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Posts Tagged ‘locomotion’

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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Imagine yourself playing the part.

The melody in a slow tempo

touching the white bones in mine.

The blank spaces glide

filling the staves into octaves

where rhythms of silence

are aching to be heard.

 

The approaching train

in locomotion slowly halting

to a rest and the muse

steps out in a sudden hush.

Whose inspiration reminds me

of the autumn breeze

that shifts its weight

among the rustling of leaves.

 

The sounds in the pavement,

and the trickling of the rain

drops of minims, crochets,

semibreves and quavers

into unfamiliar serenade

awakening the restless

in the night’s peaceful embers.

 

I remember the beating pulse,

the sharp pause counterpointing

the pace and the careful movement

of that forgotten harmony

smoothly entering my soul.

 

When all love was just a dream

and tonight I hear applause

thundering under my own skin.

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Be still. Please focus. Would you wait

until my iris capture you of snapshots? I am here.

Don’t notice. Your portrait on my mind, I dodged

and burned. Don’t worry. I won’t

over-expose the sequences of the memory

fleshed out from my canister, the last strip of film.

 

On my negative- your wavelength of light escapes

through my lenses, I would carefully unfold and record.

Don’t look. Deeper. While single color vanishes

with intensity into highlights and into shadows.

Frame by frame, I would filter the black against

the white. Your reality becomes my abstraction.

 

Would you mind, if I convert the colors of the spectrum,

your seemingly pixilated illusion to just shades of gray?

Tracing back the images in a locomotion, so slow.

My camera obscura. Clear and sharp, as you illuminate

a world forgotten just for once. A neutral silhouette

Don’t notice. Keep focus. Don’t cry. I am here.

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Yesterday is the longest day of my life.  It has compacted the years into small capsules of time that I tend to forget the stitch in of each events. Bewildered, how my memory had the tendencies to replay the scenes as crisp as they were.  And the details are flashed to the most stunning of vivid colors and dreamy sequences like in a movie.

The most lovely time I had,  would be replaced by now.  I used to say, 3:00 o’clock in the afternoon is my favorite time of the day.  But now, I have got to change my mind, it’s 3:00 o’clock in the morning. 

Deliberately, I framed up myself to get a three-hour bus ride taking me to the province. And in the early morning chill off I go, knowing that by that time I will witness the grandest show on earth, the sunrise. I have longed to see the sun breaks in all its naked glory, like an angel waiting for the sunrise. In the past months in Manila, I would always wake up 9:00 o’clock in the morning, without witnessing how dramatically the sun could keep me company.

In the bus, I have got the luxury to choose templates of my past memories. It hops back and forth like a story thread of anytime, anyhow and anywhere. Heightened by the symphony of the bus humming its rhythms and grooves as it wheeled through the highway. Plus the dopplerian effect of lights flashing through the window glass would make each memory worth a slide in a film.

I am most humbled. I have become the moviegoer in an empty cinema. No one will ever disturb me in my reverie, I said to myself.  And the story has now becoming untamed, and it merges into the streams of wondrous reflection. Like an image in the water, it distorts and becomes clear again.

Before long, my fixation to the blurred images in the horizon created a locomotion. A foreboding. That the book of days still got some pages to fill.  And it is up to me to look beyond and hope. A hope that there gonna be a new breaking of the day. New passions to pursue. New milestones.

And there it was, the stillness.  The softness.  The holiness. Where the  morning light had embraced the landscape. Giving life to each. Touching. Big things. Small things. The living.  And the lifeless.

Its like an ode that awakens each creature to stand and witness. The sun’s first golden rays. A glory to behold. I shed a tear because I am genuinely happy. And my dream to witness a sunrise has been granted by time.  It has now appeared to me as a reality interplaying in my happy thoughts.

Come what may, I will not forget. This symbol of the sunrise would be an anchor for me. That I will be safe and sound no matter what crossroads I may get into. That regrets will have no space.  Only hope.  It’s gonna be better days ahead.

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