an industrious man

my eyes ache and i am afraid sooner
if my hardheadedness persists a little longer i may
become one blind old man
begging for mercy and looking for love

justly enough did you say that love is blind
that true lovers cannot see
that mercy is grace?

my heart aches and soon enough i may become
a heartless old man remembering the pieces
of broken hearts and shattered memories
scattered on the floor
of my past

mirrors gleaming with light reflecting
many faces with eyes flowing a river of tears

when i am gone

when i am gone
please do not think of me
because frankly speaking
and this may hurt
but this is true
and may liberate you
as wont
would have it
let me tell you
in the honesty of my
hands stretching out
for emptiness

i do not think of you
i will not miss you and
don't cry don't scream
you are a fool
loving someone who never
love you

is it harsh? yes it is.
i was there not just once
but many times

i am angry at yourself
i am angrier to myself.

a QUESTION and ANSWER portion

did the white rose know
that the thorns
on her side
just below her petals
are the ones that make
her appear
pure and beautiful?

it is the logic
of contrast and the
art of elimination
that work out well
in making us
give the most
of what we are
and not the idealism
of the category
which only says what
we ought to be
we become because of
constraint and
necessity
and so here we are always
on the reconstruction
not because of the fulfillment
of desire
but because of the
prosperity and intensity
the industry of pain

imagine that i am a hand
and you are the piece of
a mirror
and i reflect light from
the sun
so that others may see
the greatness of themselves

i guess this could be
the beginning of our noble friendship

if we trust what we see that is normal because our eyes always assure us about what is there in tri-dimension and when we smell what we see we believe more on what the basic senses offer we rest on these logical consequences we even have to trust the structure of numbers and how they work upon us we take pride something is true and something always works with results, desired and exalted we fall sometimes to lapses and we begin to ask about causes, we dig deeper to failures and sometimes we forget successes we forget the beauty of having to discover submitting ourselves more to the distress of failures we elucidate more on errors we lurk in depression i have enough of these illusions there are more reasons for a jubilation there is a need for a priority jamming with joy and creative celebration i have decided to forget sadness and set aside the quest for greatness that has always been nothing but a mess these are nothing but peripheries and collateral at the center of all these decorations is this mission, this knowledge that this is but a journey that i am a pilgrim, a steward, and i do not desire anything i do not own any and i do not owe anybody at all i have only dreams, and wishes oh, they are not actually even mine at all.

our nature is to fade
we are diminished every minute
we shed we exude we exhale
whatever is kept is destined
to be lost
as early as dawn that surrenders
to light
and lights soon to darkness
we must learn to accept
this destiny of losing

we empty we are atoms
blown by the wind
we relinquish what is given us
we surrender always what we think
we have obtained and won

this is the evanescence of our
human nature
we are melting we are evaporating
we see hues of colors turning pastel
we pale we wrinkle we shrink
we are diffused in space
we turn to dust

nevertheless all these are but prologues
for something bigger
for something beyond all these
to the grand reunion
and on this anticipation there is no reason
for sorrow and grieving and lamentation

from this island of despair we take the boat
and cross the body of water
i am not seeing it yet
but my heart beats
for what i cannot imagine yet i know it is there

you wish to write the best lines of a poem, something that they will remember for a lifetime, you want to put the best metaphor, you like to be deeper than the deepest ocean (or the bluest sky ever, or the tallest peak of a mountain with snow caps, you want to put the gentlest sound of the wind on top of the Tibetan monastery, you like to have your lines sound like a tinkering bell of the meditating monks, you want it holier than the saints, you want to make an impression with the moon and the stars, before you die, before you embrace the darkness and then take on the glowing robe of light) you wish to write the wisdom of the ages in some few lines, you want to put your name at the bottom, so they may remember you how human could you still be! divinity shuns this waste of words! come to think of the paradox the best poem is not written at all it is not even spoken not even the sweetest song of the bird not even the flute or the lyre has that note it is not here, not even in the hearts of men or of the wise, it does not exist here, it is not even heard yet, the metaphors still unseen the rhyme unrevealed, the rhythm unfathomed...

looking upon a child i compress my years
like how i keep the lines confined inside my palms.
i stop for while following where the child goes.
his hands are buds, his feet as small as a saki cup.
his eyes as innocent as an oil lamp waking on a dark night.
his hair are soft and silky like a kitten fur
his sounds like the arrival of morning on the grass.
i hold his tiny hands and i am back to my senses.

he calls my name, but i am no longer there.
i am back to my room. It is as crowded as a storehouse
with papers and books and chairs and used clothes hanging
on the beams and walls. Some old figurines bathed with dusts.
Some dried spittle on the floor. Some unopened off-white pages
filled with age.

i wonder, despite this crowd of things and thoughts,
despite the fullness of the wind from the window
there is still the wide vacancy of space. Inside the heart longs.
Inside the sound howls. Inside something so faint shouts.
It is the sound of the child still calling my name.
It is looking for me and i am never complete.

each syllable is
a heartbeat
it is something jumping
not like a frog
but more of a flea
it is silent
it jumps further trying
to reach the tip
of my nose

each word is a sigh
like the flaps of a bird flying away from me
this is the poem that i write for you

and if it is true that you live in the dark
i guess
you shall hear it well
you shall see it well

for the wings of the bird are white
and the color of the sigh is the color of the lights
breathed by the stars

somewhere in the middle of this journey
is the chaos of our presence
we like to dislodge and vomit of this
nostalgia of where we come from
we like to go back to the womb
and regret having grown our legs

we blame the hands of the midwife
we want to pinpoint who slapped us
we like to hear the sound of vengeance
of our first cries

did we cry for help? did i cry because
i never asked to be put here?
or did i cry because i am just making a lot of nonsense
about my innocence about despair?

i get some names of fathers and mothers and siblings
i write them on a page of a book and i ask what if they were not there

what could have been? what could i be part of?
i shout, i am an individual, i am not a part of this relating places
i am not a connection of the branches and roots

i stretch my hands wanting to touch and get hold of a rope
there is nothing there to put my neck in shame.

we get some comfort to the miseries of others.
we become brave from the stories of their sorrows and misfortunes.
we read the stories and the poems of those who know what is wrong.
what is pain, what is so distressing.

soon we learn this game. This art of shrugging our shoulders and then
putting the payment on the table, not drinking the glass of beer.
Leaving the table and not saying any word at all. And this we tell ourselves,

i am courageous. I am silent. I grow alone. I die alone. I am beautiful.

i may have asked your name
and i may have mistaken you for someone
who feels my pain

and who knows where my body lives
where my soul rests
where my feet dust every bit of dirt
where i close my eyes and sleep

i may have been noisy and nosy
i may have thought of the past neighbors who died
whose crosses are removed from their old graveyards.

you who feel my pain and yet has no name
you who say you lie you who say you survive

what can i really say? Let me hug you
Let me be with you Let me play with you
In this dark space.

My name is nothingness.

the seaside is peaceful
the sky is blue with white cumulus clouds hanging there
slowly they move and change shapes
like the air is painting and mixing the colors in space
gentle hues graceful strokes
the white sands extend to some miles
the coconut trees are like handshakes
their shadows restive and steady
i lay my body weary of the years
i look at all these lines and circles and spheres
i like to give up thinking and just be a spectator
i let them talk and i merely listen
the seaside, the seagull, the clouds, the coconut trees, the white sands,
the circles and spheres and lines extending
to nowhere.

i cover my eyes with a straw hat. I cease.

the illusions are here

if we trust what we see
that is normal because our eyes always assure us
about what is there in tri-dimension

and we smell what we see
we believe more on what the basic senses offer

we rest on these logical consequences
we even have to trust the structure of numbers
and how they work upon us

we take pride
something is true and something always works
with results, desired and exalted

we fall sometimes to lapses and we begin to ask
about causes, we dig deeper to failures and sometimes
we forget successes

we forget the beauty of having to discover
submitting ourselves more to the distress of failures

we elucidate more on errors
we lurk in depression

i have enough of these illusions
there are more reasons for a jubilation
there is a need for a priority jamming with joy
and creative celebration

i have decided to forget sadness
and set aside the quest for greatness
that has always been nothing but
a mess

these are nothing but peripheries and collateral
at the center of all these decorations is this mission,
this knowledge that this is but a journey that
i am a pilgrim, a steward, and i do not desire anything
i do not own any and i do not owe anybody at all

i have only dreams, and wishes
oh, they are not actually even mine at all.

evanescent

our nature is to fade
we are diminished every minute
we shed we exude we exhale
whatever is kept is destined
to be lost
as early as dawn that surrenders
to light
and lights soon to darkness
we must learn to accept
this destiny of losing

we empty we are atoms
blown by the wind
we relinquish what is given us
we surrender always what we think
we have obtained and won

this is the evanescence of our
human nature
we are melting we are evaporating
we see hues of colors turning pastel
we pale we wrinkle we shrink
we are diffused in space
we turn to dust

nevertheless all these are but prologues
for something bigger
for something beyond all these
to the grand reunion
and on this anticipation there is no reason
for sorrow and grieving and lamentation

from this island of despair we take the boat
and cross the body of water
i am not seeing it yet
but my heart beats
for what i cannot imagine yet i know it is there

for those who still dream to write the best lines of their lives

you wish to write the best lines of
a poem, something that they will remember
for a lifetime, you want to put the best metaphor,
you like to be deeper than the deepest ocean
(or the bluest sky ever, or the tallest peak
of a mountain with snow caps, you want to
put the gentlest sound of the wind
on top of the Tibetan monastery, you like
to have your lines sound like a tinkering bell
of the meditating monks, you want it holier
than the saints, you want to make an impression
with the moon and the stars, before you die,
before you embrace the darkness and then
take on the glowing robe of light)
you wish to write the wisdom of the ages
in some few lines, you want to put your name
at the bottom, so they may remember you

how human could you still be!
divinity shuns this waste of words!

come to think of the paradox
the best poem is not written at all
it is not even spoken
not even the sweetest song of the bird
not even the flute or the lyre has that note

it is not here, not even in the hearts of men
or of the wise, it does not exist here,

it is not even heard yet, the metaphors still unseen
the rhyme unrevealed, the rhythm unfathomed...

unemployment

a line of people
waiting

anger is brewing
the patience

short of its last
breath

dignity diminished
humanity vanquished

on the veranda
of the exclusive house

men with coat and tie
toast over an expensive

glass wine some sparkling
inequity and soon

what they ask is
another revolution

a line of people
queuing for something

that you know we know
just asking not begging

existence

big feet slender hands
an intimacy of one's back
over another chest

roses on the floor
a white blanket over
some cracks and crevices

a cup of wine on the table
some game cards and
the silence of a man and
a woman in love saying
who cares about this world?

let us be careful then
about these children

whatever footstep we leave
they always follow and delve

and if they are lost along the way
we will be blamed for the dismal day

menopause

she tried
she perspired
not inspired
she stopped
i dropped.

the grass grows

the grass grows wild
along the paths unknown
they thrive and spread
and bloom
with no one tilling
and caring
and cultivating
except with nature's sun
and rain
in some vicissitudes
of warmth
and cold

how much you my love
whom i care so dearly
so tenderly and
and deeply?

magnified rose petals

rose petals
magnified

i see morning
suns rising

from the red
red sea

i see scallops
cups hands i feel

love i throw away
sad memories

i say
forgotten and
forgiven and
i am ready for

love's
happier second
chances. I am

in love again
there is no fear
i can bear
what is there
whatever.

bright colors hang
on a horizontal pole

a white bench a red
pail and purple clouds

yellow sand black
sea grass and lavender
shadows umbrellas

on alternate orange and
white and saffron and

yellow green and crimson
blue sea with white foams

escape from a shrinking world
to the sea breeze and solitude

the poetry at things in themselves

concentric circles
my universe is not your universe
i am a circle expanding and too
i am a circle shrinking upon itself

parchments of cloth mama's crochet
patches of moments child's chilling
chimera chimes of Chippewa

a blue butterfly kept on moth
balls, purple feathers, a white trunk
a T-square, a picture of Nefertiti

georgia o'keefe, a poetry of things
an art, a form, a shape of pain, a mold
of molds, we relate to this pain that
clings to our feet like anklets. We are.

if this world is only a pond
of crystal clear water
the mirror of cotton clouds
the intimate half of the sky

if this world is only a matter
of the moon sitting softly
on the comfort of the marshes

or some whispers of the reeds
and an offering of beauty
with the petals of the pink lotus
and leaves opening to space
embracing everything in a universe

i would not have walked away
and looked for my star
i would not have followed what
the fingers of the sun hinted
i would not have believed
that somewhere at the foot
of a rainbow lies my pot of gold

i would not have succumbed to
the misery of the worms the
tragedy of the broken wings

a world a universe

to the pebbles below the fish
and the bubbles
the fish is the only
meaning of their existence
its scales are the suns
its tails meteors
its eyes the gods
and fins the winds

the bowl is the emptiness
the water surrounding is the fullness

to all of them
the world is perfect
their eternity is only
this moment

the morning is full

The morning is full of storm
in the heart of summer.
The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye,
the wind, traveling, waving them in its hands.
The numberless heart of the wind
beating above our loving silence.
Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees
like a language full of wars and songs.
Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.
Wind that topples her in a wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.
Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,
assailed in the door of the summer's wind.
.......


(by Pablo Neruda)

do not enter beyond this

when i said to the wind
do not enter and try this sordid game

i did not mean that it must go away
and leave me here

struggling for another breath
grappling for something to hold

a pole, a stalk, a twig, a tree
imagining the beauty of the sea and a blue boat

the sun at noon and the moon sickle on the sky
why do you always misunderstand

my quest for reaching something far away from me
like a star so distant from my wishes?

when i said do not enter i mean it
watch me and be with me do not touch me

i am fragile as a new born rat
pink and helpless and so lovely

i should have told you i need you please
stay and sing me again the silence of your dreams

seeding time

after the bloom of the dandelions
the winds from the south come

it is time for seeding it is time for flying away
they leave now
not knowing where
they soon stop

the next batch of dandelions grow
how can there be sorrow?

on a summer day

what you see on a summer's day
falls short of the motion

but you can grab the play of emotions
going on

blue skies, soft winds, pussy willows
graceful reeds, green grass, daisies

warm sun, scented air, wide horizons,
much space, high places, open seas

stretching hands trying to reach the skies
restless feet wanting to run away

freedom, this i ask, this i dream,
this i write

on a summer day.

the morning after

one thing with light
is its beautiful muteness

it comes bringing silence
and lands on the pillows and blankets

not even the cat's careful feet
not even the soft feather of a sparrow

the curtains open and everything is still
someone leaves without the use of a word

i must stop thinking for i too must keep going

SOME NOTES IN MY HEART

there are some notes inside my heart
you need not sing them
for they are sad

you do not deserve this sadness
and i do not preach
the philosophy of loneliness

i may have told you about sorrow
a hopeless tomorrow
but i really do not mean to

you are young and restless
learn the songs of my youth
open my cabinet take the box out there

with the drums and the trumpets
play the song and learn the dances
of the wild and the listless

bring me the flute for i am now
at an age where solitude thrives best
in the quiet i shall remember her again

on a rainy day

on your hand is a paper boat
you made last night

on a rainy day like this
you put on a gray rain coat

the river rises
perfect for your scheme

you put the boat gently
on the brown water

white paper boat
carried by this murkiness

your hands push
the paper boat leaves

tonight you sleep on
the wooden floor

it is mahogany brown and you
become the paper boat

sailing inside your dream
the floor becomes the big river

your thoughts become the wind
your eyes become two moons

the room is as dark as the night
the dream is so alive like a mother's song.

a landscape in my mind

clouds hanging on a
mountain peak with snow caps

deep blue sky
like a lake in space


on the other side
lies the wilting grasses
of the valley

twin towers on top
of a hill
like two Tibetan monks
meditating
to a very clear sky

the winds howl
from the plains
like wolves in confusion

the three women of my life

morning, noon and nighttime,
the girl, the woman, the mother.

beauty, wisdom, and truth
the true, the good and the beautiful

the gourmet, the philosopher, the sexy lady
heaven, earth, fire

water, fire, earth,
the word, the phrase, the sentence

the doctor, the nurse, the poetess
charity, joy, and hope

love, lust and both.
dream, reality, fantasy.

sadness, happiness, indifference
they are all there in the shores of my life

i am the wind, the wave, the sky.

you wrap my body with your breasts
and i face the pillow my body presses
on the softness of materiality, you run
your fingers on my arms looking for
the secrets of my flesh, and i keep my
hands steady on the railing of the bed.

you whisper to my ear the tradition that
in true love there are no more secrets.
i smile to the white linen and i close my
eyes back to the horrors of my pasts.

you put your chin on my shoulder and
you kiss my hair and you caress my
head and neck down to my hip and butt.

you kiss me again and you signal that i
now must face you in this intimacy. And
i look at you and gently i kiss you in return.
I am Cupid and you are Psyche. I must tell
you again, i trust no light. Love exists by

itself, through itself, by itself, & in-itself.

in a purple world
lavender clouds

a violet day
dusk pool

shadowy trees
black grasses

sickle moon
gray mountains

tiny stars
reflected on the lake

let me ask you
if you were there

holding hands as we walk

joy faces me
two hands hold my
hand calloused
by sorrow

the past fades
your fingers
entwine with
my fingers

as we walk
to a distance
no word comes
to say to sing

there are trees
and palms and roses
there is a bright day
ahead of us

such a beautiful world
we affirm
love finally triumphs
in isolation

the grandaughter beside a sick grandmother

wearing a short hair
a smile
her hands clasped
she sits beside her
sick grandmother

the faint light
by the window
enters gently
filtered by the
thin silky drape

the grandmother
is dying and her
daughter has an
axe to grind

she comes as
an offering
a link between
two worlds
long separated
by indifference.

only love

only love
can make this world go round

only love can make the spin
and the revolution

only your love
can make me human and

only your love can make
me feel


that i am god
undersized, unappreciated.

lovely

blood and tears
drama,

sweat and brow,
cinema,

poetry writing,
eccentric,

you dream,
eclectic

malling and texting
normal

solitude,
the peace and the quite
exotic

noise and rush
always doing and going
busy forever
welcome

you are here exactly
at the point of

where i am. i wish
to go back to the comfort room
of my childhood,

but never mind, i am almost through,
and then back to the womb of mother

back to baby, back to you,
take care of me, i am lovely when
helpless.

the waves

i laundry my whole body to the sea
with a bamboo pole i float and facing

the horizon i meet every wave every foam
what i see is an endless coming and coming and coming

this must be what the sea is all about
the waves come with the salty water and yet nothing gets filled.

absurd

the absurd lies on the surface of our skins
like a rose tattoo that shirks and shrinks with time

crumpled lines and fading dyes and a story that refuses to die
you ask me if somehow i have obtained some meaning to my life

something that i cannot say i soon tell you
it is more of a growing thing that does not really show itself

unless you wait till the right season comes
the wind gives it a light feeling and the sun warms it a bit

surprise comes like a bud and bliss comes like a red flower
so dainty and beautiful but you know it well: a very short moment

like a breath a sigh like a puff of whisper to the ear
it is a show of life, we gather dry leaves and then burn them

we clean the ashes and we wait for the grass to grow back
we anticipate the coming of hope, the rain, the clouds, the sun

sometimes it is all dark, we are blind, and then things, all things
begin to be real, it is all the same, too much light is also blinding.

for F. T.

gifted with the mind and heart
you decided not to use any of them

not to think and feel and love and desire
what is left then? a heart wilting a mind drying

you exist like an everyday occurrence
of sleeping and waking and going and coming

arrivals and departures become anything
a routine and so much like a door closing and opening

who is it and for whom and what for and why
to you it does not matter, this is nothing but everyday

you add no essence anymore not any seasoning
the fat in you melts and liquefies and turns to gas and evaporates

it lands as a smell of meat somewhere in the lawn
the people pass by the house like some shadows against the sun

beware

Not all know what waiting is all about.
Not all flowers bloom and understand
what buds are.
Not all rivers flow and know where the sea is.
Not every event knows the wisdom of destiny.

Beware my son, there is not much of us left
we who have read the lines of our palms
and understand the movement of the stars
we who respect the change of the seasons
and understand the reasons for changes
and transformations
not all caterpillars know about butterflies
beware my son
beginnings are there because
there is always an end, and always remember
my son,
the glory and the gladness that is promised
beyond us.

facts

some dreams do not come true
no problem about that
promises are made to be broken
not new to me really
some friends are not really friends
but enemies in disguise
i am learning about this fact
some loves are meant for lust
i am used to these
some moments are better used for silence
i love these
some lives simply become wasted
i am not surprised
some people just want to survive
live a life they choose
and cease the evil of comparisons
i begin this now
i dismiss my view on a love so true
it is not really late
for now i am moving on, just moving on
even without you.

blanket

white sea spreading before me
so silky
tiny ripples of the wind
from a far
bringing some stories
from the other island

some leaves fall from
the pitogo tree
some flowers pink and white
lay on the shore

white sands of silence
and peace
seeping in my skin
i am barefoot
i am naked down to the waist
i am waiting
for the sun to descend upon the bosom
of the horizon
i am dreaming of palm trees
soft winds
of summer

a door opens in my mind
i get in
stepping into something new