Poetry

Bam! she goes, 

     ramming into my stomach

and on he pounces from behind, 

     choking me in the process

while my eldest schleps a bucket of laundry 

     for me to hang. 

All with much love--no doubt about that--

     despite the wind being knocked out of me

          and my choking

                 of my sigh

     that despite the scourge 

          of meetings

          of vetoes

          of assignments 

          of memos

and still the day is not done--far from it--

      for before I end my day with you 

      I must look forward to 

      the clothes

      the dishes

      and the garbage

              with my three assailants 

                      asphyxiating me

                            in their stranglehold of love.

In the meantime, 

     I steel my wobbly frame for, 

     from our children's disposition, 

           your day and mine are probably 

                 the same.

The nails of commitment 

pierce and stretch

the broken body three ways across the plank.

It's madness, madness, madness, one says

but grits one's teeth in hopes of seeing this

all the way to the foreseen projected end.

Then comes the lift.

And then the gravity.

And asphyxiation.

And the grating.

The asphyxiation.

And the grating.

And the waiting.

Under the sun.

And the wind.

The asphyxiation.

The grating.

The waiting.

The waiting.

There's time. To doubt. To question. 

To regret. To give up. To curse.

All these choices. All within waiting.

All the while, all this is lunacy, delusion, 

blasphemy even

--maybe--

for I am no Christ except for what He calls me to be.

Open your hands like bright birds of paradise

that capture the sky. That shake and shock

the world's darkness; that drive it to flight

And the thoughts that blaze light

let them soar. Fear not that they are imperfect

Because imperfection may still echo true.

Clip not their wings. Because you never know

whom they can carry.

Open your hands like bright birds of paradise

that welcome with warmth. That are gentle, 

and gracious haven for scars; that make no exceptions.

And your eyes that are colored with kindness 

let them smile. Fear not to have an honest heart

Because every misery is redeemable by love.

Put no limits. Because too few remember

that Love is unconditional.

Open your hands like bright birds of paradise

Flame unafraid. And all shall fly home. 

Sometimes I think of uncharted lands
The ends of the earth, and their entrancing allure–
And then I think of uncharted hearts
The depths of the soul, the journey to be known.

Speak. Listen. Spark
an encounter, lift your eyes to meet
an Other.
And yes, beware–
for conversations are perilous, in that they may lead us both
Deep, suddenly, stumbling,
into unknown territory
Unknown to me and
Unknown to you,
a never-explored within.

A pause, at the edge
Of a world opened up by words–
Find the unmarked path, and
lead on.
Fear not to know thyself,
Fear not to be known.
For every dragon
guards a priceless treasure;
For a life lived shallow
shall never echo into eternity;
For truth builds bridges
more than it burns defenses;
For human hearts are hallowed ground
And must not remain undiscovered.

If I could catch the way the sunlight falls

And filigrees the fringes of fine-fingered trees 

Dusts red brick walls, drenching them in glow

My words would be worth gold 

But I would rather pull the sky into a pool of peace

And pour you into it, to clear the storm

Of a weary day; to dissipate

The bleak smoke

That grays everything you see

(And you know not why

And that makes all worse.) 

I want to tell you

That the world makes sense at sunset

That the last light makes you see everything differently

And that the hour before night is both promise

And fulfillment

Of beauty. 

This is not empty consolation dressed up in poetry, no. 

These words 

Are steady flame to chase away shadow,

Are yours to keep.

Are reassurance of

Somebody. 

Are pledge that as you beat your way forward

You do not do so without company.

“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.” (Genesis 1:27). 

I don’t know how explosions in the stars

Make hydrogen, helium, and the rest

Of gasses fuse to liquids, then to mud.

Yes, mud – the very stuff of which I’m made, 

Though some say that it first became an ape

Then learned to walk upright and make some tools.

By then, they say, I was already me.

Maybe. I don’t remember. All I know

Is one day, I did wake up from a dream

And saw you gaze into my bleary eyes.

I heard your soft voice gently call my name.

I saw you, Flesh of my Flesh, and realized

That He Who made the shining stars at night

Gave your eyes a sparkle of their light. 

After the eggshells and fishbones 

And  remaining grains of rice

Are thrown away (or collected – 

it’s said they’re good for plants),

The ritual begins, solemn as the priest

Purifying vessels after Communion.

First, the pouring of soap on the sponge.

Then, the first immersion in water.

Then, the scrubbing in circular motions -- 

Vigorous, to make a good lather.

Then the rinsing, the rubbing to make sure

That the surface is no longer soapy.

Then the pouring of the water in the drainage

Together with the last bits of soap and grime

(Like angels in the book of Revelation

Pouring out bowls of the wrath of God).  

Then, the drying, or the sorting away

To let the air do the drying with time.

Finally, the washing of hands

And, if you must, the anointing with lotion.

A sacrifice? A rite of passage

Symbolizing one’s own self-reliance?

The ritual in any case must be performed,

Or else the next meal cannot be eaten. 

Grace is no flawless ballet dancer, 

pliéing and pirouetting.

No.

Grace, for me, is the memory of a clueless boy 

who, while in the throes of theatre theories, 

walks ticketless past grimy ticket machines 

(so much like the Falstaffs and fools in the plays),

Yet Grace – I think – is also a kid's friendly face,

almost plastering itself on a classroom door glass,

waving wildly, almost wishing to be let in like some frantic ghost

(even if that “ghost” only had me in the last period),

And Grace, for me, is the five pairs of eyes I see now, all aglow — 

over long-empty tupperwares,

over a well-lit dinner table 

– ten bright, cheery points that lead me back to shore.

My Reyna Elena's of a different sort

From May’s gauzéd beauties – the very Empress of old.

Woe to every man and beast when her reign's cut short!

Four-legged counts and canailles make up her high court

Who, yipping and yowling, wait behind gates of gold.

Yes, my Reyna’s of a very different sort.

A trolley of leftovers does she often sport

Which she alone can gift her subjects – yes, ‘tis told.

Woe then, count and canaille, when her reign's cut short!

On man, his fustians, and follies, she’s no sweet torte,

But more like tangy gingerbread; brusque, fierce, bold.

Yes, my Reyna’s of a very different sort.

But a kind smile, a wise word, follows bemused snort,

Like how gingerbread’s tang spices, then cheers twofold.

Woe then, to each man she’s touched, when her reign's cut short!

As I ready to sail beyond our humble port,

Her smile and sayonara’s the last thing I behold.

My Reyna Elena’s of a different sort.

Woe to every man and beast when her reign's cut short!

Dumungaw ako nang saglit 

nang marinig ang crescendo ng mga biyolin. 

Bumulong ako ng ilang mga linya ---

You are always gonna be my love

Itsuka darekato mata koi ni ochitemo.

Kinapa-kapa ang lirikong 

ang iba'y inihimig na lang. 

Nagbabakasakaling kusang iuusal

ng labi ang eksaktong mga salita.

Gusto pang magtagal ng puso sa kinatatayunan. 

Kaunti pang pahinga. 

Regalo sa sarili. 

Malakas ang buyo ng musika. 

Subalit mas nakakatakot ang banta

ng paparaming tao. 

Mag-aalasingko na. 

Kailangan nang habulin ang tren.

Inaakyat kong muli ang Stella Orientis

upang lunurin ng kamanyang 

ang dasal ng pangungulila.

Sa katahimika'y uusal 

ng ilang siklo ng Ama Namin,

ng Aba Ginoong Maria

kunin na po Ninyo ang dalamhati ng pag-iisa.

Sasaluhan ng Koro 

ang bawat taghoy ng Alleluia.

Pinagmasdan kong muli

ang mukha ng Birheng 

karga-karga ang Tagapagligtas ng Mundo.

Mabuti ang balita ng ebanghelyong 

nagpapatahan sa nguynguy

ng kaluluwang umaasa

sa grasya ng yakap ng pagkalingà.

Lumuhod ako. 

Nag-antanda.

Soiled with the picture of an inwards life

A body failed

It eats at itself and spits out the game
I am only what refuses to heal
With every peel of the rag on my back, I show how much I know pain
I reek of lonesome
Is it selfish to wish you were all sick with me?
Perhaps, if our wounds rubbed

I would not be diseased
But loved

I dream of a bath that leaves my lesions in the bowl
And a washer 

Who calls me clean

It’s not Lazarus, dead for four days.

Their stink of fish warns Ormoc1

that felled trees can sweep away another barrio 

with muddy water to cleanse the ravaged body of earth. 

It’s not water for ablution but flash floods

that punish the innocent with the guilty,

Lazarus’s shroud and an illegal logger’s jeep

Float on cascading slosh and foam down the hill.

There is no torchlight procession but a row of trucks

carting dead bodies into a hastily dug cavern.   

This is no chiaroscuro painting at Musee des Beaux Arts

but a mother pulling at banana stalks and roof sheets

in the hope of waking up her son, asleep underneath,

and, in the shadows, loggers sweat heavily in perfumed shirts. 

1On November 5, 1991, Typhoon Uring (international name Thelma) hit Eastern Visayas, causing intense flooding and landslides. About 6,000 people, most of them residents of Ormoc City, Leyte, died. The rain caused a landslide that washed away huge logs – the product of illegal logging activities on a nearby mountain.

A white American bewailed lockdown privation;

I recalled the cross planted on conquered lands;

A Singaporean saw verse as grace abounding in books;

A native American sewed Job’s sorrows into quilt bands;

An Episcopalian lady disavowed atelophobia in prayer;

A Canadian, awed by a missionary aunt, praised the Maker of all things new;

All joined with audio on Zoom controls, video appeared in layers;

Despite shaky wifi, we reached out like the blind with faith in view.

Some reunited with friends whose works stood on their shelf;

all bound to a community worshipping the Lamb in the ether,

a foretaste of heaven where there is no writers’ block,

where we work and read, sufficiently distanced, together;

eyes on the here and now, where grace meets us unmasked 

as we stay true to our calling to write about abiding love

though years have passed since our lips touched His burning coal,

a gift more precious than all the constellations shining above.  

May we spring up like grass in a field. 

May the monsoon bless and make the soil fertile

where once blood was wantonly spilled.

May we face beasts by the river

and remain upright like the sunflower;

the martyred good shepherd, Fr. Imbert;

throngs of Chinese coolies confessing your name

in Kranji plantations as their houses burned. 

May you heal our cankers and sores.

May we unlock the doors of hope

for schoolchildren and orphans of all colors.

May we shelter migrants in peace or war

and shine a light like candles at the holy hour

as we did for priests fleeing communist lands

or as that sweet nun singing a hymn in Changi

while placing rosary beads in the hanged inmate’s hands.  

May birtud ang pag-angkin sa kalatas na mana;

sa ugat ng dalumat na impukan ng sigla.

May gahum ang paglunok sa katas ng haraya; 

kudyaping naglulungga sa ritwal ng pag-asa.

Ang bathalumang luma ay giya sa paglandas

sa madilubyong pusod ng paglalamas;

silahis na tatanglaw sa kupas na kapilas 

ng abuhing aporo ng umuusling bukas. 

Kailangang sisirin, karunungan ng angkan, 

ang samu’t saring igpaw ng bugtong at kamanyang,  

ang kawikaang bulawan at mabunying kumintang,

ang epikong mandirigma at antigong katuwang.   

Kailangang yakapin ang kundimang busilak,

ang lumbay ng diona at samyo ng pagtikas;  

isisilid sa lirip ang init ng pagyakap;  

paiigtingin mandin ang ungol ng pag-alab.  

Ganito ang paraan ng paglublob sa bayan;

sumpang itinakda ng bunying Kabunian.  

Uukit at sisirit ang binyag ng pangalan

Sa Kayumangging lupa, O, lupang pinagpala. 

Amidst the dust and the sound of hooves 

beating the ground, what you remember most 

is the light: sudden and incandescent. 

The road became a gleaming blur. 

The horizon met the sky.

--And of course, the voice, 

loud like an echo in your mind, 

gentle as a song. 

And you, stumbling on your feet, 

grass and earth against your throat. 

The surprise. And the certainty. 

What will you not give 

to keep this moment eternal?

Waiting marks the lover, sing the bards. 

You spend your days weaving answers

you would undo at night, when the bards are silent

and the sea beats empty-handed

by the shores of Ithaca,

while the darkness conjures the absent

back to sleep. Wakefulness

is the enemy of the waiting.

Your needle pierces the fabric

the way the hands of a clock

pierce time. Eternity

is the foe of the ageing.

Woman with a mortal heart, tell

the gods there is no spell

to tiredness; tell

that part of you that loves 

to keep its tears for when there is rain 

and the world is deaf

to the sound of hurting.

The sunset, at its most golden,

lingers on your rough edges like a kiss.

Even the river seems to sense your brokenness; 

passing beside you, it slows down its tracks in reverence.

And you, ancient and apart, gaze at the other bank 

in silent defiance, as though to stay, 

I stand the longest.