the desert in us

in the absence of rain

and stillness of trees

the leaves long gone

wintering too soon

hushed light on my skin

the unyielding sirocco

i ponder my retreat

conquered by a spec

of sand in my eye

seduced i descend into 

thirsting crevasses 

dark openings to 

endings and pour 

like night into day

the desert in us, hushed

as a stranger's glance

calm as a shadow

but a stranger still

the desert in us

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bulalakaw

isang gabing malamlam

habang nakatunghay sa 

buwang lilisan patungo

sa huling araw nitong

ulilang buhay

nagulat, nagulumihanan

nagitla at napadausdos

sa bintana ng matanaw

sa di kalayuan sa lilim

ng mga ulap

isang liwanag na marikit,

umukit, gumuhit sa langit

animo ay kiming kidlat 

munit bilis din ang ngalan

...di kaya't?

ang abang puso'y kumislot,

kumabog at kapagdaka ay

sa kaba nalunod. narito na 

ang huling araw nitong 

ulilang buhay

bulalakaw

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i dream of peace

                                                                                      the afghan girl reinvented

i dream of peace. in that quiet place

between stupor and death. i dream of

poets writing odes that break down walls.

i dream of angels dying, demons praying.

i dream of melancholy ebbing when the 

morning sun descends on the land that

divides. land caught in a sea of blood,

a forgotten lore from a million nights ago.

i dream of flowers in the fields dancing 

to the music of change. change that must

be wielded like a sword or suffer the 

unborn and those who have come to pass.

i dream of children dancing in the rain 

falling from the heavens like the voice 

of god collected and wasted in a prison 

of greed. i dream of beauty in the ruins.

beauty that gifts solace but not solitude

to ghosts chasing memories lost in the fire

i dream of silence amidst war. i dream of

silence without war. i dream of white when

i turn off the light at night. i dream of

dreaming of seeing my face in your eyes.

i dream of peace. yes, i dream of peace.

i dream of peace

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a soliloquy while undressing in the dark

I turn off the light, it gasps for breath momentarily and it's gone. I always leave the light on when I go out. To keep the demons at bay while I search for my own. My room has become a friend who has long accepted the fact that I don't want its company at times but still chooses to stay put. It's not always there but it's always there. 

I make the long and arduous trip from the door to my bed. Ahh the door. If you care enough to stop and pay homage to it, you can actually see the peeling white paint and the old wood beneath. Brown and decaying. But it is still a door that opens and closes for me just the same. And then there are the hinges, loose and creak-y. My mother comes to mind. But now, as I sit on my bed, my thoughts are suddenly far removed from creaking doors, old wood and my mother. I am on my bed, motionless...barely breathing I sit. Slouched, worn out, but still I sit. I sit because I can't and won't lie down. I still have one more thing to do. I need to undress.

My shoes have to go first. I carefully unravel the shoelaces with gentle tugging and careful not to allow them to slip through the holes completely. I know what slipping through holes is like and I would not wish it even for the forlorn aglets. And I love my shoes. They have carried me off far and wide. And always back to this room no matter the distance covered nor the length of time spent away. So you must understand why it makes me slightly melancholic that I have to take my shoes off. But it must be done. Besides, I have done all the walking I could in a day. And my feet are yearning for air. Give us air they speak in that hushed tone only feet could make. They need to breathe. 

I peel off my socks. Still as white as the first time I wore them. Only now, a hole has found residence on the whiteness of one of them. But it does not bother me at all as only I know of that hole. Or of the other holes in my other socks. Nobody knows about them. I'm good at keeping secrets. And it's a good thing nobody asks of what they cannot see. And I have long realized that most of the time people are only concerned about your good side. Or what they could see. "The color fits you" they would say. My socks have holes. And nobody knows.

My feet lay exposed in the blackness. Fretting and flexing. Like dogs waiting for a morsel for a trick well done. But I have no time for some thoughtless rubbing, not even for a touch. And my feet would eventually understand. They always do. They are not people. With my toes curled downward, I take off my jeans. 

Faded but still blue, loose but feel snug, frayed but conceal like a smile. Ah my favorite pair. They have been with me for a long time. Seeing me through mindless meanderings - chasing after names and faces. And careless though it may sound, they have even become more reliable than my own skin as there was never a time that they have given me discomfort. If you are uncomfortable with your own skin, wear jeans. They afford you freedom that you could wear when the need arises.

My shirt is yellow. And it's new. I remember being smitten by the color one hectic day at the mall. I have never been one for "happy colors" but out of all the reds, the blacks and the blues, this yellow shirt that I now wear like a hug seemed the most exquisite and all that I needed. And indeed, I feel the glow of the pale gold it has become in the gloaming that is my room. But now I have to turn off the light. The glow ebbs and the hug becomes impersonal. So I take it off and lay it beside where I believe I have lain the watch I scarcely look at because it makes me rush things. My hand touches a cold metal but it is not my watch but my bereaved ring which I still wear -- helpless and hopeless against the thought of a thought. I hold it close to my heart and I see the moon.

a soliloquy while undressing in the dark

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if neruda comes to my door

if neruda comes to my door
i have taken to tending 
the flowers - lilacs, roses
cerises - on the verge of
wintering should weeds and 
moss, viridian and wayward, 
find deliverance from my
devotion



if neruda comes to my door
i have set sail, in my boat 
of old wood and brown, to the
galapagos, home of waiting
and passing, to play with 
penguins and frolic along 
primordial shores to forget
autumn



if neruda comes to my door
i am away in a fishing village 
ogling the fresh catch, wide
eyed and squirming inside
frayed nets, and recalling 
cravings for affairs unended
like the rustic red sunsets i 
desire



if he does not, in the greying 
light, by my window overlooking
the sea, velvety and deep blue, 
i shall wait for him. and wait


but


if neruda comes to my door

if neruda comes to my door

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to the wooly mammoth

i heard they're digging gold in the Yukon 
hosing down permafrost
praying for nuggets
but not tusks
it's not legal to trade ivory
a song of hope for you if only...


i covet your shaggy coat, i really do
i could use some warmth
man's heart is cold
colder than your winters
colder than lies 
colder than death 


did you come to know man?
us with stone, us with
fire in out eyes
and spears 
sharp as the sabertooth's only
we hunt our own


you make me wish for immortality
and long for great Bering Sea
if i were as majestic as you
would i transcend 
the ages and
drift in timeless romance?


i hope the ice that remains 
forgets to thaw 
and i'll be a memory
passing where you treaded
my feet cusped by your
footprints, free at last


are you in deep slumber 
perhaps dreaming easily
of dinosaurs and all that
was green and white while  
the crimson moon holds 
in her divine hands the 
secret of a million nights 
for a million nights more

to the wooly mammoth

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unsent

dear pa 

i met a new friend pa, and his name is c. strange that he told me things about you. but stranger still, he didn't know that he did!

he said you needed to go away when i was four to keep the family together. i said "great! how can together be when one is missing?" he also said it was difficult for you to be away. i said well, it mustn't have been that difficult for you always sounded happy in your letters. you were happy, weren't you? oh by the way thanks for the stuff you sent every time my birthday came around till I was, what, 17? back then, i was the envy of all the kids who went to my parties and who always asked where i got my name from. you must admit ours is a funny name! well those dumb kids easily got distracted by my new toy car or casio watch that i never had to answer any of them. ha! i was always years and years ahead of them in the brain department. anyway, i don't remember now if i ever thanked you for those gifts in the letters that ma made me write every time you sent money. so...well, thanks.

i hope you don't mind my telling stories to c. i'm like that with my friends. i trust them with my problems at school, at work, with money, with ma, with heartbreaks. oh you know, stuff. i treat them like family, my friends - we're always together and no walking out the door despite whatever. that talk with c was like, uhm, feeling my skin for the first time. or something like that. yeah...something like that. but pa, the more i think about it, that talk with c, the more i become sure that at the back of mind i know that what he told me i had known all along. if only i could read minds i wouldn't be second-guessing things you didn't say. but then again you and i were never in close-y cooey movie-kind of a relationship so even if had that talent i wouldn't know when to use it. and you were a very old man when you finally came home for good and by then i was too old to coo. and to my mind, old and old just doesn't have the magic that old and young does. oh i'm sure you know what i mean for you never came around either. and when you finally did, like i said, we were both old and we talked about things that adults who don't have anything deep and big to say to each other talk about. 

and oh, c's a writer, in fact he's writing a children's book. did you know i missed out on those children's books? oh you sent me the little house on the prairie series (remember?) but they do not count for nobody was around to read them to me so i had to wait till i became a good reader to enjoy them. yeah i was no longer a child when i started and finished with them. 

and now that i mentioned c's writing...guess what? i'm a writer too! well sort of. guess you saw that one coming, huh? i mean i didn't become a doctor or got enlisted like you did so you probably thought i'd become one of those artsy-fartsy-head-in-the-clouds individuals. and right you were! haha but i could've been what you hoped for me to be if only you told me yourself instead of having ma tell me. you know how i don't fear her and she's too busy keeping the family together to focus on just her youngest.

where was i? oh, writing, right! well i write poetry and stuff. people tell me i make them cry. they do! funny because i myself don't get so emotionally tangled up when i write those mushy whatnots...until now. until this. sheesh! i was crying even before i wrote "dear pa". oh do you know i'm such a crybaby? bet that one, and i'm sure as hell, surprised you! ha! but no worries, i don't blame you really. you weren't there every time i cried. like when i fell from trees and bruised myself, or puffed that first marlboro - your brand - in your honor. or maybe you do know...for i remember feeling your eyes on me when i wept like a baby four years ago at your funeral.

lastly, i apologize if it took me this long to write you a short one (NOT!) but i know you know i haven't forgotten you. and i never will. like how could i when every time i look ma in the eyes i see your face.

as i end this pa, it's weird but i'm beginning to realize how really strange life is.  because 

now i feel as though it's me who left and can't 

wait to come home. 

unsent

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