’s
Heathcliffe who tries to redeem romance.
Some hearts that pound in the will of the horse
and to kill a mockingbird of Harper Lee.
I hope to catch the rye like JD Salinger…”
And the moments of self-denial when one learns about cancer in False Positive,
“ I buckle down, and sweating
my bones, electrocuted,
dead nervous of strangers’
gaze into my inner being…” and
“ trying to find
hidden tumor that metastasized
blood flowing a river
and then you drowned
along with drowning the negative
until it sinked in…”
My photographic skills comes into play in this poem that talks just about that in Test Shot,
“ peel your skin
reveal a vibrant sheen. Touch
and push the button.
Don’t be shy…” and
“ your mist embracing lens.
My fingers trembling
capture your moment.
Beauty is raw.
Ephemeral.
I wait in magic
hours…”
And lastly saved the best for last in Something Borrowed Or Things Broken, and this poem is about an ongoing struggle about lost of confidence and trust,
“ no, I didn’t wrote this as a reminder
that you need to return what you have borrowed.
Or should I say I have borrowed it too-
for awhile…” and
“ breaking closed doors
without entering and stealing
what is not yours as if you own it.
And you don’t admit in gratitude
that once you’ve been a beggar
of affection…” and
“ love that’s unconditioned
beyond love for oneself. And it’s me,
apparently, who have become broke…”
To my readers, thanks for your continued readership of this little blog page of mine. And hopefully, we can still share the best of our blogging experience in the coming years. Thanks for allowing me to share my poetry to the rest of the blogosphere. Cheers!
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