Posts Tagged ‘longing’

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 I never get to understand Virginia

Woolf, why her heart cries like a wolf

in the night longing for words as

earnest as Oscar Wilde. Dorian must be

some kind of lover of self and boisterous

as Ernest Hemingway. Not in the league


of imagination pours in my cup of tea.

Blood of ink flooding in my desk.

Days and days of wandering and wondering

where the words hide in the curtains.

That great expectation.


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.

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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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This pilgrim slowly falls

into longing.  Loneliness

hums along a prelude

to twilight.  The olden days

forgotten. Of distant past

revealed and was found-

in the lines of her song.


She sings of a sad refrain.


As if she knew the way,

retracing tracks to wounds

of a love lost.  A trip,

down the memory lane.


She sings


as if she knew this pilgrim.

Whose heart is keeping

a sad, hidden melody

left here at the station.

Unsung of someone else’s


story.  She sings


about broken promises.

About dreams fading

into the horizon.  About

memories slipping away.

Like trains not returning


this song’s sad ending.


Loneliness runs along

here at the station.

Tomorrow is another day-

down the memory lane.


And this pilgrim chose

to stay awhile, alone

past midnight.  Waiting,

as she begins  to sing

another sad song.

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No string quartet.

No conductor to signal the baton.

No orchestra to anticipate my usual swoon

of randomly plucked staccato

alternating octaves

like a mad man in Vienna.


Alone in the stage,

I would linger

unvigorous in vibrato,

punctuating this sadness

in glissando. A solo part- how I wish

to serenade the muse. Longing

to tell her story in music-

under the sweet  delicate pitch

sorrow of Cremona.


The episodes, I have written on

mellow notes, resonant harmony-

bowing cello. Passionately

romancing my fingers to the smoothness

of her nape, the ebony board. While

sitting on a chair, I am a young lover

in blue, embracing memories.


My gentle touch travels

her body,  her maple waist

to her bridge, her sensual curves.

Choreographed my movements

spiked to her gravity. My slow breath

became whispers reverberating,

counter-pointing her lucid melody.          


I chose to be soft rather than loud,

my cello swooning treble of a tenor-

overwhelmed by a mezzo-soprano.

Quenching beneath this segmented,

disjointed and abruptly shifted

monotony of a lifetime

asking for her forgiveness. 

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The song will always be connected with my first heartbreak. I remember how significant the days were, when suddenly I was thrown into a situation that I cannot control.  There was a thrill and at the same time a confusion. The feelings must have been an infatuation. But regardless, I am still glad to know that I am still a human being, capable of loving and to be loved.

It was a journey that seems to be trodding along the unchartered.  The mysteries of love might have been so magnetic that I tend to forget the reality.  Suddenly, I am mesmerized by its magic.  Entangled beneath its charm. And I find myself lost and bewildered by the  bigness of my  heart to  take  all  in  the complexities  of my first  love.

There is a song that totally embodies my first love.  It is the Diary written by David Gates of the Bread.  It is about the innocence of love among young people.  It is how I described the friendship that has grown into a fragiled love’s intensity.  In my mind, I am seeing this event as an act of eternity being shared by two people.  Being nurtured on its first instance. 

But the hardest would be is not to be reciprocated of that love. I freely gave it.  I did not expect in return.  But inside of me, I have cried as if the lifetime is shattered.  Lost in space. The dream that keep playing in my mind will just be a beautiful memory.  Did I ever regret?  Regretting that I am the outsider to a relationship that will not belong to me, after all.

Regretting that the girl I love loves somebody else.  And when I have the chance to see him,  I am so downtrodden that even an inch I cannot fight a good fight.  I am no match.  How  I am bleeding inside.  Yes, I have felt that the lifeblood that keeps me moving along this crowd has been taken away to waste.  I have let them take that away from me.  And I am being overwhelmed.

And the simple agony that was. Pity me.  My poor heart will always be wishing that me and the girl would be joined someday.  Maybe in another lifetime.  Not on this lifetime. 

I could go on narrating down how my love then is worth trying.  But now,  it will always be like a diary that  I will keep along all the days of my life.

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The island exudes its coastal charm from the harbour of Kowloon.  Aboard Star Ferry, I catch the glimpse of twilight and the splendor of night lights.  Hong Kong is truly a world class city.  With its skybending glass towers and enigmatic fluidity of its modern structures, my jaw drops in wonderment.

The vivid pictures of Hongkong starts from the bridge-like edifice of Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, the magnificent angular interpolations of Bank of China, the lego imitated Bond Center, the crowned jewels of IFC Towers to the almost glorious zenith of Central Plaza Tower.

The MTR trips from Chaiwan to Central gives me a tinge of isolation of being lost in translation.  The poignancy of the British Cantonese life in my eyes from the upper decks of the tram. The muted symphonies of trees in the Victoria Park.  The rushing excitement of uphill climb to the Victoria Peak.  And the rugged beauty of Lantau Island.

To the dazzling walkathons and window shopping at Times Square, Landmark, Pacific Place, the IFC and Festival Walk.  To the sleazy nighwalks at Wanchai, Lan Kwai Fong and Kowloon. Dimsum at Hongkong Jockey Club, the Excelsior  and the Dynasty at Grand Hyatt. The Sunday frenzy at the Chater Gardens and Statue Park where Filipinos would often crowd.

The KCR rides exploring the Kowloon side going to Shenzen exposes me to the University Grounds of Hongkong University of Science and Technology and the idyllic landscape of Lo Wu and Fan Ling.  The everyday bus rides to the Aberdeen Tunnel wishing I would have time to go Ocean Park.  No Disneyland itinerary here.

But my most memorable, my quiet taxi ride traversing Pok Fu Lam to Wong Chuk Hang. I tried to stay awake from the dizziness of the Airport Express train. I was even charged for about a hundred HK dollar going to the office, but its worth my honest mistake. 

I have seen the solemnity of Hongkong South.  The beautiful villas by the sea and the glistenning South China Sea in the high afternoon light.  I would imaginatively send my kisses through the wave back home.  Realizing that almost. Almost saved the images of Hongkong in my mind.


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Perhaps, Teofi

the promises of your future withers too soon

like the leaf falling early in the summer

where we frolicked in the fountain of our energies;

and bask in the heat of our freedom;

and in the nest of fermenting dreams with another human.

I can tell Teofi, how sad is the early goodbye

where you breathed your last and let go

without questioning  who deserves to live more

and without crying over your half-empty cup.

So long that I suddenly stop, I remember

your acid- washed litanies and the morbidity

of your soul longing to be understood.

I fail to grasp the hidden images of your words

to the point of harboring steely tears

over the innocence of your chameleon smiles.

Perhaps Leden,

I cannot fathom the depths of your pain

as if the morrow of your life leaking silently

until the thousand roses leave those lips.

I may not hear you scream to the bowels of the night

fighting the demons of what cruel love has.

Let me feel, the inability of you pointing fingers

to a person who has destroyed your world as if

I can paint the sky with hatred and revenge.

Let me hear  you sing in the divine discontent

of your heart seeking to embrace

the fullness of the glorious unfolding

beyond the corners of your abode.

Perhaps Grandpa,

I can cry me a river searching for the clown

of my many Christmasses and Easter Sundays.

Of letting the clouds softly traversing

like the music of the yesteryears

you keep playing on the radio.

I can say that you choose to live the most

but you never have told me that I

will be missing so much a part of the child

that was taken from me since you’ve gone.


I would have not lived at all since then,

of querrying, of imagining how death

must have snatched me from my mother’s hand.

All along,  I might be carrying this imaginary coffin,

grieving among the countless earthworms swarming

and crowding the earth

in the numbness of our existence.

Forgetful and aimless like a dead man walking.

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