sometimes you look for a pattern
you walk at the road leading to some other paths
along the way are the yellow flowers
wild with the rain last night
and giving the best
their bests this morning
when you still have to wash your hands
and clean your shoes
and comb your hair
in such a parting mode
between your
chin
a canal of
indifference

there are so many patterns to see
how does this rays of light come like daggers? are they like knives
or simply flowing waters in a pattern of subsumed invincibility?

distrust of self makes one find patterns
like a ship following the lines of the coast amidst the storms
a line of coconut trees
the shape of the horizon that looks like a margin of a paper
a frame of a painting
those van Gogh clouds and towering trees
scrambled patterns yet pointing to a stress
an accent of
similitude

you look at the end
the result gives nothing but barrenness of your creation
there is no unique touch of the self
and no one is amazed
except perhaps the shock that goes with an overrated imitation

damned
one goes back to the point of origin
the sole of your feet
the tip of your eyelash
ugly at first
but evolving into the uniqueness of your spirit
sprite, blithe
dropping the wings
loosening the grip on the expectations of others
now flying
alone and high

they invited me to a party that they know
i will never attend

it is my ego
it was once hurt and it still refuses to be cured

it is the cancer of this society
going crazy over the smell of the masses that pretend to like it
and yet
when the back is behind another one's back
pressed against the wall
and on dead end streets
it breaks out in laughter and says
this man believes us
we were only joking
we have our own agenda
after those lectures we have our minds and visions
we do not want to be like him
a loser

the fingers of corruption are at work again
the party goers love its caressing flesh sending the sensations
of luxury

that everyone loves
one blows the whistle and the party however
goes on and on and on

i am out
there is no party within me.

the days are coming and going
the coconut tree that you once planted at the back of the house
has become so tall
and fruitful

the nights are dark as usual but soon when you begin to look at those sides
carefully
you will notice a collage of stars

a comet once passed this path but you were then asleep
preoccupied with the thoughts of
your past
those cliffs that you have not climbed ever
the deep seas that seem to warn you of some people drowning

do not fear
bright mornings are still here everyday bringing you a bouquet of red roses

just be patient
high noons are temporary
the ticking of the clocks shall soon fade away to the voices of your carefree days
once when you were a kid
playing under a heavy rain
with your best friend

a long, long time ago.

a riddle...

if you did not lie
i could have written more

but since you tell the
truth today

i guess, i have to
quit

when i fall
this i must tell you
i am hurt
i will be really hurt
but don't come near me
and insult me with
your help or
sympathy
i am complete and
more self-sufficient than you
i am prepared
and had lone prepared for this fall
my own causing
my own fault
my own way of surrendering to
God.

the selfishness abounds
in the picture

a mom coddles her dad
and only daughter beside a landscape
of tulips

for it's springtime and
freshness is everywhere

the cameras click
and some people not close to the family have to be driven saying

"excuse me, can you move out from there"

family picture, eh?

there exists this feeling of being
excluded

somehow it sometimes gives you the feeling
of correctness

the selfishness of others
begin always with the exclusivity of their newly found families

grandads and grandmoms
have no place in there

even dads and moms
and nephews and nieces

they have become strangers in their
exclusive paradise

and then when the ask
because sometimes poverty too attacks their solidarity

why bother? what the heck?
you have your own private life too
inside your room with your books and lamplight

your bankbook is all yours
and you too have no place for those who are in future need
solitary
you too is an exclusivity
and they too
have no place reserved by you
your room is just enough
your future all yours
your hands are too small
your voice always your own
you do not want anyone to hear it
even in this
poem

in bed the rich
and old couple is preoccupied with
their plans for
their death and
discussions on who should be heir
is finalized

meanwhile those outside the house
pretending to clean this and
that are thinking too plainly about
burial and
claims

draw the line
complete the circle
this is the fence
no one enters
and no gets out

exclusive world
elite

the world of the rich and the famous
exclusive clubs and

a language of their own
well you must by now understand

that is the authentic language of
mess

i spin some letters, mostly consonants
for fear that so many vowels can be too noisy

sometimes we dwell more on the algebraic
x and y
z comes in to add more anonymity to the equations
that we grapple with everyday

looking for answers
with already prepared quadratic equations

to simplify life we offer simple equations
we reject too many complications and lessen the variables

eating breakfast, drinking the water
mastering the daily sequences and shying away from new innovations

there is no need for more vacations
they are all the same roads and seashores same malls and

delicacies, routine, colors of those items are not really changed,
the taste of that chicken is the same all over the world

be it in Austria or France or
Punta or Galas or Talisay or Sinonok

what matters is the compactness of your belief
inside no one can convince you no one can take you somewhere else

the poetry of compliance

guess you must have noticed
that for the past few days this little world has been sick

nausea as they name it has attacked the
borders of creativity

but just the same the eyes have to wake up
as a matter of habit

and the hands continue to grapple with the keys
pressing the words

sometimes the words themselves ask if they are really necessary
for this morning's attempts

the mind does not explain
everything must go and each must have a function of this certain

compliance. As days go by, there must be at least a line or two
along the doorway

Know Thyself. In fact it takes only two words
to complete what we sometimes call as the responsibility of compliance.

when love dies
opt for commitment

someone will ask
where are you promises?

when love is drunk
wait till it becomes sober

when love is wounded
why not try healing it?

when love is lame
or its bones becoming brittle

when love bleeds
when everything seems to be hemorrhagic

why not rest for a while
and ponder about those promises

about that vow
for better or for worse

about that option
to be with each other

till now
and forever