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Posts Tagged ‘passion’

His muffled voice breaks

the long stretches of silence

while his hand guided

young and untrained hands

practicing calligraphy.

 

Watchful and demanding precision

of copied texts exacting translation.

As he unbuckles the leathery tome

of secrets in a wooden chest.

Tradition, theology and religion.

Diaries, recipes, scientific notations.

 

Inventories, census, receipts.

Readings of narratives and poetry,

astrology, proverbs and magic spells.

The volumes of letters, last wills,

songs and words of blessings.

 

Spending hours and hours sitting

among the piles of pages digging

for clues and answers to mysteries.

The labyrinth of a culture. A treasure.

Each of the fragile pages a wealth

weightier than silver and the gold.

 

Piecing each fragment in a mosaic

mapping an ancient civilization

long forgotten. He believed, it was

here  in his hands lies the fiber, sinew

and muscle of generations of man-

the society is ought to remember.

 

So he became a warrior, obsessed

with the written word wielding

weapons of passion and wisdom.

With his small army of juvenile scholars

continuing an unpopular legacy.

 

Waging the classic battle against time,

earth bugs, heat, rot and decay

slowly finding its way like marauders

pillaging the essence of our humanity

into oblivion and brink of extinction.

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Your alabaster beauty

fills these empty halls.

I am watching you.

As my hand memorizes

each curves and contours

of your sculptured life.

I chiseled. I breathed

a ghost of someone

who will never  be able-

to reciprocate nor return

the passion unfolding

in cold stone, white-

washed in lunar glory.

 

Hush now, Venus, hush

in your half-baked shell.

Please  lay by the fire light.

Under the moon’s silhouette

and the night full of stars,

feel my night’s embrace.

Letting your nakedness

guiding the master’s touch.

The ocean tides mounting

under my skin, surging.

Setting ablaze a part

of me. Hidden, unrequited-

this undying desire.

Rise now, Venus, rise.

I want you.

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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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Mystery unravels tonight,

strange a landscape-

since you left. The room is

a parched valley of sheets

as I lay naked, bathe

in the lunar light.

 

Sans the gravity

of your satellite. It orbits

without the ocean’s rage

of high tides luminating

passion, as I grope

within the walled corners

of the stark midnight.

 

Sadness falls

like rockets ebbing

the bed. Its trajectory

creating pockmarks

and craters

of a dormant volcano.

I tip-toed.

 

To our dreams-

pinnacled fortresses pierced

with shrapnels of regret.

Ripping pillows

until blood-tinged feathers

hover the vacuum,

shatter into belt

of asteroids and clods

of moondust.

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I am smoldering in the night.

But you’ll see no passion, only sober

semblance to a gargoyle, seating.

And towering over the city lights.

 

Ah, the fahrenheit must have drop

below sub-zero. My steely psyche

a block of ice emitting smoke,

numb in whiteness. I froze.

 

Ignite me a matchstick. Tell me

what you see when melancholy

lurks slowly in my bones. Splintered

cinders, then into ebony parchness.

 

Ah, am I a comet zooming, as it hits

your universe then dissipate like a frizzle?

Imagine  me as a flame of a dying star-

morose. Traversing your love’s black hole.

 

You didn’t know how hard to contain

my tamed affection. You just didn’t know.

I am smoldering in the night, but

you’ll see no passion. I am sober.

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I skipped my regular routine attending church services in the morning that Friday.  A week ago, I have already informed our pastor that I plan to attend the Industrial Area church service instead in the evening.  I also missed out our church choir practice that night, which I am so sad about. 

We braved the dusty road leading to Industrial Area. When we have arrived at the place, it was a regular accommodation building intended for company workers.  The road leading to the building is quite notorious with potholes and mountain of construction debris on the side.   We reach the worship place after winding up seven staircases worth of our stamina, of climbing the steps. The place of worship is located in the rooftop.  About 24 sq.m. approximately, capable of seating around 20 people, right there along with the clothesline of wet laundry left out to dry.

The truth is, I am not expecting it.  Of all places, to hold a church service.  A rooftop towering over other rooftops of factory buildings in the midst of desert wind and the usual darkness of the evening.  I am used to attending house of worship with the comfort of sheltering oneself against the external elements, such as rain, heat and dry wind.  That night is a wake up call.  Believers are called upon to honor the Sabbath, wherever, whenever and whatever it takes.  Be it under the shade of the tree, or under the canopy of the bridge, or an open field. 

I am deeply humbled by the fact that here in the wide stretch of the desert, away from the comforts of the homeland, people who are disciplined in faith, are braving the routinary grind of their overseas life, partially isolated to the urban centers.   This is mission’s work,  a life dedicated to the cause of bringing the Gospel to the far reaches of places.  Administering the continuous flow of the message and strengthening people’s faith in God.

I admire my pastor, who is a missionary himself, for the kind of passion he have for the lost  souls and bringing them all to Christian faith.   His silent ways are a steady yet constant reminder that complacency has no place in Christian service.  Believers are ought to steer clear of their comfort zones, sacrificing time and effort for building up Christ’s work and taking upon each the individual God’s calling in putting into action all the Christian training they have learned.

I admire my friend Grace, who chose to become a full-time missionary, while administering translation of the gospel to the native tounges of the tribes among the hinterlands of Mindanao and Luzon back home.  She already had the chance to go to India, for some introductory mission’s work as part of her trainings.

Sometimes, it is a pity, when I hear myself, complaining about being so tired to get up early in the morning to begin my morning prayers.  Sometimes, it is a pity, when I see myself, scrambling over reading best-sellers in the night rather than having a bible reading of a chapter or two. Now it occured to me, that what I am doing for the kingdom is not enough.  Christian life calls for able and willing men of faith to stand up and do the work.  Whatever the circumstances may be or a situation they are in. 

The next time, I will go to the Industrial Area to have my Friday church service there.  I need to listen to what God is saying to me, visually.

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There is no greater feat for somebody than to live up his dreams into fruition.  No amount of money or recommendation can afford the personal fulfillment that comes along with it.

Jun Laurilla, a friendly neighbor who is a freelancer visual artist has taken his artistry to a newer level and fought hard for it.  In this crazy world wherein  artistic consumption is often synonimous with huge budget spending for public advertisement and hyped media, we are being fed up with so much commercialism. I have personally witnessed how this one fellow has stood up and keep on improving his craft no matter how others might perceive him as dispensible as another ordinary man in the neighborhood.

But like a noiseless, and a patient spider, he was able to prove that his ability as a person do not usually translate as to who might pocket a bigger amount of money or who might have won more accolade in the public eye.  His brand of character is the one that the world needs now. 

In search of a truer definition of how a person can actually thrive in his chosen field of endeavor  gives credibility to the importance of being honest in expressing your passion in everything that you do.  If one choose to believe that this perception about who he is and what he is going to contribute to the civilization is directly proportional as to how clear you envision yourself to survive and have meaning.

When people nowadays are being confronted with worries about the improvement of self-image and self worth and the continuous accumulation of money, a sudden reflection that what matters is how you choose to live your dream and be able to flourish from it.  It is also how in the process that you develop this God-given talent and abilities to benefit your well-being.  And no amount of branding and categorizing would ever put your  value as a human being like a price tag or another temporal by-product  of  this rampant  mundane machinery.

I do not want to be tagged as another humanoid that grinds the mill for the sake of living it out.  And wait for the 15th and the 30th of the month just to secure my daily existence.  I needed to re-evaluate what drives me to live this life, and how am I going to pursue my long term goals as vigorous as I can before I find my self-esteem eclipses right before my very eyes.  I will still strive to discover  more and more about myself and find out what’s more in the offing of life.  As Jun, who bravely weathers stereotyping and emerged as originally as he is. Indomitable spirited fellow fighting for his art.

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