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Posts Tagged ‘lines’

I read what you have written.

I watch how you exist everyday.

I listen to what you have to say.

In silence I understand and

in the way of silence will I respond.

I may disagree with you

but I thank you for what you are,

in respect to the way you live

your truth. I may have biases

and pre-conditioned opinion

of how it was with my side of story.

But I do not beg you to listen,

nor to watch and read these lines.

For I know you will afford to respect

the unwritten code of tolerance.

Measure for measure. We swap

vantages and viewfinders.

We have a choice whether to see

things clearly in detail

or  the bigger picture.

We do not need to hide

the arguments on intellectual

acrobatics nor choose to mislead

honesty in fallacy. 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.

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How long would you hide your true feelings?

You wish to say something but the words swerved

to its opposite direction-sugarcoating the angst

frothing bittersweet at your mouth verbalizing

 

euphemism.

 

Say what you really mean.  Look me

in the eye and cut through your razor

sharp, spine-tingling voice into my face.

Don’t let me read between the lines.

 

Just to make your point mark deep

into the recesses of my consciousness.

Leave me bleeding. You’re the best

pretender that I have seen.

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Your face tells much

and the crooked lines circling

your eyes, expressionless

but I have found a meaning.

 

You began to speak

but I can’t hear until

that voice, suddenly, came

from nowhere.  Sshhh. Quiet.

 

Keep calm. You wait-

for the one who sings the lullaby

to a child. Yes, you are a child

whose life will begin at forty.

 

And sleep will once again visit

to take away your silent screams

reverberating among these-

four corners of your reclusivity.

 

I have a hand that can grip

your shoulders from shaking disbelief.

The fears you have tried to put out

like a flame from a candle.

 

But no one said, it will go away

as easy, that one should get.

Only when that release of breath

would extinguish as a sign.

 

Your face tells much

not even a sound to decipher

the depth of words that was lost.

Searching for some kind of hope.

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I came from the east

And you from the west.

The space between us

is an empty canvas.

 

Our footsteps were

unsure scribbling of lines.

 

Our lives were

charcoal grey sketches.

 

Our beings were

liquid pigments, pressed

out of  tube-like existence.

 

Paint the words

written by fate.

Our union pre-destined.

 

Our spirits would soon

penetrate this world,

transforming our bond

from this obscure surface.

 

Like criss-crossing layers

of texture and dimension.

 

Your blood. And my blood.

A  miscegeny of colors

gradually  revealing

order and balance,

forms and figures,

sizes and shapes.

 

Blending fragiled fibers

of our soul, framed into

a work of art.

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Crossing  the pedestrian lane

whip lashed  by the  breeze.

He came by- unmindful

of the roaring traffic.

Green light blinked

turning yellow-

still he walks, only inches

away to his own shadows.

 

Merged in the crowd

in the heat of the sun

with eyes transfixed-

one solid direction.

He goes without turning.

He goes without swerving.

He talks without sound.

Keeping distance.

 

He exist but can’t be found

in the sea of strangers-

he lives but don’t belong

waiting buses, waiting lines.

To him, the world’s a square.

A face and a name where-

traffic signs blinking red,

life detours to dead-end.

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Pensive as I was in this lazy afternoon.  Looking out in the window and the hazy light filtered through. Sending dust like a strobe of crystals. I stared. Just stared for the longest time.

The muse didn’t come as I expected.  Like an acrylic tube on the verge of squeezing out  of its contents, I just stared coldly. Nothing spectacular. The portrait on this blank canvas are just collections of imaginary lines and some vague illusions on my mind. And build a colony of dots. Like Van Gogh.

I could paint of scribblings out of nothingness. And my thoughts wander  into wide spaces. And wanders still. I see only spatters of red, black and white against this concrete grayness. Of anger splashing buckets of paint into surface. Like Pollack. 

I could paint the sky blue if I want to.  I can make the leaves of the trees rustle and sway with the winds.  I can make a brook  serenely flow through underneath a little wooden bridge. I can make distant hills fade into indigo. Like Monet.

I could paint a man without a face. And apples falling like raindrops. And doves flying.  The tragedy, the pessimism and idiosyncrasy of a human being. And a dark world encapsuled into an umbrella, black and mysterious. Like Magritte.

I could paint a typewriter with keypads of pain. And some melted clocks. Of swans reflecting elephants. And the gory details of death. Of treachery of reason. Of denouncing fascism. And bizarre existence of realities.  Like Dali.

I could use color yellow and orange interspersed with black squares, sharp angles, cubes and rectilinear forms in human subjects. Of some gothic revivals. Of somber shades of blue and blue green. I can use pink painted into some circus scenes. Of collages with pieces of everyday things. Like Picasso.

The brush is waiting to be lifted.  The easel is upright and ready.  The mixing palette is parched. The canvas is already stretched out to its frame. The sketchbook is laden with unfinished illustrations and  images, waiting to come alive. Where freedom is knocking on this soul’s threshold. 

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Room gravitates with clacking sounds from T-square and triangles repelling each other at drafter’s boards. Blood races with time. Sweat drips left watermarks on vellum as inkblots nervously travels the maze of light pencil strokes. There were smudges of graphite dusting above the immaculateness of the paper that the fruity-smelled eraser had not breezed through. Then, forms of squares and circles began to metamorphose into a perspective with depth and of casting shadows meticulously calculated and shaded. I was peeking over my seatmate’s work and my hands are trembling in fear without knowing where to start.

My drafter’s board draped in salmon-colored grid paper  and vellum lay motionless for some minutes. Pencils started to rattle like little earthquakes at its sides. Then my fingers reach out the Pentel Pen and in desperation, I scribbled these words, “no fear, God is good all the time” on its wooden face. I fixed my eyes to the letters, and it appeared as if they began to switch places, jumping like shrimps out of water.

Dimmed visions ensued. I was blackened out. It was half past one in the afternoon, when somebody cursed the other and summoned him to speed up. I was driven like a nail to my senses cutting short a wasted lull. Then like a lightning, I was in a trance. Having invoked the muse, juggling pens upon pens and pencils upon pencils worth of architectural beauty, there was no chance of changing pace. Everybody is on the rush.

Then the noise grew like mighty cacophony of sounds from the drafter’s weaponry. From the other side of the desk, a poor lad accidentally poured water on the sheets, and in  final attempts of rescue, relentlessly waved a piece of cardboard to create pools of air to dry out the accidental and unfortunate wetness. My focus is waning but in great resolve, I need to be a victor over my own strength and exceed what my expectations can afford me.

Every stroke became a heavy etching on the vellum, emphasizing authority. Sketch lines became crooked, consciously hugging traces of sure, finite  lines. I panted and I am beginning to lose my breath. Two hours still, and time is up.  Sheets upon sheets I am flipping through plans and elevations. Of hit and misses. Of trials and errors. Worried to the hilt, if I could catch the time on its tail.

The bell rang. A flag to the finish line have been raised up.  Signals surrender.

The drafter’s board had witnessed a battleground, where black blood stained its wooden face and created slight ebbs and crest on it. Surprisingly alighted out of the tremendous pressure of the examination room. As if the weight of the world on its shoulder vanished after the bell rang.

That was five years ago. The drafter had become an architect.  And the battleground on that drafter’s board had ended on that once glorious day. Its glory that has waned among the many cobwebs of dust which strapped  its once perilous journey to the examination room.

And the day is coming, that these trembled hands will once again redeem its glory. With words “no fear, God is good all the time” written on its face, all will never be erased from one’s memory.  Surely, it will not fade through this architect’s humble life.

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