Posted in Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Memoirs, Nature, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Religion, Society, tagged after, all, balm, beautiful, bleak, blood, boil, branches, break, breathe, burst, butterfly, cell, chances, cocoon, colors, corners, echo, emotion, expectation, fade, fear, felt, fingers, fog, forgetful, forgotten, four, free, Friday, frozen, half, inside, life, light, longing, man, moment, morning, numb, out, place, poem, poetry, pores, prsion, remember, remembrance, resplendent, reverberation, sake, skin, soft, somebody, someone, soul, street, talk, time, tree, veins, visit, walls, white, wisps, world on January 3, 2014|
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I would like to remember
for the sake of remembrance
without fear of talking on corners
where echoes reverberate
within these four white walls.
I would like to visit a place
that is only half-remembered
where the streets are fading
against the foggy morning light.
Have they forgotten
or just being forgetful?
Frozen fingers of tree branches
on a bleak Friday morning.
Wisps of emotion numbed
by the chilly winds,
the pores of my skin
have forgotten to breathe.
The chances of longing
for somebody or someone
whom you have felt the time
when the blood on your veins
boil and burst with life. Inside
of you. That the world is
still a beautiful place, after all.
Just for this moment of expectation.
This soft prison cell will balm my soul
who wants to break out as a man
free like a butterfly
in its resplendent colors.
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Posted in Current Affairs, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Religion, Society, tagged appear, beautiful, bed, birth, blood, breath, caged, call, candles, colorless, confessions, consciousness, cracks, crevices, dear, death, deep, dirge, distant, doors, dreamland, each, eager, escape, extinguish, fists, flowers, footsteps, gallop, garland, hear, kill, lamentations, leave, longer, loss, lovers, moon, neck, ordeal, other, past, peer, poem, poetry, pound, priest, proof, push, race, red, return, room, runners, sad, scythe, shake, silken, sinner, sleep, slit, someone, song, spirit, strangers, sudden, tears, terrain, thing, traces, translucent, trite, twin, two, vases, vigil, wafts, wail, white on June 8, 2013|
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On a white bed, someone is sleeping dear
deep to a dreamland of no return but only
strangers and lovers peering translucent
appearing sad as if they were caged
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 the twin blood-red moon gave birth-
two distant runners racing past each other
galloping silken terrain but their footsteps
leave no traces- only their colorless ordeal.
They call them tears.
Like lamentations of loss, a dirge, a song
wailed and escaped through cracks
and crevices of consciousness. A proof
that breath is extinguished like candles.
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.
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Posted in Books, Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Memoirs, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Society, Travel, tagged about, air, ashes, awhile, beautiful, believe, beneath, blur, borrow, burn, catch, circles, clean, comet, deep, drifting, end, evenings, fall, fathom, fine, fingerprints, fireplace, float, good, hands, hidden, honestly, hours, images, immortality, inhale, innocence, keep, landscape, last, leave, left, letters, little, meaning, mind, mine, misty, moment, moonless, mornings, myself, never, now, pages, pavement, poem, poetry, rain, reading, realize, remember, ride, sadly, scent, shadow, softer, sometimes, somewhere, sorry, soul, stars, sweet, tail, things, think, walk, watch, wind, winter, wonder, you on May 11, 2013|
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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.
Somewhere
hidden beneath the shadow of stars
thinking
who’s reading you now.
Whose hands walk
the landscape of your soul.
A borrowed moment
inhaling your scent
and leaving fine, little circles
of fingerprints
much softer than mine.
Sorry if
I left you-
like letters I burn in the fireplace
while watching the ashes float in winter air
and fall sadly to the pavement. Like rain
remembering the sweet hours.
The blur images of innocence
and immortality you believed
then, but honestly, I realize how beautiful
it was
and I kept you
for awhile but good things never last.
I wonder
who’s reading you now,
whose mind can fathom
the deeper meaning of you.
Whose hands were
much cleaner than mine.
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Posted in Art Scene, Books, Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Memoirs, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Society, Technology, tagged asleep, bath, beautiful, beauty, bee, belong, blank, bleed, blood, blue, cold, come, crumple, cut, death, desire, door, dream, drop, else, empty, endure, envelopes, expression, field, fingerprint, flight, flower, foreseen, fountain, frost, hand, handwriting, heart, hit, hours, imagination, ink, innocence, jealousy, knife, knock, know, lady, leave, letters, life, light, line, love, lucky, mailbox, man, memory, morning, motionless, neighborhood, night, oblivion, One, open, outsider, page, paper, pen, pigeon, poem, poetry, postman, probe, read, refusal, sanity, scar, scent, sentences, shadow, sheet, someone, stare, still, struggle, surrender, today, trashbin, undelivered, understanding, unhealed, victim, window, world, wound, written on July 16, 2011|
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He stares at the frosted window,
dreaming of pigeons in flight.
Probing shadows in his oblivion
while the neighborhood is asleep
on this night bathed in blue light.
His heart refuses to surrender
to someone else’s handwriting.
He’s an outsider, perhaps a victim.
No one knows how he spent hours
imagining a beautiful world.
Unable to express, struggling
for a line to be understood.
An empty love bleeding sentences
that can never be written.
Such beauty, a flower in the field
belonging to some lucky bee.
Jealousy hits his innocence
like a knife to a man’s desiring,
leaving his wounds unhealed.
For the lady who reads letters
from some scented envelopes.
There is blood in the trash bin
and it does belong to him.
Among the crumpled sheets,
the fingerprints and drops of ink-
a memory of his scarred sanity.
How he endured the paper cuts;
this man’s life in blank pages.
The postman didn’t come today
and the letters were undelivered.
No one has foreseen death’s coming-
such as his knocking on doors
and opening of mailboxes, each morning.
They found a fountain pen in his hand,
motionless and still- in cold blood.
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Posted in Current Affairs, Literature, Poetry, Relationships, Social Commentary, Society, tagged abortion, angel, arms, beat, beautiful, bitterness, breath, child, choice, dagger, dark, distance, dream, elusive, fate, flesh, fragile, hand, happiness, hope, hour, journey, life, light, love, memory, missing, mother, name, pain, palm, past, pierce, poem, poetry, pulse, remembrance, search, silent, sinew, sleep, smile, snatch, soul, sound, spark, stain, stranger, struggle, tear, thousand, tiny, tonight, touch, trace, unborn, whisper, wisp, wound, years on November 29, 2010|
22 Comments »
When all the lights have faded.
When all the sounds have died.
A choice have been made between a mother
and the life that struggles in her womb.
Tonight will be the darkest hour.
And her whisper became tiny wisps
of breath unheard. The elusive spark
of love by the palm of her hand.
Searches for a missing pulse
beating to the sinews of her flesh.
But fate snatches the dream away
like thousand daggers piercing
into her wounded soul. It became
the bitter part of the past she cannot
forget. A stain of pain that won’t go away.
When once a beautiful journey cut short
of a distance into her fragile memory.
The silent tears through all the years,
remembering a child without a name.
Stranger to a mother’s touch.
Not a trace of an angel’s smile.
Not even happiness lulling the little one
to sleep in her arms. She dreams,
she hopes of becoming a mother
embracing her child. Unborn.
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Posted in Art Scene, Books, Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Memoirs, Nature, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Travel, tagged away, beautiful, belong, between, beyond, break, catch, child, city, day, destiny, different, distance wide, dream, existence, eyes, fairytale, fantasy, far, flock, found, fulfillment, girl, going, good, holiday, hope, hour, how, ignore, illusion, keep, leave, life, love, make, me, memory, Nature, now, nutshell, old, outline, outside, poem, poetry, possible, real, recollection, return, run, sake, same, search, see, short, sidetrip, squeeze, stay, story, stranger, street, sweet, time, train, vague, wanderer, while, wish, world, yesterday, you on September 9, 2010|
31 Comments »
I will have to catch the train
and leave you. For I am
a wanderer in search
of a destiny. Only here
squeezing in time,
making a sidetrip
for memory’s sake.
Holiday is sweet
in these short hours.
Recollecting the good
old-natured yesterday
becoming vague now.
And in your eyes
there are outlines
of the life you wish
you had with me.
How could it be
so beautiful? Still
I cannot stay, if only
I exist in a fairytale.
There is a real world
outside your nutshell.
Breaking away beyond
here- that I must go.
I need to exist
day after day
among other strangers
flocking the city streets.
How can you keep
a dream from going on?
I am not so sure, while
I catch train after train
hoping not to return.
Ignoring the illusions
fulfilling your fantasy.
I found you, still,
a girl and a child.
With the same old
story to tell. And you
do not see that I have
become so different.
So far away, a distance
far too wide to belong.
Love is not possible
between you and me.
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Posted in Art Scene, Current Affairs, Music, Prose, Society, tagged ability, advertisement, age, amount, art, artist, authenticity, background, beautiful, breed, bucket, bus, by-product, cab, challenge, chance, cheap, Chess, choir, circumstances, class, commercialization, concert, consequence, creative, decode, determination, doubt, dream, eagerness, egotistical, eligible, endless, energy, enjoyment, entertainment, environment, everyday, everyone, excited, experience, explore, expression, few, figure, fingers, fresh, friends, fulfillment, future, genuine, germination, gift, goals, good, grand, hall, hand, hum, idea, inception, individual, influence, inspiration, keyboardist, keys, kindness, leisure, length, Les Miserables, life, lifelong, lifestyle, light, limitation, lingering, list, map, matter, melody, merit, mind, movement, Music, musical, musicality, musician, musicology, need, new, noise, norm, nothing, notion, occasion, opera, opinion, orchestra, origin, originality, output, overture, paradigm, past, pen, perceptiveness, person, personal, Phantom of the Opera, piano, place, plan, play, positive, possibilities, prelude, profit, promise, public, reality, recital, rhythm, right, sake, satisfaction, scene, schedules, selected, senses, shift, situation, song, spend, spotlight, standard, street, study, sublime, success, surprise, symphony, talent, thing, thoughts, time, trend, true, truthfulness, visual, vocal, way, weave, witness, work, writing, years on May 8, 2009|
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I have always wanted to learn how to play the piano. It is one of the things in my bucket list that I am compelled to do, fulfilling the goals I have set several years ago, but so elusive that I never found the proper time and place to learn it. Even if I tried planning to pursue a piano class, it was set aside due to my regular work schedules. A couple of musician and keyboardist friends tried to convince me to study piano and even told me that they can pitch in to teach me, but I was left waiting and wondering when will be the time they had the energy to do so.
It is a good thing that out of their kindness, they promised. But that is enough already, and it has led me to nothing. I have progressed to nothing when it comes to learning piano. And for now, the eagerness and my determination to learn how to play the piano grew stronger and stronger everyday. I am so excited imagining how many piano pieces I could be able to play, leisurely at ease. Of symphonies, orchestra pieces, musical pieces, overtures, preludes and many more waiting there for me to explore. A daunting challenge for me to know musicology. I am not contented of merely being purely vocal. I have an inner need to express more my musicality even further, realizing the inner melodies I have kept humming throughout all these years.
Some maybe surprised to know that I have the ability to compose songs of my own, while riding a cab or a bus. I am getting inspirations straight from the vibratory rhythms of the car wheels and infusion of surrounding background noises from the street. The melodies are still fresh on my mind, even if it was long, long time ago, since its very inception. A germination of the musical idea derived through the exploration of our senses.
They say, when a song has been born out from you through your everyday experiences and you still remember them, they are meant to be revealed, creatively shared and exposed for public enjoyment. Artists had their unique lifestyle – a life of producing and honing their art for expression. They have also a need for expressing their sublime thoughts, may it be in the form of music, visual art or creative writing.
I don’t believe, when somebody says that a person has a gift for so and so. In my personal opinion, art can be learned. Talents can be nurtured gradually through the influences in the environment, or an individual’s ingrained perceptiveness to their environment and a by-product, or a consequence of an individual’s current life situations, circumstances and past influences.
I also don’t believe in the notion that one has to spend a considerable amount of time in actually learning an art. Although it might have some merits. The length of time is not a measure how one can evolve eligibly to be called an artist. Everyone, no matter what their ages may be, have the chance to become artists of their own right, for as long as they have the determination to decode their abilities to express themselves through art. There is no doubt that they will eventually succeed.
Artists are governed by the inner satisfaction they get while genuinely expressing their thoughts through their art. Artists are governed by the truthfulness of their artistic expression sans the dictates of the prevailing trends, norm or standards. Having said that, most of the celebrated pseudo-artists are merely egotistically bloated and widely publicized musical figures, just for the sake of personal advertisement and cheap breed of entertainment for profit.
True artists of our time are the ones who are hiding away from the spotlight and have chosen to disassociate themselves from the commercialization of the art. True artists, therefore, are the ones who are sticking their hands to the originality and authenticity of their artistic output. In one way or the other, they might find themselves in the future, being hailed as originators of a new art movement, a paradigm shift to the art scene.
So, don’t be surprised. I actually mapped it out, this time. I have listed down the things that I will do when I have learned how to play the piano. Possibilities are endless. I might have a new song for the choir to sing. I might have a new song that I can play when celebrating an occasion, and the need for some light music arises. I might have a recital to be witnessed in a concert hall by a selected few. The grandest of these plans, might be penning an opera or a musical play to the likes of Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera, Chess etc.
These lingering thoughts, get me so excited as I imagine my fingers traversing piano keys and weaving some beautiful melodies. It is a fulfillment that I think, would go beyond compare and can possibly exceed my limitations. It is a lifelong dream, bordering reality. Soon, and positively achievable.
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The Mother And Her Child
Posted in Current Affairs, Literature, Poetry, Relationships, Social Commentary, Society, tagged abortion, angel, arms, beat, beautiful, bitterness, breath, child, choice, dagger, dark, distance, dream, elusive, fate, flesh, fragile, hand, happiness, hope, hour, journey, life, light, love, memory, missing, mother, name, pain, palm, past, pierce, poem, poetry, pulse, remembrance, search, silent, sinew, sleep, smile, snatch, soul, sound, spark, stain, stranger, struggle, tear, thousand, tiny, tonight, touch, trace, unborn, whisper, wisp, wound, years on November 29, 2010| 22 Comments »
When all the lights have faded.
When all the sounds have died.
A choice have been made between a mother
and the life that struggles in her womb.
Tonight will be the darkest hour.
And her whisper became tiny wisps
of breath unheard. The elusive spark
of love by the palm of her hand.
Searches for a missing pulse
beating to the sinews of her flesh.
But fate snatches the dream away
like thousand daggers piercing
into her wounded soul. It became
the bitter part of the past she cannot
forget. A stain of pain that won’t go away.
When once a beautiful journey cut short
of a distance into her fragile memory.
The silent tears through all the years,
remembering a child without a name.
Stranger to a mother’s touch.
Not a trace of an angel’s smile.
Not even happiness lulling the little one
to sleep in her arms. She dreams,
she hopes of becoming a mother
embracing her child. Unborn.
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