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Posts Tagged ‘celebration’

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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Since March of 2006, I started writing and chronicling my thoughts on almost any topic I can think of.  Mostly dealing with my perceptions on everyday living, commentaries about society, circumstances, current state of my well-being and personal journeys through days of constant struggles seeking endless quest for meaning and purpose. I‘d rather not talk about it. For I know, there are thoughts that are better written than being said.

We are speck in this universe and everyone is bringing within them their vast universe of searching and trying to find their place in this world. Perhaps, I put those thoughts delicately in every word, in every phrase and in every line of a poem,  of an anecdote, of an essay or of a prose. Painstakingly encapsulated each meaning, each nuance, each silhouette of happiness or sorrow. The bitter reality and its aftertaste, the sweetness of longing and the rising and falling of life and love like water, without redemption nor mercy.

Continuing from the 200 days of my solitude and beginning August of 2010 till date, I have penned a hundred poems of the roller coaster ride of layered complexity of these literary perceptions. Hames: Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd is officially a poetry blog. My reason is simple: I express better in poetry. I can better paint the picture with words. I can say something without being confrontational, tempered and deep. I can highlight and drive the point in the economy of words like a Spartan, who understands utility.

For me, poetry is sanity. Poetry is breathing and living the oxygen and constant elixir to appreciate life. When all the world’s a stage, actors that we are, indeed, has to play each part very well. And the part that God has allowed me to do, is to pen poetry.

 

In my poem Opening. Waiting. Closing. Life, the cycle of life and death and rebirth are compressed in a nutshell,

only to find that beginnings

anticipate endings…”

 

An incomprehensible heartbreak in Running Away, a sense of wandering without direction,

“ there are outlines

of the life you wish

you had with me…” and 

 

“ a distance

far too wide to belong…”

 

And the epic and colossal poem Young Blood chronicles the ten episodes of war,

“ these patriot’s sons fading like the last puffs

of smokes from an old man’s cigarette growing

into mushroom clouds eclipsing the day…” and

 

“ the world becomes so small

as the wandering clouds casts

its lingering shadows over

the returning and lucky…” and

 

“ jungle has become our greatest enemy…” and

 

“ the rain became empty bullet shells

mourning at this God-forsaken place…” and

 

“ Don’t look back, soldier.

Don’t retrieve the man behind you.

Keep your stance or get killed…” and

 

“ it’s raining ashes today.

Clearing away the embers

among the crevices of silence.

God’s pencil is being sharpened

and graphite is being pressed down

into the annals of men’s history…”

 

Not all my poems are gloomy, there are some splashes of light, positive air and happy inspirations such as Piece of Sky,

“let the wind carry your spirit-

a dot in the sand completing

this tapestry of life. You belong

to a grand plan, ever since

when the universe is born…”

 

A poem tribute to a mother who had unborn child in The Mother and Her Child,

“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…”

 

A personal favorite in Decoupage, where it hits me personally and the poem had made a life on its own,

“ there is something.

In the stale morning air that reminds me

of one strange midnight…” and

 

“ there is something-

which I failed to grasp

and took hold of…” and

 

“ there is a memory of a voice fading

like the sheen from this worn-out table.

Among the bread crumbs for the pigeons to share.

And this bronzed cup leaving off a tinge-

a certain warmth I could not forget…”

 

Holiday season sadness was encapsulated in Fresh Fall of Snow, both soft and charming,

“ no one is sitting on that bench anymore,

to watch the seagulls and the moonrise…” and

 

“no one wants to be sitting there

among the leafless trees, alone

abandoned by autumn…’’

 

And a peek to a life of the rich and famous in a prose poem Bright Lights, and understanding that they are humans too,

“there is a luggage she’s tugging down the concourse

hurriedly outpacing the brisk walking of time,

meeting down in the alleys of strangers and guests,

with a  mask of smiles and warmth of handshakes…” and

 

“ as fickle as the world spins around,

she begins another round of playing masquerades again…”

 

A portrait poem of an Arab salt merchant in The Trader,

“ his face is a map of caravan years,

weathering the desert sun…” and

 

“ as the sand windblown and collected

in the seams of his linen turban,

anxiety constantly snake through

the mazes of his troubled mind…”

 

A surprise haiku inspired by an art piece, a sculpture in Hepworth’s Echo,

“ Outside looking in.

Thoughts pierce something unspoken-

silence taking shape…”

 

My second portrait poem in four series, capturing the agony of waiting tables in The Waitress,

“ year after year, she stayed while clearing tables

and washing dishes. Cleaning them spotless

and white again, counting them like days

she will have to wait. Leaving this place

crossing oceans to dream with her man…”

 

The tension of freeing and loosening up from fears and start living in Shoe String,

“ I need to loosen up. Shaking off

from the strappy refuge I am

wearing each day…”

 

My third portrait poem, grapples about the future of the one who sits behind a crystal ball in The Fortune Teller,

“she keep on caressing the old crystal ball,

ignoring the signs of her grey and thinning hair.

She believed she has power to prevail death.

But  time slowly creeps like a thief in the night

when she can no longer be speaking about

the future…”

 

The humble existential poem By The Trail talks about human fragility and his migration to a magnanimous realization that indeed he is just a speck in the scheme of things under God’s all encompassing gaze,

“it made me cry.

Something within me springs

divine and humbly I begin

to wonder-

My smallness

in the scheme of things

pre-occupied with thoughts

of needing only to survive…”and

 

“travelling through journeys

winding as these trails

like the herd of caribou

silently passing by the route

with one life to live…”

 

And the last of my four-part series of portrait poems, shares the inside story of a book lover in The Bibliophile,

“his muffled voice breaks

the long stretches of silence

while his hand guided

young and untrained hands

practicing calligraphy…” and

 

“he believed, it was

here  in his hands lies the fiber, sinew

and muscle of generations of man-

the society is ought to remember…”

 

In You Left Me With Things, the poem is trying to dig a box of sentimental journey of hurt and loss,
“the blue light to my cigarette starts another

round of stinging away this loneliness

floating in loops through the night’s surreal air…” and

 

“ the beads begin forming in my mugs of beer

unknowingly- which of those are my sweat or tears-

blurred in the sad memory that you left me…”

 

It is said that things don’t change- we do, in a sad homecoming poem At The Crossroads,

“like a bird lost in migration

without a nest to lay its wings.

Through the labyrinth of dreams

I am not yet found…”

 

And a confrontational poem Re-surfacing, a plethora of anger burst into the open like a volcano,

“anger is foaming in our mouths like lava

simmering in a cauldron ready to explode…”

 

In Montage of a Stow-away, two lives of wanderers intermingled in a poem and you’ll get clueless of whose life is whom,

“I can feel it now across this table

in the old diner of this no man’s land,

The sound of shuffling deck of cards.

Or is it the leaves in autumn falling

in September- that he will remember?…” and

 

“I sense the mad rhythms and cadences

of cursives and scribbles in melancholy.

The dead poet speaks uneasy like this…”

 

A deeply sad and tragic portrait poem of a postman embroiled in a love triad in Paper Cuts,

“an empty love bleeding sentences

that can never be written…” and

 

“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…”

 

Music and love in all its splendor and grace shines in the poem Counterpoints and Movements,

“imagine yourself playing the part.

The melody in a slow tempo

touching the white bones in mine…” and

 

“the sounds in the pavement,

and the trickling of the rain

drops of minims, crochets,

semibreves and quavers

into unfamiliar serenade…” and

 

“when all love was just a dream

and tonight I hear applause

thundering under my own skin…”

 

There’s a gutsy side of self-defense on the poem Draw The Line, sprawled in a life of a refined and cultured front,

“I won’t show you the bookmarks.

The synopsis of chapters.

The highlighted paragraphs

almost torn to the leaf

where the watermarks

from my tears had faded.

I won’t let you read it…”

 

And an intriguing poem on a bohemian’s severe mental state of depression in Vacuum,

“it feels strange. Someone

speaks in a muffled voice

and you float being chased

around in dreams…”

 

The suitcase and all emotions that is packed within it, ready to go to drift beyond seasonal changes is bitterly written down  in Autumn’s Leaving,

“ there’s a suitcase in the hall.

And emptiness will soon occupy it…” and

 

“ I will try picking up the pieces again and slowly

survive another night without the moon nor the stars…”

 

A closer look on friendship and brotherhood in the poem Brotherhood of Man,

“ you said you got the numbers, the monopoly of muscles

careening into the free struggle, a high tide.

Your fate hangs by a thread slicing your morrow,

all by winning the plum, a brotherhood of man…”

 

An introspection of marriage in the poem Tourists at the Beach, explores its inevitable circumstances leading to separation,

“ we walk like solitary man and woman

glancing sideways, avoiding leisure

as if children were lost running both ways

chasing happiness out of sight. Dreaming

of lost balloons. Of lost kites. Of empty boats

bobbing, floating and drifting away…”

 

A poem about architecture, Frank Lloyd Wright and the portrait of an architect and his feelings of being marginalized in the profession which was bravely chronicled in I’m No Frank,

“But I’m no Frank

and dreams might be

my little fingers clasping

hard and pushing pencils

for somebody else’s utopia…” and

 

“The genius envisions an edifice

in his intellectual acrobatics,

justifying to the world the modern-

reality that build themselves on paper…” and

 

“but I ‘m no Frank.

The hours stretched for miles and miles.

The drafting table becoming wet with fog

until  the first  hours of the morning.

I can hear the mad conversations

of the vellum and the graphite saying,

“deadline nears, it’s almost here”…

 

And here’s a poem Man on The Wheel, an analogy of man’s life with driving and error of his lording ways,

“to these burning palms laid down from commanding-

life directions in the intersection of good and bad.

The right from wrong.  I twist and turn in indecision…” and

 

“ I try to make a path through the grass

and keep the weeds from growing…” and

 

“I surrender for the first time. Watching

someone else’s lording over the brakes

and keep moving the distances away.

Away from  myself.  Trusting…”

 

Then, I wrote a poem about a person struggling with Alzheimer’s syndrome in Sinking Deeper,

“ I misplaced the sign- “don’t disturb”

among the shards of broken plates,

of broken glasses in the kitchen.

Where did I put our picture frame?…”

 

I did have my share of the contemporary and the modern in News of the World, putting in the elements of the ordinary into its larger than life focus,

“ and you will hear the sound of footsteps

becoming heavy. And the noise picks up

like the tractor breaking the clods of soil.

Like the knife speeding the rate of chopping.

But it is not about the tractor. Nor the knife…”

 

And a powerful poem tribute for the 9/11 World Trade Center tragedy reads like a prayer in The Reading,

“ I hear the mad stampede roar.

I hear the panic bars unlatch.

Then the cacophony of sirens,

the tolling of alarm bells,

the symphony of shock,

the avalanche of horror,

the carnage of the missing,

and the agony of the trapped…” and

 

“ I hear them all within the sound of the water

trickling down over the polished slabs of stones.

I hear them while I listen in the reading,

of engraved names whose innocent fates

were like the powdery dusts in mid-air

frozen, suspended, undiminished in time…”

 

I took a peek on the blank state of human condition, it’s fragility to be broken and adaptability of starting over in Whiteness of Being,

“ It’s like a white space.

When the horizon of doubt blurs

the line that separate you from immortality.

And all you see is your own lightness

that no shadow would keep you

stalled towards your destiny.

There,  you would know that peace

is the only way to move on…”

 

In Renegade Days, I try to recall my radical moments of youth, idealism and student activism, cherishing the days that I was able to be part of  the  great voice for change,

“ we were among those hundred innocent feet

wheeling through the clouds of dusts.  So close

that someone shouted to stop the angry phalanx

from advancing the gates. We were young bloods then…” and

 

“ we stand like a hundred innocent moths

circling fearlessly around the flame. Ready

to extinguish our fates  for one day of glory…”

 

And most of the best poems I’ve got are the short ones such as Midnight Train, whose description of the night is captured in its brevity,

“ night dresses flowing

pink, plumes of smoke

by the passing train…” and

 

“ no reflection hides your true charm

lonely as a fog, silent as a dove

your ghost would wander…”

 

I love impressionism, and I wrote an impressionistic poem in Clouds and Poppies, where I had a liberty to describe a scene in my memory,

“ I’m wide awake

 

asleep

daydream embracing

splashes of red

soft velvety blossom…”

 

Another confrontation in Having Said Enough, is a frank- tell it to my face poem that deals with arguments and disagreements made clear,

“ you’re definitely upset when I can’t catch you. And you

can’t catch me as we are both lost in translation…” and

 

“ you know, sometimes you do not have to fight

every battles you are invited in. Just choose-

the best one. And argue with me. Fine…”

 

And memories of solo road trips in Skid Marks, analyzing love and life through road detours and road markings,

“ I see the tyre burning marks

like tattoos criss-crossing,

shifts of directions of going

and coming into your life…”

 

An Afternoon with Monet, is where I try to engage the painter into a poetic discussion of his many splendid impressionistic paintings and my love for his art is evident in this poem,

“ I walk dreamily

drank with loveliness,

the wavy enthusiasm

of the blue sea.” and

 

“ I see reflections

of wooden boats

bobbing in a dance

with quiet clouds

rippling soft creating

small shivers

in its feathery face…”

 

Depression hits like an umbrella to a raincloud in the poem  Weather’s to Blame, dissecting the many elements of the rainy day,

“ my eye bags were  like cumulus cloud

hanging low, grey and heavy

moving slow hovering thoughts

you won’t know what I am trying

to get over underneath…” and

 

“ I forgot how to regulate the flow

of the emotional flash flood I contain.

And here I am with my lonely forecasts.

The weather disturbance I blame…”

 

Another favorite  poem of mine, Abandonment deals with feeling of barrenness and loss where elements convey the strongest message,

“ I had a future

of keeping yesterday.

Think of your broken machines

worn-out hands-me-down

wrecked and rusted

and shattered and cracked…” and

 

“ your broken bottles

peeled plaster left

pockmarks on walls

bruised on my skin…” and

 

“ the bible’s missing pages

incomplete like my faith

transfixed on a television

watching silent movies.

Wondering what is it

that Chaplin mouthed?

Isn’t it ‘God, why thou

has forsaken me?’

And the world laughed…”

 

The Story is an experimental poem, two personalities conversing like a soliloquy about the travails of a scriptwriter,

“ unless I end up whoring

at the art house

with rusted springs

at cushioned seat poking

scooped up gossips.

Eavesdropping

some private lives…” and

 

“ I let his copulation of idea

with tried and tested formula

stink like the stench of urine

of those who had chewed

and vomited yesterday’s

mulch of cinematic nostalgia…”

 

Another gritty poem His Past Smells is a retrospection of a man who recalls his share of poverty,

“ as if dreams can be scavenged

out of the hilly mounds

of garbage, dumping its gifts

of someone else’s trash turning

into someone else’s fortune…” and

 

“ he won’t cover the past

with today’s perfume

nor sanitize its images

in suds of detergent…”

 

A portrait poem of a gondolier and his lost love  is well chronicled in Gondolier of Venice,

“ his voice knows the direction

where to bring new lovers

bowled over by the moon

and the stars, sailing

their feelings away…”

 

Specimen, is a poem that deals with the deep social questions of racism and discrimination being experienced as an expatriate,

“ is it about what you’ve been taught?

Is it about how you’ve been raised?

Have I been misplaced by fate?

My skin’s darker, hands dirtied,

swollen by hard labor. A gap

so wide I couldn’t leap forward

a privilege’s bloody to break…”

 

And a wonderful cleansing poem written with a positive outlook, I Am Writing My Pain Away, is a retrospection of a stepson who became introverted and isolated from the world,

“ but she didn’t know that I am writing my pain away.

I came to a point of thinking about those fatherless

children who lost theirs in wars, in car crashes…” and

 

“ I could belong like my ink being absorbed by the paper,

without condition. Just pure distill of my thoughts.

I could somehow say that I found a home to myself

after all…”

 

A short but an allegorical poem about war, Haystacks is a resemblance to those war heroes whom we have lost in World War 2,

“ little mounds

becoming little hill

becoming mountain

becoming volcano

billowing smoke,

the war was won

over.

Black ash

as its aftermath…”

 

And missed chances to find love in She Could’ve Been That Woman, chronicles a shy man’s regrets and fear of commitment,

“ but fear is a great thief.

It plunders you out of years

slipping you by of chances.

Could’ve been. Love.

Should’ve been like that…”

 

In the poem Double-Faced, it examines the narcissistic hypocrisy of self to conform and boost the ego by the will of majority,

“ let’s burn the hours

under the opium of disguise,

it’s good to wax poetic with egos…”

 

I seldom write haiku, but here in Six Days A Week, the poem clearly describes the travails of a working life,

“ it takes a lifetime to sit down

roosting a nest with your eggs

of fortune to hatch golden…”

 

Walking Along, is a poem that  recounts multiple lives stitched by an image of people crowding and walking in the streets burdened with their own circumstances,

“ turning left and right,

brushing past signals

and pedestrian crossings

colliding like busy ants…”

 

More on the second half as I celebrate the goodness of writing poems and blogging  these past eight years. I do hope you enjoy the poetic journey so far. 

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Today, marks my two hundred and one days of solitude.

It gave me a sense of fulfillment to know that I have stayed through all these years writing the many vivid facets of my mind, heart and soul. Writing became my constant companion whom I can share and reflect on the intimate, smallest and minutest detail in life we often take for granted.

For the longest time, I have used poetry as a creative platform to express the richness of my personal experiences and the joy of the inner travels I have had.  I have had prose/essay  pieces before, but I have decided to channel my creative energy to poetry as the less exposed literary medium and thereby avoiding the pitfalls of being confessional.

As I have said before,  it is my intention to utilize this blog for the purpose of personal expression. It was not my intention to commercialize my creative output for monetary gain or seeking personal favors from anyone or any business entity. 

With the creative collaboration with my fellow blog writer friends, I acknowledge the tremendous help I have gained through their constructive feedback that develop me more maturely in tackling explorative writing subjects. I am poised to continue writing without constraint on the boundaries of belief, religion, age, philosophy or political ideology.  I maintained a free but a sober mind discoursing the merits of our humanity without prejudice and without the sacrifice of the value system I uphold.

Nevertheless, may the years ahead prove to be a fruitful creative writing endeavor.  It was my hope, that my creative writing serves as an inspiration, an honest reflection, and an essential guide to the paths of self-discovery, higher level of understanding and this life’s noble existence.

To my readers, I thank you for the valuable friendship, readership and patronage you have given me through all the years. This, I consider as an anchor for me to forge ahead and keep on writing.

I would like to share the prose/ essay / poetry listed in my book of days as follows;

 1)      Country Music

2)      What Motivates Me?

3)      Work

4)      Childhood Friendship (Part 1)

5)      Young At Heart

6)      Amarantine (Enya)

7)      Before Sunrise

8)      Breakout

9)      Happiness Is A Hammock Under A Shady Tree

10)  Farewell To Sunset

11)  My China Connection

12)  If You Never Say Goodbye

13)  Four Corners of Isolation

14)  Man In The Mirror

15)  Ladies in Lavender

16)  Starwars Saga

17)  Capsule Of Perfect Moment

18)  Overwhelmingly Entertained By Poverty

19)  The Kite

20)  Afraid Of The Future

21)  Burning Ladder Into Oblivion

22)  Lucid

23)  Elegy To The Departed

24)  Sunday Music Blues

25)  Commodity Of Choice

26)  Top Ten Picks On The Youth Chart

27)  Voices Of The Walking Merchant

28)  Universe Of Virtual Worlds

29)  White Flag

30)  Autumnal Equinox

31)  Indeed

32)  Liberty From Monotony

33)  Dead Poet’s Society

34)  Singlehood

35)  Hongkong In My Mind

36)  Pay Scales

37)  Antisocial

38)  Rude Awakening

39)  Diary

40)  Outsourced Economy

41)  Great Leaping Forward

42)  Tombstones

43)  City Surrealist

44)  Filtered Through

45)  Paradigm Shift

46)  October Rain

47)  Nocturne

48)  Deja’vu

49)  Hedonistic Survival

50)  Two Women

51)  Anger Scythe

52)  Refusing To Learn

53)  Waiting Room

54)  Quotes From My Fave Movies

55)  Passion For The Arts

56)  A Long Year’s Sabbath

57)  Daylight

58)  United 93

59)  Half-Filled

60)  A Prayer

61)  Ratholes And Bay Reveries

62)  In The Silence Of The Heart

63)  Sorting Out Life

64)  Rock Bottom

65)  Angling For A Kill

66)  Little Wings

67)  Frame Of A Thought

68)  Journey To Neverland

69)  A Nugget Of A Kindness

70)  Dreaming Of Pakistan

71)  No Explanations

72)  In The Foothills Of Fujairah

73)  This Way Up

74)  The Rebel

75)  Long Wait

76)  Promise Of Rain

77)  Whiskey Lullaby

78)  Trip To Quiapo

79)  Anachronism

80)  Conform To Belong

81)  Beautiful Mind

82)  Snapshots From The Edge

83)  Dream Believer

84)  30 Minutes

85)  Happy Kid

86)  Munad

87)  A Teacher’s Worth

88)  Love Letters In The Sand

89)  On A Moonless Night

90)  Quiet Contemplation

91)  Classmates In Grade School

92)  Return To Innocence

93)  Drafter’s Board

94)  Rendezvous

95)  Urban Owl

96)  Slow As The Wind Blows

97)  Chance Passenger

98)  Bottom Dollar

99)  One Foggy Morning

100)    3:100

101)    Winter’s Ode

102)    Soledad

103)    Visions Of Arabia

104)    Last Sixty Seconds

105)    Rocket Idea

106)    Unknown

107)    Dinner For Two

108)    Musings Of A Thirty Something

109)    Words To Live By

110)    Life Uncommon

111)    Canine Memories

112)    Rehearsing Love

113)    Blank Canvas In A Lazy Afternoon

114)    Highway And The Stranger

115)    Paper Trail

116)    The Day I Met The One

117)    While Listening Alison Krauss

118)    Like A Desert Meets The Rain

119)    Some Faded Photographs

120)    Haiku To A Hideaway

121)    Death Of A Little Bird

122)    Solace

123)    Absent Minded

124)    Confessional As Plath

125)    The Wake-up Call

126)    Halfway Through A Page

127)    Black And White

128)    Aurora Borealis

129)    Musically Challenged

130)    Embers

131)    Memories Are Cheap

132)    Pasig River And The Warrior Child

133)    New Leaf On Living

134)    Bicycle Ride

135)    I Left The World As It Is

136)    Paint The Words

137)    Adaptation

138)    Reflections On The Puddles

139)    Tickets

140)    Moonscape

141)    A Moth In The Flame

142)    Clothesline

143)    Sketches

144)    Monochrome

145)    Bedspace

146)    Captive In Babylon

147)    Vignette On Yesterday

148)    Bye Bye, Yellow Butterfly

149)    Chiaroscuro

150)    Prairie Walk

151)    Lost For Words

152)    Sundown Over Umm Ghuwailina

153)    Ryan

154)    Kinesthetic

155)    Counting

156)    Alphabet

157)    Ghost Whisperer

158)    Orion’s Belt

159)    Rhapsody In Blue

160)    Click Shut Down

161)    The Solitary Task Of Writing

162)    Immersion

163)    Stamps And Postmarks

164)    An Everyman’s Tragedy

165)    Paper Boats

166)    Birthday Candle

167)    Second Thought

168)    Nil

169)    Lukewarm

170)    Touchdown

171)    Ink Must Wait

172)    Great Divide

173)    Sugar For Coffee

174)    Half Truth

175)    On The Last Chapter

176)    Quatrain For The Dying Tree

177)    Dapples

178)    Keys To Some Secrets

179)    Wind Swept

180)    Detached

181)    To Pablo Neruda

182)    Opaque

183)    Scribbling

184)    Burned Bridges

185)    Moonquake

186)    She Sings

187)    Parachute

188)    Earth Sounds

189)    Oeuvre

190)    Watermark

191)    Once Solitary Shell

192)    Grandfather’s Clock

193)    Vanishing Point

194)    Nightfall

195)    Tryst

196)    Laundry For The Firstborn

197)    Finding The Light

198)    Bliss

199)    Phantom Of A Dream

200)    Avalanche

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At young age, I was severely smacked down by our pet dog.  When my father learned about it, he brought down his gun and pulled the trigger. The dog instantly died. But I was hospitalized, sending my parents into panic if I had contracted the dreaded rabies.  But thank God, there is no indication of infection.

Through the years, the wounds got healed. But the mark of that dog’s bite has deeply sliced through my heart.  Everytime, I see through their eyes are thousand words that connects me to their world. No matter how ferocious they can be, my heart will melt at the sight of those angelic beings wagging their tails when they meet you.

I had never been hateful of dogs, even if I had that bad  incident. And I am just into thinking, if that one incident has something to do with this affinity to the canine creatures. I guess so. There are just so many dogs who came in and out of my life.  And I can feel the pain whenever the time of separation ensues. I can’t bear the thought of leaving them there when I have to be somewhere.

I remember Cotton. A fluffy haired white dog who lived long enough with us since childhood and became part of our family. Everybody just adored her though she never had any puppies. But she became a loyal and faithful dog who never tires to come to you when she is called.  I remember as a child, I would join in whenever my aunt will bathe her by the garden hose. Oh, I would just love chasing her running away whisking out the water away from its body.

When I was in gradeschool, my father and my mother have left us to the care of our grandparents  to return to Manila for work.  I felt the loss of connection.  I am in limbo. I felt emptiness. But a dog has saved the day and made me assured of company from then on.  But like the others, the dog died and I was in deep sadness. I can still recall how I invited my playmates to come with me under the guava tree , to have a funeral for the dog.  I made some wooden cross, some santan flowers plucked from a neighbor’s garden  and put in on top of the mound.  When my grandmother have found out, she was so angry with me and shouted to stop the ridiculous thing or I would got spanked.

I have forgotten some of the names of my dogs. But most of them, I remember them giving birth underneath my bed.  Then in the morning, I will hear some little cute noises from its newly born puppies.  There is a dog who still remembered me even after three years of separation. When I held her to my arms, she gave out a heartfelt cry like a long lost child.  There is a dog that looks like a tiger who have gone missing after a New Year’s celebration. There is also a dog who  one day came home before dying. We later discovered that he got a huge knife cut in his stomach by some heartless bystanders in the street.

I remember Vladimir, the  dog who is sleeping during the day but a guardian through the night.  I remember Ella, my aunt’s dog in Cavite, who walks like a polio victim due to some birth defects, but she managed to have two beautiful puppies Jack and Ace. I remember Fubu, An-an’s dog in Fujeirah who loves Filipinos that much.

But for now, I try not to have a dog.  I don’t want to have the same feeling of loss anymore when something happens to them.  And the  pain of losing them just lingers so long.  I can’t help it. But the fondness I would remember, is when those innocent eyes of the dog would  search you through and start wagging their tails as a sign that they trust you enough. That you can be their dearest friend for life.

A dog is indeed a man’s bestfriend.

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