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Posts Tagged ‘writing’

You never know the hours I have spent tapping the pencil on my recycled paper ( I still do writing my drafts in pencil), and let the ideas sit at most a week or two, some stretches up to six months or a year before it gets published on the blog. I had lots of writing ideas when I am at my peak and my poetic muse normally runs a season of three months before I embark on any other personal diversions (music, arts, photography and any other writing stuff).

Facing a blank paper is like facing a blank canvas to a painter. And to be able to do a poem, is like giving birth to a son or a daughter. What’s scary and fearsome, is that you can’t move the pen to write a phrase or words if the direction it wants to lead you is unclear. Oftentimes, I just scribble words and let the words reveal a life of their own.

Keeping a poetry blog continuously streaming with new poem material is hard but all the more, fulfilling. It trains the poet to experiment, and find a new voice. It keeps the poet at the top of his game by sharpening his creative writing skills. It humbles the poet to continuously seek peer support of fellow poet friends and exercise the habit of reading other works as well. It’s in a community of writers that a poet can thrive with brimful of inspirations.

Eight years have passed, and still my poetry blog is still pushing the pen. I never regret mine, having a passion for words and making good poetry. For me, poetry is never a dying art and I continue to do so, sharing the best I could ever have.

So to continue the second half of fifty more poems I have published on Hames: Solitude Against the Maddening Crowd beginning August of 2010, it’s a lifetime of literary legacy I am willing to continue and keep everyone inspired, confronted or provoked by the honesty I laid down on paper, here they are:

 

I wrote an haiku about people who might think their life is plain ordinary in Status Quo,

“ gray is the color of the blank space

which separates the day into the night

I am caught in between…”

 

Another haiku in Zen, celebrates the importance of solitude in silence,

“ low tide reveals the sandbar,

my soul on barefoot walking calm

searching where I first came in…”

 

Inn Side, is a poem about the many thoughts, all of us are thinking at the moment making us unable to sleep,

“ all room’s full tonight

for restless thoughts,

will you make another?

Something resides too long

without paying any rent

unwilling to go…” and

 

“ forgiveness

is the name knocking

at my door, I would not

let it in, at a price…” and

 

“ you know, it’s hard

to clean up the mess

of those nightly visitors…”

 

And the unordinary poem about our sibling’s lovers, wives and husbands as intruders in Those Sister’s Men,

“ those strangers’ hand snatching spaces,

of familiarity, never uttered a word about apologies…” and

 

“ suddenly somewhere appears picket fences,

territories, boundaries and cages

which were meant as a warning

not to encroach their line, their property…” and

 

“ ah, they would never understand

the weightier aspects more than

the union of two bodies to breed…”

 

The poem that tackles domestic violence is aptly reflected in Stitches and Tattoos,

“ love holds no record of wrongs-

that’s a lie. In fact, the stinging sensation

of your repeated inflicts of pain

made the wound even worse…” and

 

“ see my heart full

of needle holes from repeated

sewing and knitting and mending

patchwork, of quilts bleeding…”

 

And the agony of writing is vividly remembered in A Story Ending,

“ write. It is almost like

the plot explains why

we keep on repeating

the same mistakes again…” and

 

“ stubborn writers only listen

to their own opinion

of what’s apt and what’s not…”

 

The deep pangs of homesickness and the sacrifices of being an overseas worker is captured in an haiku Homecoming,

“ my world’s consist of four corners

and a square but miles apart to home

I get to travel back in my dreams…”

 

In Diptych, the writer confronts himself about the honesty of his artistic expression,

“ you wish to say something but the words swerved

to its opposite direction-sugarcoating the angst

frothing bittersweet at your mouth verbalizing

euphemism…”

 

And a portrait on a life of a saleslady tending to her wall display in Shop Girl,

“ the dress fit well

and the gods must have been happy

to mold a gypsum to form,

speechless and never tires of standing up

to impress. Look here, the mannequin is alive…”

 

The lyrical Puzzle Pieces, is a poem about how a song can piece together the memorable and beautiful journey to the past ,

“ the lyrics would

tell you how I cling to the rhythms

getting through the rough days

veering deeper into a hiding place

I sought against tough times…” and

 

“ never to remember the episode

of those sad melodies that I strum

on my guitar. Weeping…”

 

The sensual poem Come, breaks the barrier of lust and love in beauty of words in its double meanings,

“ hear the sound

of the first rain after a drought

and how it falls on the parched

earth…” and

 

“ have you felt something taking

root beneath you, peace.

Lullabye of the mermaid

lulling you to sleep

and believe in love

like the shooting stars…”

 

Then a deeper angst is evident on Aching Thread, delves on frustration of getting through,

“ my mantra of calm are as restless

as the grasshopper hopping

to some isolated and jotted

islands of images, dark-

that painterly abstraction…” and

 

“ some questions will burn tonight.

And answers will die on my bed…”

 

A portrait poem on the life of a gambler is indelibly marked on The Gambler,

“ it’s another night playing jack against

the king. He will have to pawn his aces…” and

 

“ the gambler lost that day on his deck of cards.

No bailout. No tolerance. Just lost his control,

when speed and luck became his greatest traitor…”

 

The philosophical mockery of the society and its migration policies  in Zoo Logic, delivers its true to the grit dissection in a poem,

“ freedom is an open door to a cage.

Yet another cage must be opened

like animals, we are hesitant to move…” and

 

“ the city streets became a zoo

and life has turned us into one.

We migrate and roam like animals do…”

 

The semi-autobiographical poem about a starving poet in The Portrait of A Poet is a favorite,

“ the chandelier sways a little

when the ceiling sheds its skin

to show its old bones…” and

 

“ you worry

about the constant reminders

from the electric company,

those unpaid bills overcrowding

this three-legged desk…” and

 

“ breakfast unprepared, it’s another

long hours without eating but verses

of poems you chew in your mind…” and

 

“ here is the knife and slice something

open, now. It might reveal a thing

that you don’t understand…”

 

And a discourse on thriving with understanding even in disagreements in the poem The Conversation,

“ we do not need to hide

the arguments on intellectual

acrobatics nor choose to mislead

honesty in fallacy…” and

 

“it is not

in the amount of words nor

the eloquence of the language,

but in this fraternal bond

that even in disagreement

we thrive in peace…”

 

In I’m Not Here, the poem explores the state of one’s absent mindedness one’s disguise of truth,

“ a balloon hollow as air

I float miles farther away

no one could catch me.

I’m not here. Drifting

past the roofs of cities

and a maze of streets.

No one could see me now…” and

 

“ lingering among clouds,

playing with dreams,

breathing a reality…” and

 

“ in a skin I lived in

may not reveal who

a being- hidden within…”

 

An allegorical poem I have written about my almost exact personality in Like Water,

“ water drop in my universe,

echoes from afar becoming distinct

sound. Drip, drip, drip

circles expanding colorless

and still blue…” and

 

“ little waves

breaking long stretches

of silence seemingly placid.

Roll. Roar. Rage…”

 

In Wane Like The Moon, the poem searches and struggles to survive within the bouts of longing,

“ your orbit may find you

in an unending cycle of hiding

and showing up across the sky.

Like a shepherd tethered

to your protection I slip

a chance and probe the map

where you lay all your secrets…” and

 

“ leaving a trace of dewdrops

glistening of little stars

to my skin aching and wanting…”

 

Then it continued in Evening Rain, with a poem that was written to dig deeper about isolation and loneliness,

“ an afterglow

radiating and pulsating

with warmth of whispers

and silent promises” and

 

“ like the shepherd moon

it clings in the presence of moments,

of minutes and hours, sweet

love talk by the angels of youth…”

 

An upbeat and sprightly modernistic poem Monday Blues, is a poem that describes days on the life of working wounded,

“ it is Sunday (I hope it’s Saturday)

still I dread about the things

that need sorting, or mending

or keeping the weekly life in order…” and

 

“ pretending you work hard but counting

four more days and you slam down the paperwork

bolting out for freedom. Still it is Sunday…”

 

Then dragged as a prisoner of the corporate life in Steel Bars, a poem that conveys the image of the booming cities,

“ I am perched here inside with distances to roam

only my eyes can see. You are out of reach.

The wind blows from distances afar

bringing me in yesterday’s news. It’s cold.

And the noise reverberates like a broken record…” and

 

“ tell me about freedom. Day in, day out.

Of walking in circles, and the light travels into the night.

Tell me about resilience. No matter how it looks-

a hard shell but brittle and fragile within my mind

where it builds edifices of dreams. Towering

over my need  to run away…”

 

An elegiac poem about love lost and forgiveness written from the perspective of a dying man in For The Ones We Left Behind,

“ rescued from the years of forgetting the ones

that mattered most. And the dreams that never

meant to be owned like the earth where I stand…” and

 

“ but the scars of our love-thorned lives remains relived

in our book of days. I wish the summer winds will carry

the ashes until forgetting. I wish sleep will banish the things

which I failed to tell you when you left me. I moved on…” and

 

“ and my waning mind gave birth to words I have bookmarked

with fresh flowers that blooms from the same earth I will lay

with my dreams. I am not afraid anymore of the longest night

until tomorrow…”

 

Tipping Point is a poem that  deals with  the question about narcissism and the dangers of perfection,

“ you always say that you can’t let them ruin you

but it’s a plain lie you wish that all is perfect…” and

 

“ for you, everyday is a waging battle of wits and reason.

Perfection is costly. Holiness is fatal. Which one are you?

Nobody is born a saint and you won’t believe it too?..”

 

In Occupy Spaces, the poem seeks to understand the reality and unwillingness of someone who’s self restrained of opening up to the world,

“ it is like me, filling the blank spaces with letters

and thoughts I- only I could understand you

and me. And why do we need to belong each other…” and

 

“ it is like a bottle of wine emptying its last night’s discontent.

It is like a pack of cigarettes I consumed of inhaling

and watching the wisps of smoke thin out of dreams.

Wind will carry the tides farther away to the horizon

but you know it will land on somebody else’s shore.

I need not to bring my own footprints…”

 

Tendrils is another allegorical, sensual love poem using botanical elements to intensify conveying the image,

“ fragile arms reaching out

the other. Bends

in the soft wind

like gentle caresses

searching for warmth…” and

 

“ innocence crawl into the light.

They climb to support

each other and touch

as lovers do. Affection

grows like a vine…”

 

The struggle to survive in the midst of isolation and loneliness in a no man’s land is chronicled within the poem Push,

“ why flipping a page from the book  is necessary

to pass time and you know that the hands of the clock

won’t turn back the hours that have been…” and

 

“ why talking within your mind in monologues nags you

with guilt as if your life is a mess and you are helpless

about the future and guessing how it will ever end.

And nobody knows that there is a deep cavern

that you can’t escape…”

 

And the timelessness of unshared poetry against rampant commercialism is encapsulated in Strange Foreign Beauty,

“silence is a little thread that binds the pages to a life” and

 

“ beauty hidden in a labyrinth frozen

in time. Never to be opened for a reading

and not for sale…”

 

When the reader falls in love with the writer and its passionate travails is aptly described in Bookworm,

“ what started out as an occasional tryst

with printed words began an insatiable desire

to eavesdrop some imaginary lives on pages…” and

 

“ there must be a fine line between the reader

and the writer as to dreams is to eloquence

of the pen. Drifting to lucid spaces, shelf upon shelf

I began to shuffle it between my fingers. Skim-read

passages and clues  I wonder-

where to find you…”

 

The bittersweet  and poignant love poem and its eventual love lost in Hands Clean, keeps a heart enthralled fit for a  valentines day greeting card,

“ sometimes,  I catch myself

wondering about you

on some moonless evenings

or misty mornings, drifting-

where have your pages brought you

on some ride in the wind

or tail of a comet’s end…” and

 

“ somewhere

hidden beneath the shadow of stars

thinking

who’s reading you now…” and

 

“ inhaling your scent

and leaving fine, little circles

of fingerprints

much softer than mine…” and

 

“I wonder

who’s reading you now,

whose mind can fathom

the deeper meaning of you.

Whose hands were

much cleaner than mine…”

 

And love’s everlasting reverberation in the vintage classic love poem Message in the Bottle,

“ there’s a message in a bottle

washed up ashore.

Like the wave

knot by knot reaching out

for the love he lost

by the sea…”

 

A punch of sarcasm and laconic truth in Altruism, a poem that speaks for itself,

“ I give and you receive

and you get but I didn’t

expect it to return. To pay

forward and give

to another. Until I beg

and ask the other.

He gives but never

asking back. Help…”

 

The elusive stroke of luck to hone a masterpiece and the lack of time is bleeding in Small Pockets of Time,

“ what will it take you to remember?

The light and shade of beauty

in minutes and seconds within hours

in a day or a year…” and

 

“ I carry within me

waiting to be expressed

in time. Little by little

a masterpiece…”

 

In the poem Orphans, it  explores the artist’s continual lamentation about artistic regression if he cannot devote a time for his passion,

“ you see the bookshelves collecting dust

and the pages of books banded together like

comrades and no one stop by to break the line…” and

 

“ you may gone flirting into new diversions

gobbling your attention and forget the allegiance

you made to Mother Art and create orphans

watching when you’ll pick enthusiasm…”

 

That struggle continues to be evident in Watercolor Sky, the artist is coming into terms with his art,

“ I see words

swirling past shadows

of a hand restrained to speak them

but paint the sky

with reds, blues and yellows

in circles and dots

of dreams I am afraid

to wake from…”

 

In Flood, the poem have painted an imagery of the desperation and hardships of work tipping off  the equilibrium on personal life balance,

“ labor becomes a habit. Of numbness

and enjoying the suffering…” and

 

“ like the way the thinning soap glides

my body and the necessity to wash

away yesterday’s worry-rat smell-

that doomsday spell…” and

 

“ like the constant whining of the weekend

laundry, hoping detergents rinse the stains

and filth of missed deadlines. And overtime.

And I got the time to soak away thinking

about the next line to a poem, capturing it

before it goes down the drain. In limbo…”

 

Vigil is a deep prosaic poem about death, religion and redemption, gritty in its poetic delivery,

“ by someone whose scythe has killed

and slit the necks of flowers too eager.

And push them into garland and vases

as if sudden death is a beautiful thing…” and

 

“ whose spirit wafts the room to shake

and pound the doors with its fists

while the priest can no longer hear

the trite confessions of a sinner…”

 

Coming to terms of a flawed past would not deter someone to create a new beginning is the essence of the poem Indigo,

“ empty handed you go into spaces

searching for  souls like collisions

of grey shapes stumbling down

into staircases heading for exit…” and

 

“ you will not allow it. You will pretend

as if you’ve come a long way from there

and someone has to understand

that they need to break down

the concept of the old life you are not

now. Though they won’t applaud changes…”

 

One More Mile is aptly a poem about perseverance to fight for your dreams, 

“ skid some marks,

dash the line

but I’ll never say

a dream goodbye…” and

 

“ and the minutes

stretch too long to count.

But I hold on

until it burns

a path uniquely

my own…”

 

Then after all, Who Says Poetry Is A Dying Art? is a poem that holds the beacon to continue poetry and  its literary legacy,

“ who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.

For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds

of men and keep them going…” and

 

“ art that was losing chances and losing hope.

That made poems became songs sung out loud.

It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.

And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy

affection…”

 

Another poetic gem, I believe is Our Own Little Places, explores life in the country side and why it matters,

“ a simple life- who knows when to retire

at night time and hug long-time companions

called pillows and dreaming dreams…” and

 

“ and we have to wage battles

with boredom and her sisters- called mediocrity

and irrelevance. But not all were lost.

Somebody needs to learn how to befriend them…” and

 

“in the darkness, we hope our soul in its own little spaces

can see the moon and stars light up the evening sky.

While the wind whispers- all is well, we’ll be calm as the sea…”

 

If life is a stage, so it is powerfully described in the poem They Are Silent, truth stings like a bee, a warning to gossipers,

“ they are silent, yes, they are silent.

I imagine them talking on corners

sounding like the bees ready to sting.

And the beehive is ripe and heavy

with gossip running over like honey…” and

 

“ I wish the sword will tangle with tongues,

lacerate the innards and spill the beans.

I wish the fish will bite the bait

and see the hook clasp hard the mouth

to stop fishy things from overflowing…”

 

Shadow Son, is an intimate portrait of a son who longs for his father’s affection,

“ because the sun hides its face

like the way a tyke, fatherless

and left out into the world

to fend for himself. Alone…” and

 

“ someone has to refuse

to become the victim anymore.

You knock some doors

and it is locked. You are not

welcome there. And a hand

is restrained to touch his own

shadow or an image reflected

a life mirrored in water…”

 

A gutsy reminder to the readers about the writer’s brand of literature in The Confession,

“ I do not offer a life

nor its manicured rhyme

but a disjointed rhythms

of words. Of thoughts

messed around misaligned

tensions of surviving

to live and exist…” and

 

“ I do not

offer a solution to a malady

but I am willing to bare

the broken bones.

There is no guilt

for a man who stand

for what he is

and would offer no

facelift to his present

circumstance…”

 

A poem tribute for the refugees and victims of civil wars in Narrative of the Wounded,

“ about an aching hand, bloodied by history

wrapped in white bandages soaked

in spiritual rhetoric. It didn’t stop

the bitter flow.  This hemorrhage…” and

 

“ while bullets of sunlight streams within

dark passages to freedom fighting,

floating clouds above charred ruins.

The innocence held captive

in the hopes of winning

a logical war for a bitter peace…”

 

Cocoon speaks about poignantly longing for freedom, breaking from the everyday mold of monotony,

“ I would like to remember

for the sake of remembrance

without fear of talking on corners

where echoes reverberate

within these four white walls…” and

 

“ I would like to visit a place

that is only half-remembered

where the streets are fading

against the foggy morning light…”

 

Writer’s Bloc, is a ode to the many celebrated poets and writers of not so distant time who helped shape literature as their gift to the world,

“ 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

 

“ 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…”

 

And the moments of self-denial when one learns about cancer in False Positive,

“ I buckle down, and sweating

my bones, electrocuted,

dead nervous of strangers’

gaze into my inner being…” and

 

“ trying to find

hidden tumor that metastasized

blood flowing a river

and then you drowned

along with drowning the negative

until it sinked in…”

 

My photographic skills comes into play in this poem that talks just about that in Test Shot,

“ peel your skin

reveal a vibrant sheen. Touch

and push the button.

Don’t be shy…” and

 

“ your mist embracing lens.

My fingers trembling

capture your moment.

Beauty is raw.

Ephemeral.

I wait in magic

hours…”

 

And lastly saved the best for last in Something Borrowed Or Things Broken, and this poem is about an ongoing struggle about lost of confidence and trust,

“ no, I didn’t wrote this as a reminder

that you need to return what you have borrowed.

Or should I say I have borrowed it too-

for awhile…” and

 

“ breaking closed doors

without entering and stealing

what is not yours as if you own it.

And you don’t admit in gratitude

that once you’ve been a beggar

of affection…” and

 

“ love that’s unconditioned

beyond love for oneself. And it’s me,

apparently, who have become broke…”

 

To my readers, thanks for your continued readership of this little blog page of mine. And hopefully, we can still share the best of our blogging experience in the coming years. Thanks for allowing me to share my poetry to the rest of the blogosphere. Cheers!

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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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She prepared her new year’s resolution in advance

writing down beginning and ending of things

and the reasons why she needed a starting over.

There is a luggage she’s tugging down the concourse

hurriedly outpacing the brisk walking of time,

meeting down in the alleys of strangers and guests,

with a  mask of smiles and warmth of handshakes.

She wrote words about her past life compiled to a book

for the world to read awaiting for her autograph signing

and a keepsake of empowerment how she made it through

hell and have been there when no one cared to witness.

 

It is another dramatic story rolling off the press

of another life written down for movies to gobble up

sparking another way for media moguls raking in profits.

She did not understand that her life became a playground

for dreamers and drifters praying for some kind of salvation.

When tomorrow will be another sorry day for someone

who can match up sympathy and the public adulation.

When she forgets about the time when reality is not

what she is on TV, but a flickering glitter destined not

to last another year. As fickle as the world spins around,

she begins another round of playing masquerades again.

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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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Like a man in his fishing, so is writing.

You throw the fishing rod as if throwing on chances

while anchoring your boat on a chosen spot. In the open water.

 

And your fishing line sink deep in the ocean of words. You wait

in the hope that the hook lay captive to some imaginary mouths

snapped on a bait, struggling to come away like thoughts.

 

They are like fishes- these thoughts. They are swimming against the current.

Trapped and tackled. You hold the reel, winding down farther and farther

in search for the bounty of inspiration.  Luring its elusiveness to a catch.

 

The waves of emotion might crashed into your shore.

The sinkers might get stucked through the rocks. Buried in sand.

Or in a desperate attempt, you cut the line and start anew.

 

But again, you throw the fishing rod. To wait and to hope

that a big catch is on its way to lock its jaw on the bait.

You keep gripping the reel firm awaiting for the prize.

 

And soon in the mid-air, after all hours spent in silence

like a child born out of the  womb. Eureka! The feeling

of winning, the silver fish glimmer in your hands.

 

The writer has become a fisherman, persevering

in solitude, diving deeper into a mea culpa.

Hoisting the fishing line catching hearts, once again.

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I hug my bag closer,

seeking comfort of a mother

wondering why,

in the midst of strangers, 

seated in a row,

seeing life as hard

as the wooden table.

 

I dread writing,

clutching each force,

engraving the words 

to a fragile memory wall

of that tiny classroom,

I cannot understand.

 

I wish I could go home

content, isolated from distraction.

And wait for a mother

to teach me the alphabet

unhurriedly without

pressure.

 

Even then, no one

would know

that I can’t speak,

that I can’t read

like others can.

But I see signals

from a mother’s hand.

 

For my language is different.

Since sound and words

were lost the day I was born.

And a mother would

only understand

why.

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Musically Challenged

I have always wanted to learn how to play the piano.  It is one of the things in my bucket list that I am compelled to do, fulfilling the goals I have set several years ago, but so elusive that I never found the proper time and place to learn it.  Even if I tried planning to pursue a piano class, it was set aside due to my regular work schedules.  A couple of musician and keyboardist friends tried to convince me to study piano and even told me that they can pitch in to teach me, but I was left waiting and wondering when will be the time they had the energy to do so.

It is a good thing that out of their kindness, they promised.  But that is enough already, and it has led me to nothing.  I have progressed to nothing when it comes to learning piano.  And for now, the eagerness and my determination to learn how to play the piano grew stronger and stronger everyday.  I am so excited imagining how many piano pieces I could be able to play, leisurely at ease.  Of symphonies, orchestra pieces, musical pieces, overtures, preludes and many more waiting there for me to explore.  A daunting challenge for me to know musicology.  I am not contented of merely being purely vocal.  I have an inner need to express more my musicality even further, realizing the inner melodies I have kept humming throughout all these years.

Some maybe surprised to know that I have the ability to compose songs of my own, while riding a cab or a bus.  I am getting inspirations straight from the vibratory rhythms of the car wheels and infusion of surrounding background noises from the street.  The melodies are still fresh on my mind, even if it was long, long time ago, since its very inception. A germination of the musical idea derived through the exploration of our senses.

They say, when a song has been born out from you through your everyday experiences and you still remember them, they are meant to be revealed, creatively shared and exposed for public enjoyment.  Artists had their unique lifestyle – a life of producing and honing their art for expression.  They have also a need for expressing their sublime thoughts, may it be in the form of music, visual art or creative writing.

I don’t believe, when somebody says that a person has a gift for so and so.  In my personal opinion, art can be learned. Talents can be  nurtured gradually through the influences in the environment, or  an individual’s ingrained perceptiveness to their environment and a by-product, or a consequence of an individual’s current life situations, circumstances and past influences. 

I also don’t believe in the notion that one has to spend a considerable amount of time in actually learning an art. Although it might have some merits. The length of time is not a measure how one can evolve eligibly to be called an artist.  Everyone, no matter what their ages may be, have the chance to become artists of their own right, for as long as they have the determination to decode their abilities to express themselves through art. There is no doubt that they will eventually succeed.

Artists are governed by the inner satisfaction they get while genuinely expressing their thoughts through their art.  Artists are governed by the truthfulness of their artistic expression sans the dictates of the prevailing trends,  norm or standards.  Having said that,  most of the celebrated pseudo-artists are merely egotistically bloated and widely publicized musical figures, just for the sake of personal advertisement and cheap breed of entertainment for profit.

True artists of our time are the ones who are hiding away from the spotlight and have chosen to disassociate themselves from the commercialization of the art. True artists, therefore, are the ones who are sticking their hands to the originality and authenticity of their artistic output. In one way or the other, they  might find themselves in the future, being hailed as originators of a new art movement,  a paradigm shift to the art scene.

So, don’t be surprised. I actually mapped it out, this time. I have listed down the things that I will do when I  have learned how to play the piano. Possibilities are endless.  I might have a new song for the choir to sing.  I might have a new song that I can play when celebrating an occasion, and the need for some light music arises.  I might have a recital to be witnessed in a concert hall by a selected few.  The grandest of these plans, might be penning an opera or a musical play to the likes of Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera, Chess etc.

These lingering thoughts, get me so excited as I imagine my fingers traversing piano keys and weaving some beautiful melodies.  It is a fulfillment that I think, would go beyond compare and can possibly exceed my limitations. It is a lifelong dream, bordering reality.  Soon,  and positively achievable.

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