you do not plant
trees in the big forest
neither shall you sell
ice drops in the
north pole

in tropical paradise
we are the lazy people who
spend most of our time
sun bathing in the beach
watching sea gulls
breathing the salt of the air
sipping cold mango juice
painting yachts
burying our bodies under the
comfort of the the white sands....

diha sa abri nga bintana sa imong kasingkasing lantawa ang mga bulak nga nanayaw sa hardin

butangi og bangko
ayaw lingkori
pagkuha og lain
nga imong lingkoran
hatagi og luna nga
makalingkod
ang Ginoo...

never had the chance
to visit Gethsemane
the thorns of the crown
on my head, never felt,
did not see the carrying of
the cross,
that darkest night of the
crucifixion, never been
there

in this middle of my
reflection
couldn't wait to see
Christ in His
Resurrection

i'd give up sorrow, grief,
lament, in exchange of
joy
it's the redemption that
matters most
our way of moving on
this long yet
unfinished journey

same boredom

in vietnam or in hongkong
it is the same road that i walk
same lengths of
arms to reach another
wall
it is the same salt of the
sea
on a beach holiday
same coldness of the shades
of trees
along some boulevards
same noise
in malls and repeated
lyrics
sounds of love
and indifference
same menu on restaurants
and sometimes
same talk even

that strangest boredom
seems to be too insensitive
to leave me
at least for once

there are other ways
many ways in fact
to create worlds,

some did it in hiding
the world is a corner a nook

some make another ocean
inside their cupped hands

when i talk to myself
when everyone else leaves
for their own homes
i have too a world of words
my own
on some but few syllables...

the shy flower...

you are a very
shy flower
isolated,
one day you cannot
excuse yourself
from gratitude,
early morning
you carry one dew
for the sun
thanking it for something
that you
cannot reveal...

Life

it is senseless,
that is true, you exclaim
life is senseless
you write it on the board
pure existentialist leaning
an afternoon
without tea
sunshine beneath a storm,
guitars behaving
as accordions but more of
the piano,
this is the house
and there is this door
you permanently close it and then you keep on going and going
to places where there are no more houses
no doors,
this is your heart
your home
this is your hand
your feet,
your eyes, some tears, some scars,
blood dripping
earth sipping
you like another cup of cold
coffee....

drool

when you wake up this morning you rush yourself
on the usual
many things to do
but never completely done
but just the same
you keep on doing it
like opening windows, closing doors,
mopping floors, washing underwear,
brushing teeth,
etcetera
now you are working
the table offers you the menu for the stress of the day
you count them
and start at
the first file,
etcetera the clock even if you do not mind it
keeps on ticking,
nothing unusual really,
you keep on thinking and writing notes and then
making conclusions
affecting the life of other people
they become simply case numbers
and usual names,
nothing extraordinary really
etcetera
you stop, make some sighs, breathe,
stand, sit, lay your head on the sofa,
and think,
etcetera
this world is black and white,
there are no more rainbows, the rains are cats and dogs
the little shower is gone,
the slowness of beauty is murdered,
the strip teasing of something that your mind coddles
and fondles
takes time,
the unfolding of the flower is choked,
the buds are nipped,
births are scraped,
off,
and on,
push and pull,
that is the language i learn from you,
etcetera,

etcetera
i did not invent it,
we say it when we do not know
what follows next

etcetera
life.

logos

the more you think so clearly
the more you become less of yourself,
this is revolutionary to our essence
as the thinking mammal
that without ideas we become trash,
a shell without flesh
a glass without water,
a house without a home,
a carriage beside the
dead horse,
a desert, vast sands, fierce sun,
mirage in abundance
no matter how hard we look
and focus
we only see dreams....

groping

the language is barbaric,
do not equate it violence but with something that
we cannot understand
because no matter what we do
open our minds like windows
scrub the floor to start with a clean slate
even take the roof
at its senseless option
the vessel still cannot hold on
to what is given
perhaps the vessel is just too small
or the message is
egyptian
like thai characters or
arabic
we give up
perhaps there is nothing to be understood at all
but something only to be felt
like warm or cold,
or hot potato or melting ice cream in our tongues
yes, do not figure out
because there is nothing to be
figured
it is a jargon, a drool,
a language of feelings,
so miserable and
enigmatic simply because
the hands of thoughts are groping in the darkness
and there is nothing there
except the coldness
and the silence.

the suspense of the carver

trance.
chant.
focus, the white flowers are blooming
on the rolling sides of the hill,
the trees are lush with leaves
the skies as clear as
air, blue clouds hang
and then keep on moving
along the same direction
with the winds
trance,
chant,
focus,
lotus position, the mind as crown
the heart beats
so faintly,
the ants are waiting
the worms are calling
attention
the grass creeps
as the tomb-keeper
carves a name
on a slab
it has the same letter of your
first name...