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.
Brave as a collective force ululating vignettes
about homeless families, starving peasants,
weak indigents, landless tribes,
friends of disappeared and the exiled.
We stand like a hundred innocent moths
circling fearlessly around the flame. Ready
to extinguish our fates for one day of glory.
The cups ready to be filled with the bitter
after-taste of seeking the truth on the matter
of state. Of politics. Of international affairs.
We stomp them shamelessly beneath our sandals.
We ripped them off from our tattered jeans.
We print them on the plainness of black shirts.
That justice of the land is not blind and should prevail.
We debated doctrines. We fight about logic.
We push our pens. We clasp our fists.
We join the caravan. We live our days
marching vigorous in the streets chanting
the aged texts on mass struggles by the red book.
Burning effigies. Donning the placards.
We abhor dictatorship. We hated imperialism.
Like waterbombs spouting heavily against our faces.
Like the many teargases hurled against our defences.
We bled when the police beat us out of the line.
Isolated when we are thrown into prison cells.
Humiliated when subjected into torture chambers.
Discriminated when hunted down in the mountains.
We rise and made each part of our bodies as weapons.
Our mouths without strained voices.
Our eyes without biases.
Our ears without prejudice.
Our fists without cowardice.
Our hearts without fear.
This is our revolution against the world order.
And the phoenix will rise again and again
among the many moths that have died.
Resurrected and will never be silenced.
Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
Aching Thread
Posted in Art Scene, Current Affairs, Literature, Memoirs, Philosophy, Poetry, Relationships, Religion, Social Commentary, Society, tagged abstraction, ache, another, answers, ants, asleep, bare, bed, beg, blanks, break, burn, butterfly, calm, chance, cinder, climb, connection, crackle, danger, dark, die, directionless, discover, door, down, dreams, eccentricity, eureka, false, fill, fire, forever, found, grasshopper, hang, hop, hope, images, intruder, islands, isolation, jarring, jot, kingdom, left, limit, linger, lizard, lying, maggot, mantra, moth, naked, neck, night, open, owl, painterly, piece, poem, poetry, point, pounce, questions, ready, realm, reason, restless, ride, sanity, savage, scenes, secret, seek, send, shall, shelter, shit, shout, snap, spectator, squeal, squirm, string, suicidal, thoughts, thread, tonight, vengeance, wall, warmth, white, wide, wind, wings, words, yield on September 13, 2012| Leave a Comment »
My thoughts are as directionless
as the moths seeking for warmth.
The fire within crackles
sending cinders to my realm.
My mantra of calm are as restless
as the grasshopper hopping
to some isolated and jotted
islands of images, dark-
that painterly abstraction.
Jarring and savage.
Some questions will burn tonight.
And answers will die on my bed.
I, like a squirming maggot
will never break it out.
My wings would never ride
the wind like the butterfly.
The ants are climbing
this white walled kingdom.
The night owl squeals a secret.
While the lizard is ready
to pounce for vengeance.
That’s what is left of me.
An spectator to the scenes which
I could not connect in a thread.
Bare. Hope. Chance
snapping some strings
and shout eureka. I found it.
How shall I fill the blanks
that never beg for words?
Naked. Lying here like a piece
of shit and this suicidal poem.
Eccentricity finds no reason,
dangerous and hangs its limit.
That yielding point.
Sanity is a false shelter where
no one wants to be intruder
and break down the door.
Open wide discovering
another neck is lingering
asleep forever in dreams.
Read Full Post »