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Posts Tagged ‘flag’

His past smells of a ditch

drying up its putrid stink

as stale as the street air.

It belongs to a smoggy neighborhood.

In the memory of tattered rags

flapping like flags on the clothesline.

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.

 

No one cared about armpits

getting wet and sour for hours,

as long as the bad odors

can promise him little money

to buy fish sauce for rice.

Sniffing heaven on earth-

little angel never complaining

about life, about the linger-

of those occasional whiffs

from the broken sewer.

Nor the rising sting of steam

emanating from his broken skin

pierced by the cruel sun.

 

Nor inhaling the dry cough of cars

and buses farted poison.

The way he exhaled yesterday

walking on a pavement slow,

feeling the throbbing locomotion

churn on his empty stomach.

A street urchin squeezing the crowd

like a fly hopping on a hope

above the grease and grime

that smeared a childhood.

 

He won’t cover the past

with today’s perfume

nor sanitize its images

in suds of detergent.

He’s not ashamed

of the scent of his past-

the smell of poverty

that swarmed his innocence

and have walked

the muddy line across

the nook and cranny

of his every bones.

He survived them all.

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I met Monet

in his princely demeanor,

among the manicured lawn

and the secret garden

grows its verdant sprigs

and tresses, wild and free

in the prairie. Butterfly

flutters  paint palette

hovering bloom

after bloom. Solitude

 

drips in cadmium and ochre sun

sitting prominently,

potted and composed,

regal and undisturbed.

A gentle touch of the brush

that peaceful gaze,

horizonless strokes,

a sweet landscape.

 

I walk dreamily

drank with loveliness,

the wavy enthusiasm

of the blue sea.

Such is the welcoming

spirit of the flags

sashayed in the wind,

gliding together

with solitary birds

taking flight. Still

 

above the silver lake,

mirrored pools

of mountains in reverie.

I see reflections

of wooden boats

bobbing in a dance

with quiet clouds

rippling soft creating

small shivers

in its feathery face.

 

I remember the way

he  ushered me in

like an esteemed guest.

Taking my eyes to see

his picture books

of seeming easiness,

that immortal silence

showing how

to live as human,

not quite heavy

as his tormented soul.

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Lines converge

into the center of our visions,

unhindered by picket fences.

 

Shuffling images on a collage-

brick walls in grafitti,

kites, flags and confetti.

 

The gaping surrealism

in cloudless sky of reverie. Fleeting

in the tail-end of comets.

 

Color trapped in spectrum

of rainbows and sandstorms

obscuring the bluest of hemispheres.

 

“The world was linear,

we exist in parallelisms.”

This is our perspective.

 

Have we understood

the secrets of the horizon?

Our dreams fading without trace.

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It started during the last year of my high school, when father has decided that I would be going home to our province with my mother.  He had decided that I will be studying there, for the reason that he cannot afford to sustain me through college if I will be bent on pursuing medicine. Besides, my brother and sister will be forced to stop their schooling just to give way for me.

You must know how my world crashed like a domino at that time.  It has been my life-long dream to pursue medicine since I was a kid.  I have prepared for this for such a long time. And I am in utter disbelief that even if I had to avail a scholarship, my father imperiously zeroed all my options.  I was so distraught.  I am in complete shambles.

Before, I have made myself to believe that becoming a doctor is so near to becoming a reality.  That no amount of circumstances and obstacles can stop me from making it happen. But no, I never had the chance. If only if father is a little braver to let me pursue it. But father didn’t take his chance on me, and I think he didn’t gamble enough for my destiny. Because of this, the cycle of blame is cast. 

I would always blame him for my depression. For this shrinking self-esteem. For this sickening moral degeneration.  For this career stagnation. Whatever case of bad luck that had befallen on me, the blame would surely go to him. And a zillion of regrets would suddenly shoot up like splayed bullets on my head.

After all these years,  I have tried to abide all his rules.  Like a sheep. Who cannot shout in retaliation.  Who cannot raise a fist in objection.  Instead, I internalize this as something of a sacrifice and a demonstration of unselfishness.  An understanding of our family’s situation and circumstances of poverty.

I have endured the pain of not pursuing medicine.  And I have come to many battles I have continuously pitted silently against father. For controlling my life as if he is a demi-God.  I have used the weapon of silence to kill my compassion and concern towards him.  I have build a fortress of reclusivity around me to shield me from further hurt.  And I have created a moat of indifference to keep him away from manipulating me.

I don’t want this feeling.  But what can I do? (pause) For now I should stop pointing fingers to him. I don’t want to wallow in this pain forever.

Maybe he had some valid reasons for not letting me pursue my passion of becoming a doctor.  Maybe I don’t know how hard he lived during his adulthood.  Maybe he too, is learning the way and I cannot expect him to know the future. Maybe it is much harder than mine, how in his married life, did he manage to feed us and make us to live decent.  Besides,  no one said it would be easy to be a father anyway.  After all,  he have tried his best to give us what he can truly afford. Oh, how limited is my grasp on his circumstances.  Father must have been overridden too by fear because of poverty.  His fear of not being able to cope from pressures of keeping us through college. Can I blame him all that much? I need to accept that in this lifetime, battles will have to be fought hard.  And the ultimate surrender is not yet called for.

I guess, I need to move on.  I have felt that I am so immature, now that I have breezed through Architecture and made a good outcome out of it.  I should be thanking father enough that even though I didn’t like my course of study,  I was able to survive it somehow.  Thankful of the way things have turned out to be. For that, I will be raising another white flag as a sign of my complete surrender.  And I am crying my hearts out.

Father is growing old, and is about to retire.  Father must have silently ask forgiveness for this lapse in judgement.  I know, he must have accorded to me his pride and joy when I triumph after all, though not in words.  His life is no different with mine. 

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