if you decide to live in the kingdom of
the clouds
learn the tricks of the learned
skies

to float like a dream is a must
there is no settling there
like the dust
to master the art of silence
no chirping birds
no rippling of the water
to take all the heavy ones and
keep for a while
and then to burst like thunder
to flow like rain
to be empty all over again
and move like the wind

now is the time
to feel the wind passing by your window
hear what it is
and let it in

inside your lungs
let it stay
but always remember
no one owns it
it must come out again
as you exhale
what you can keep
is the memory of its freshness
and once again
you decide to live.

when this rain stops
i made a promise
i shall forget you
tomorrow the sun
shines again
i shall make no promises
i will wake up
open a door
and then move on
to places i have not
been to.

the room is dark
light passes through a slit
of an old dilapidated wall
it is like a visitor that
comes uninvited but
i do not make any qualms
this house seems to make
a decision of its own
what to allow and what to
block

somehow thinking starts
here like a burning bush
where i, as prophet, takes
off my sandals of dust
when i close my eyes
just like the way you once
showed love to me
deep in the darkness of
our hearts
i see another world
uphill we climb the silence
and then at the top we finally
find ourselves looking
at different directions
and i do not make any qualms
at all
for like the old house this
new world too makes a decision
of its own
what to grow and what
to cut
what to throw away and
what to keep
forever

the radio on the other side of this
room plays an old music
i face this usual monitor as my fingers
begin to press the letters chosen as
thoughts begin to hover like pigeons
in that public park where children are
left by their mothers to play on their
own sensing no danger somehow
about strangers

somehow one listens and then writes
with nothing planned in mind like a
stream of thoughts
some flowers that fall on the yards of
your youth that you gather gently to make
a garland for yourself
a chain of daisies
yes you must still remember white on
a string connecting until the end line is
closed
and you think that there is an end to
remembering
but like numbers that we gather
its infinity runs like the horizon until
the afternoon closes in
and then the world turns dark on you
and then you hear nothing and you
have nothing to do now but walk away
only to return to the first stairway to your
home.

two mortal enemies
fight one another and
there you are with your
motives of peace
meeting them for a
win-win solution

no one listens and
so you make a world
of your own distant and
peaceful
and they keep on fighting
until they wipe each other
from the face of the earth
and then you say.
like God, or perhaps
assuming the posture of
God, you finally say,
"hmm, this is good".

come to think of it
the bodies we wear are
clothes
so wear it well
keep the dignity intact
and walk as though
you own the world
as though no one owns
you
keep that healthy mind
abreast with sound thoughts
and be always the
light
the moon at night
and the sun throughout the days
of your life

the night
comes in and
meeting you
could have been
one sunny day
for me except
that your eyes
are never
sun and neither
moon for me

the world says:
out there is an
island of light
where the moon
will always be full

and so i leave you
with a word from
an ill wind

there are so many layers of this
self,
when you shed off one layer
another layer
takes over
and the more layers are there
the more wholesome you become
to friends and foes alike and they ask

how is he? what is he? which is he?
and you laugh
and you hide from one layer to another
and you become what you are not
by simply being what you are
here
and there
and then
everywhere
now there are so many persons inside you
and they are
all what they are:
a party, a celebration of your selves
a clapping of hands and tapping of feet and
shaking of bodies
a dance of life
around the circle of joys and pains
a path of hate and love
into eternity
and they will love you for it
you are both rain and sunshine
sea and sky

crocodile farm

we share this cup
Of civet coffee
A delicious excrement
Of a cat

It does not make any
Coffee different
But how people see us
With its high price makes it
So. We have not discharged
This show for vanity
However, we have saved the
Civet from its potential extinction

we share this cup
Of civet coffee
A delicious excrement
Of a cat

It does not make any
Coffee different
But how people see us
With its high price makes it
So. We have not discarged
This show for vanity
However, we have saved the
Civet from its potential
exterminator

most of the time
they talk about the coming of death
medicine as a highlight fades
like dusk to morning

the matter of evidence has become
rays of morning light
the series of travels from nepal to calcuta
to kuala
are not exactly the denials that most of them
thought
and when the talk has become one routine
like a train from pedro gil to edsa
it becomes another uninteresting view
at the Luneta
well it ends like everyone else
Life is like that and will always be an imitation
when death comes
one holds his cigarette puffs a smoke into the air
and then puts a stop to a stare

when finally you admit that what you told me about the sea was not at all true, i told myself, it does not matter for i have sailed it and the journey was smooth, the nights filled with stars, the silence as beautiful as the woman in my mind.
people lie and that is acceptable if the reason has always been as a means of coping up with the harshness of living.
that people lie is not a lie. it is a fact that we simply have to endure, give it a shudder over our shoulders and then we simply do the next chore as though nothing is worth talking about.

whatever you say is negligible. i always turn to myself and resort to the truthfulness of an experience. It is the first hand experience that says nothing at all and yet has never never ever lied to me.
my feet on the ground. my hands to the sky. my eyes closed.

once a year i climb the mountain with you.
the steps have changed and we know it.
our words too. our way of choosing silence
as we cross one river to another as we shift from
one cliff to another as we rest on valleys and take
turns at gripping with heavy breaths to recoup what
we lost.

my hands are busy and i have nothing to hold much.
so i left you busy too with your own ways of survival.
this year we reach the top again and looking at the plains
and the tiny houses and the winding roads we are stilled
like a tree without a sea breeze at noon.
we sit on two stones about an arm apart. we do not look at
each other now but i do not worry for i know that you are looking
at the very same view that i am making myself so
preoccupied.
for you were once a child too who played with pebbles
who miss the sand on the beach, the foam of the sea,
the shade of the coconut tree, the taste of its water,
the hush of that old wind, the chimes of silver by the window
of the house.