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Posts Tagged ‘seek’

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.

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She told me that my father was another man,

well I shrugged my shoulder and say “it’s okay”.

But she didn’t know that I am writing my pain away.

I came to a point of thinking about those fatherless

children who lost theirs in wars, in car crashes…

 

I am still lucky, and better-off, I got one

whom I can call Dad, but he would rather not.

He told me I am not his son, and he would not talk

nor teach me how to drive cars. I sat down on a corner

and started scribbling my pain away. Maybe I can draw…

 

And draw myself a car, a house, a tree, the blue sky,

and people smiling under the sun. Until I came to a point

of thinking that I could imagine a world, my happy world.

I could draw as many cars as I would like, and as many fathers

who could teach me how to drive and see how proud I am.

 

But playmates taunted me it is not all true. They laugh.

They scorn. They tell me how crazy I am to believe.

I just left, not minding, distant and alone. “It’s okay”.

I will just write my pain away.  I write good stories

about friends who sit beside you and listen to you.

 

They, who will never doubt how good the story was.

But some books I read say otherwise. There were lessons

which say do this and do that. I believed it was. That

I should never be a pauper begging for affection.

That I should be headstrong.  That I should  be honest.

 

And genuine. That good people will go to heaven. I did

believe in truth and desperately seeking it all my life.

But I was mocked and I stand bruised and wounded.

They say I am too much. They say I am brash.

They say I am too frank. They say I intrude.

 

They call me names. It’s  like big boys and big girls

saying that I should go away. They don’t need me.

And then again, I isolate and pick a pen, scribbling…

And I am writing my pain away. And this blank space

is sure and will not reject me like most people did.

 

No matter how fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters,

friends and even if the world will turn against me

and continue to restrain their hand in extending love.

I would teach myself loving without taking, understanding

that my heart is rich and I have much more to give.

 

I could belong like my ink being absorbed by the paper,

without condition. Just pure distill of my thoughts.

I could somehow say that I found a home to myself

after all.  With the pain I’ve been through,  I am

still here writing my pain away.  I am not alone.

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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.

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It’s like a white plate.

Soiled and you try to wash it afloat

with suds of soap and rinse repeatedly

at the sink.  Letting it dry and wait

until the film of water subsides down

into its gleamy surface. You try to contain

the glister.  The immaculateness of being 

unbroken, unsplintered.  Fragile.

 

It’s like a white paper.

Someone will throw dots and smears.

Smudges  and graphite dusts messed up

into your  page and jag the lines into visual noise.

But then, an eraser is a confident friend,

swiping them all.  Albeit,  the indentation

marks a heavy trace on the heart. Not quite

visible at the distance, I know.

 

You didn’t notice how I try to write the lines.

Ambiguous as it seems, indirect in its approach.

You think flaws are the darkness of the soul, but wait-

it isn’t that way you know, though. For in it you hope.

You dream.  You strive to become the light.

You seek to define the completeness of your whole,

unwavering  and uncompromised to the mold-

the dictates of the common.

 

No matter how broken it may get, the mosaic

of the plate is still a creation on a canvas.

No matter how crumpled the paper was,

someone will see it as a great work of art.

You try to accept the way you live your reality,

where living doesn’t stop there, it’s in how

you would be able to discover something new.

A difference you can call your own.

 

It’s like a white space.

When the horizon of doubt blurs

the line that separate you from immortality.

And all you see is your own lightness

that no shadow would keep you

stalled towards your destiny.

There,  you would know that peace

is the only way to move on.

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Today, marks my two hundred and one days of solitude.

It gave me a sense of fulfillment to know that I have stayed through all these years writing the many vivid facets of my mind, heart and soul. Writing became my constant companion whom I can share and reflect on the intimate, smallest and minutest detail in life we often take for granted.

For the longest time, I have used poetry as a creative platform to express the richness of my personal experiences and the joy of the inner travels I have had.  I have had prose/essay  pieces before, but I have decided to channel my creative energy to poetry as the less exposed literary medium and thereby avoiding the pitfalls of being confessional.

As I have said before,  it is my intention to utilize this blog for the purpose of personal expression. It was not my intention to commercialize my creative output for monetary gain or seeking personal favors from anyone or any business entity. 

With the creative collaboration with my fellow blog writer friends, I acknowledge the tremendous help I have gained through their constructive feedback that develop me more maturely in tackling explorative writing subjects. I am poised to continue writing without constraint on the boundaries of belief, religion, age, philosophy or political ideology.  I maintained a free but a sober mind discoursing the merits of our humanity without prejudice and without the sacrifice of the value system I uphold.

Nevertheless, may the years ahead prove to be a fruitful creative writing endeavor.  It was my hope, that my creative writing serves as an inspiration, an honest reflection, and an essential guide to the paths of self-discovery, higher level of understanding and this life’s noble existence.

To my readers, I thank you for the valuable friendship, readership and patronage you have given me through all the years. This, I consider as an anchor for me to forge ahead and keep on writing.

I would like to share the prose/ essay / poetry listed in my book of days as follows;

 1)      Country Music

2)      What Motivates Me?

3)      Work

4)      Childhood Friendship (Part 1)

5)      Young At Heart

6)      Amarantine (Enya)

7)      Before Sunrise

8)      Breakout

9)      Happiness Is A Hammock Under A Shady Tree

10)  Farewell To Sunset

11)  My China Connection

12)  If You Never Say Goodbye

13)  Four Corners of Isolation

14)  Man In The Mirror

15)  Ladies in Lavender

16)  Starwars Saga

17)  Capsule Of Perfect Moment

18)  Overwhelmingly Entertained By Poverty

19)  The Kite

20)  Afraid Of The Future

21)  Burning Ladder Into Oblivion

22)  Lucid

23)  Elegy To The Departed

24)  Sunday Music Blues

25)  Commodity Of Choice

26)  Top Ten Picks On The Youth Chart

27)  Voices Of The Walking Merchant

28)  Universe Of Virtual Worlds

29)  White Flag

30)  Autumnal Equinox

31)  Indeed

32)  Liberty From Monotony

33)  Dead Poet’s Society

34)  Singlehood

35)  Hongkong In My Mind

36)  Pay Scales

37)  Antisocial

38)  Rude Awakening

39)  Diary

40)  Outsourced Economy

41)  Great Leaping Forward

42)  Tombstones

43)  City Surrealist

44)  Filtered Through

45)  Paradigm Shift

46)  October Rain

47)  Nocturne

48)  Deja’vu

49)  Hedonistic Survival

50)  Two Women

51)  Anger Scythe

52)  Refusing To Learn

53)  Waiting Room

54)  Quotes From My Fave Movies

55)  Passion For The Arts

56)  A Long Year’s Sabbath

57)  Daylight

58)  United 93

59)  Half-Filled

60)  A Prayer

61)  Ratholes And Bay Reveries

62)  In The Silence Of The Heart

63)  Sorting Out Life

64)  Rock Bottom

65)  Angling For A Kill

66)  Little Wings

67)  Frame Of A Thought

68)  Journey To Neverland

69)  A Nugget Of A Kindness

70)  Dreaming Of Pakistan

71)  No Explanations

72)  In The Foothills Of Fujairah

73)  This Way Up

74)  The Rebel

75)  Long Wait

76)  Promise Of Rain

77)  Whiskey Lullaby

78)  Trip To Quiapo

79)  Anachronism

80)  Conform To Belong

81)  Beautiful Mind

82)  Snapshots From The Edge

83)  Dream Believer

84)  30 Minutes

85)  Happy Kid

86)  Munad

87)  A Teacher’s Worth

88)  Love Letters In The Sand

89)  On A Moonless Night

90)  Quiet Contemplation

91)  Classmates In Grade School

92)  Return To Innocence

93)  Drafter’s Board

94)  Rendezvous

95)  Urban Owl

96)  Slow As The Wind Blows

97)  Chance Passenger

98)  Bottom Dollar

99)  One Foggy Morning

100)    3:100

101)    Winter’s Ode

102)    Soledad

103)    Visions Of Arabia

104)    Last Sixty Seconds

105)    Rocket Idea

106)    Unknown

107)    Dinner For Two

108)    Musings Of A Thirty Something

109)    Words To Live By

110)    Life Uncommon

111)    Canine Memories

112)    Rehearsing Love

113)    Blank Canvas In A Lazy Afternoon

114)    Highway And The Stranger

115)    Paper Trail

116)    The Day I Met The One

117)    While Listening Alison Krauss

118)    Like A Desert Meets The Rain

119)    Some Faded Photographs

120)    Haiku To A Hideaway

121)    Death Of A Little Bird

122)    Solace

123)    Absent Minded

124)    Confessional As Plath

125)    The Wake-up Call

126)    Halfway Through A Page

127)    Black And White

128)    Aurora Borealis

129)    Musically Challenged

130)    Embers

131)    Memories Are Cheap

132)    Pasig River And The Warrior Child

133)    New Leaf On Living

134)    Bicycle Ride

135)    I Left The World As It Is

136)    Paint The Words

137)    Adaptation

138)    Reflections On The Puddles

139)    Tickets

140)    Moonscape

141)    A Moth In The Flame

142)    Clothesline

143)    Sketches

144)    Monochrome

145)    Bedspace

146)    Captive In Babylon

147)    Vignette On Yesterday

148)    Bye Bye, Yellow Butterfly

149)    Chiaroscuro

150)    Prairie Walk

151)    Lost For Words

152)    Sundown Over Umm Ghuwailina

153)    Ryan

154)    Kinesthetic

155)    Counting

156)    Alphabet

157)    Ghost Whisperer

158)    Orion’s Belt

159)    Rhapsody In Blue

160)    Click Shut Down

161)    The Solitary Task Of Writing

162)    Immersion

163)    Stamps And Postmarks

164)    An Everyman’s Tragedy

165)    Paper Boats

166)    Birthday Candle

167)    Second Thought

168)    Nil

169)    Lukewarm

170)    Touchdown

171)    Ink Must Wait

172)    Great Divide

173)    Sugar For Coffee

174)    Half Truth

175)    On The Last Chapter

176)    Quatrain For The Dying Tree

177)    Dapples

178)    Keys To Some Secrets

179)    Wind Swept

180)    Detached

181)    To Pablo Neruda

182)    Opaque

183)    Scribbling

184)    Burned Bridges

185)    Moonquake

186)    She Sings

187)    Parachute

188)    Earth Sounds

189)    Oeuvre

190)    Watermark

191)    Once Solitary Shell

192)    Grandfather’s Clock

193)    Vanishing Point

194)    Nightfall

195)    Tryst

196)    Laundry For The Firstborn

197)    Finding The Light

198)    Bliss

199)    Phantom Of A Dream

200)    Avalanche

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No hero’s welcome.

No grand parade.

Is waiting for the door left ajar.

Only its creaking sound

breaks the silence. And the breathing air

of some familiar spirits. I am once-

a familiar visitor in this house.

 

All that remains are lifeless forms

who have patiently waited here

Am I? Like a hermit crab

occupying this once solitary shell.

Called to embrace the shadows again.

Recapturing the lost and faded

photographs and memories

of the distant past. Forgive me.

 

For I came back not to rebuild

your imperiously alienating walls

I have suffered to endure. The magnanimity

of this abode, on which I failed

to contain the tension. Conquering

the many days and the years living

in the fear that haunted me. As I

have walked away to seek my own.

 

Yesterday will be torn into relevant bits

and pieces. As mementos and snapshots

I will keep them at bay. Never again would

memories imprison me into its walls

like ancient ghosts wailing, begging

to bring them back to their immortality.

 

I will clear away the cobwebs.

I will swept away the dust, making room

on these lonely spaces. I came back.

To cleanse this home of its sad sequences.

I will peel away the white sheets

that has covered the flaws, the lapses,

and the many inconsistencies in our lives-

we are ashamed to show. But instead,

we kept hidden for so long.

 

I will open the windows, taking in

the sunshine and the country air

and hope- as its constant companion.

Savoring the remaining days

choosing to be happy. A pilgrim

transforming this house into a habitation.

The dappled lightness of my being.

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To Pablo Neruda

I write these letters in smoke. They are fog

to the starry night of the south where you existed,  

circumnavigated the world, then extinguished

as a flame, long before I was born.

 

You said you had lived in the springtime

among the cherry blossoms of the west. While

here on this island, I had lived humming

lullabye amidst the scorched patches of sand.

 

I cannot sit still and my memory was filled

of your presence here. I can hear your voice

from a distant time and place. Your voice has traveled

and finally touch down inwardly and it lingers.

 

Tonight, the sad lines of your verses haunt me forever,

love is short and forgetting is so long”.

I chewed the words on my empty stomach

as the light from your waning moon fills my room.

 

I have no windows, they are shattered.  There is no door to enter,

so you don’t need to knock.  Inside my house is fire left by bombs

and gunfire.  And on my earthened floor are scattered pieces

of limbs and severed heads of dead dogs and cats devoid of shelter.

 

I have seen the heaven through the bullet holes on my tin roof.

And the fire is still burning from within. I have seen the clouds

unfolding and unfastened as I became the enemy of the gods,

pot-bellied in the pulpit- imposing cruelty to fools purchasing piety.

 

I have been an inheritor of misfortune, like a stubborn root

of an old dying tree, digging the earth to its graveyard, a tomb.

I seek to find in this endless tunnel, a repose for my corpse-

stiff, in pain and left there naked, writhing in the cold.

 

I can no longer find the stars in the night sky, Pablo.

And the tears begin to fall like rain on the tin roof.

Outside, you wailed a storm, flooding my being,

persistent, engulfing me with the soliloquy of the night.

 

This bed I made out of the coconut tree, lacerating my body

of little knives, that have sliced and shredded my soul. And I

smelled of the blood through the blade of your words

as I whisked them away to the westerly winds to reach you.

 

I ask you. Why things happened this way? History blood-stained.

And the sea mourns while changing course of the mighty river.

In the horizon, a crimson tide of the many who died seeking the meaning

of their lives. And the night birds still singing their lonely dirge.

 

I ask you. Where are the lilac? Immortalized in sonnets by men,

those middle-aged aristocrats. And the women becoming birds of prey,

caged and waiting to be sold.  Incessantly knocking on the doors

to see some faint hope traversing the day into their neon light.

 

Where are the language of stars? Deciphered by hypnotized strangers

who quest for clues and signs and wonders.  Why does the rain

did not stop from falling? I am bailing out to exist from this deluge,

finding redemption while concealing my cowardice. I cannot fight.

 

I am poor, Pablo. But I know your name. And the dense earth that

we both lived, became the pavement for  marching foot falls

of the many striving to live to see until their dying day- freedom,

justice and equality. Unanswered like prayers, unheard of the divine.

 

Your verses did not speak of dreams and leaves and great volcanoes

of your native land.  Your verses did not promise the opium

that will heal the wounds of time.  But your verses have spoken

of the blood in the streets.  And the blood in the streets, I have seen.

 

I will offer an elegy in my homeland. I will sing your song in vain,

hoping for someone to hear and join me singing your immortal chorus.

Your ashes I would want to scatter into the night clouds until tomorrow.

When morning will be awakened by pilgrims sojourning the other world.

 

And still, I am waiting for the stars to appear in the Far-east. I had

only a rose to your funeral.  I will not be able to attend. But I will

whisper to the westerly winds my discontent and the endless despair

you will hear from the shore of this island, questioning existence.

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