a reflection

there is no bird
that spends its lifetime
in a nest

there is no nest made
of concrete

the fledglings look forward
to the pain of its first wing

there is always the first push
and the fall

and there is the innate way
of learning how to fly

There is an stiletto shoe
hiding at your back
You ponder upon this
Looking at a shadow
That is taller than
Half of your body
There is a stone that
Marks a place
That you wish was not
There.

Fr. Finster

Fr. Finster administered the Body of Christ
in the Davao City Jail
Perhaps he thought that humanity is still found
in the cell where whorled souls are kept
One day the disciple of the Devil
stabbed him
The murder was done
And no one was there to help him

He died with a note that he had forgiven
the Malefactor

The hall of this university is named after him
This is where i reflected on the meaning of humanity.
This is where I think of Doubt
That strips me of Faith
This is where i left and this is where i must come back
To redeem what was lost in me.

This empty hall
This hall where shadows lurk
Where there is no door that closes when one
Leaves for good

Finster Hall

it was here that a boy
once took the steps towards his
intellectual manhood

emaciated and weighed by the
burden of his books
he thrived upon the magic
of words

the place is black and white
the only two colors to choose from
sort of mis-education
apart from what the real world
must be

when he step out from the hall
he did not expect the other colors
of reality
bloody red from the harshness
of the crocodile world
fearful purple
and doubtful grays

the world is at all different outside
the Finster Hall
the man whose life ended upon
the unjust knife of the prisoner
when he was murdered
no one ever helped him
not even the court that is supposed
to hand the judgment of
conviction

feelings are sometimes like the tiny birds
of summer feeding on a few grains

on the wide yards of the garden where the grasses
spread far

some feels being smothered by the indifference of other
tiny birds

separated by the distance of the long lines of
parallel electric poles

imagine the image of tiny birds sitting in there
looking for pecking

one notices the vastness of the sky
the unfinished climb of the hill

the vanishing paths of trails long untrue
feelings like tiny birds fly away

but there is no reason to be afraid on the
facts of nonreciprocating birds

ah, the world is wide and too interesting
to be ignored

freudian

he is basically Freudian
sickness, any sickness is explainable

for instance
insanity is caused by denying the woman

of a man, in that empty hole of her flesh
something hard and stiff must fill it

something rainy must fill the cracks
of the summer heat

one must taste the paste of life
the thrushes of man's power over woman's softness

nothing must be left unexplained
even the usual slips of the tongue

at the Ultima, 39th floor dining

we somehow feel the bond
of unity
we feel the abundance of food
and emotions
no one is telling somehow
what is it
that makes us still torn apart
from the link

she is seated beside me
i look at the veins blue on her wrist
she is not eating much
fear of fats
and betrayal
fear of too much acidity
in her guts

when she looks at me she smiles
though i find something mysterious
concealed and yet too obvious
to be mentioned
i keep my dumb silence taking
seasoned beef inside my mouth
to keep me from
using words of which i am
getting skilled at
covers

the rest are noisy
as the live band plays
Latin beat songs

the mother feeds the child
two mothers
who want the best for their kids
clean fun

the man over the edge trusts me
sad, there is no way that he sees what is inside
my heart

there is something sinister there
like a masked ninja scheming to seize
what he treasures

and then i look at her again
this time she knows what i want
she says she likes it here
on the 39th floor
though there is more fun
at the 20th
where their is a sort of
happy quiet
and pallid privacy
with the hint that she will be alone
as she owns that room

frozen waves of the sea on canvass

as i look at the frozen waves of the sea
on canvass by a clever painter
there is always that feeling of anticipating
the falling of things, and thoughts
one, the watcher
or the spectator, though stalled
and cramped for the eventuality of
things that come
somehow feels that things like these
though happen
an icy mind, solid and sharp
piercing more
the bleeding heart
that waiting which you know
shall never come
someone that says tomorrow i shall be with you
and yet by this distance
there is nothing that binds

taking the photographs of the photographers

as they busy taking the
shots of their lives
focusing and focusing
their lenses

i take the opposite view
taking their pictures as they take their pictures
trying to define life
sifting all the details
the colors and tones
and frozen movements of
people and things

i am amazed on how amazed they are
with their object and subjects
i click my camera first before they
click theirs

at the party last night

you take your glass of red wine
and sit on one of the chairs in one corner

friends surround you
as though you are a port and they are docking boats

the laughter begins and continues
till nighttime till one

the glasses of wine take you to places
of memories

the conversations about the lives of other people
their misfortunes and sometimes successes

no one wants to leave
neither can all you keep on staying

till the wee hours of dusk
until the minds becomes groggy and restless

until you realize that peace has become elusive
you become part of the unforgiving crowd

amidst the words and sentences
you are one of those colons

the allegory of the cave in less words

there is an exit
from the shackles of darkness

from the depths of ignorance
to the liberating light

follow the tunnel of your dreams
awaken from sickening sleep

thoughts upon seeing a still painting of pears

upon a tray
are the still orange pears

below are the three cherries
and the wilting leaves

i like the way the pears'
way of seducing me into biting it

the cherries compete with
the enticement

the leaves wilt with envy
and here i am watching and not
even allowed to touch anything

on seeing the picture of a baby smoking a cigarette

you think that it is funny
no i don't

there is a disaster hidden
on what you think is a joke

they still think that
you are a baby

helpless with that habit
of slowly killing yourself

mona lisa

until now
i have not really fathomed
the meaning of your smile

was it sadness
or the anticipation of bliss?

his favorite pic

i've seen his favorite pic
it looks like a creek
where the ducks go for
a swim
beside it is the green grass
untread upon by the
feet of men
growing tall is the tree
giving shade
to a lost soul
the sun above it
creates the islets of light

the green waters rise
to rinse the roots of the coconut trees

the lilies float
the ripples carry them to a joyful journey
to the banks of the river
where the children play

this is the place that you miss
an island a hut a river
the peace and quiet
of the ipil-ipil leaves
showering when the wind passes

bird of paradise

as i look at you
beauty begins to have wings
my heart too
beats in bliss

mother goose

she leads her young
towards the green grass
feeding on what is left
by the storm

no big talk
with her everything is always alright
nothing planned
nothing schemed

a beautiful woman

naked in bed
in shades of gray
lies the body of the
beautiful woman
unconquered yet
by the magnificence
of words

a hand

a hand ready for action
on the side of the leg

such is the hand of
the man beforehand oppressed

what lies on the other side
of his hate and disgust

the right hand keeps
always invisible to your eye

feathery clouds scatter
like water color spatter
beyond are the blue mountains
near us are the twin silhouette of trees
at the left side is the moon
resting upon the shoulder
of a hill on this dreamy scene
everything blue and black

contentment

half naked
he lays his body on a bench
savor the morning sunshine
under him
his guarding dog
getting some sleep

my wife has this to say
on your wedding day, that i must not speak
about statistics

majority of which
marriages are shattered
how the man has not coped up
with the heavy responsibilities
how the woman cannot accept
the hidden facts

and so i will speak of bliss
of sweet honey and wine
of the miracle at Cana
and everything so divine

my wife is happy now
having looked at the icing of the cake
licked the rosy part
and swallowed the cherry
on her drink

on the other hand she is right
optimism is still the right trait
to keep a marriage bond intact

you do not know how is it to live as a thinker
literature has portrayed an old man to this art
long white beard, silver hair unkempt
baths sacrificed for the constant write
hands on the paper before him
dawn and night and day
nothing matters really now except those thoughts
heaps and heaps of books and files of papers abounding
the room and wall practically all not just pulp
but binders and paper clips as well

outside him the world changes
seasons keep on changing
light and darkness exchanged vows
the journey is about to end

he knows where he is
a place where time is dead.

a red cliff stands beside
a running creek

from a distance it looks like
a hand
C-shaped trying to give
a view of spring

fluffy clouds hang there
like friends
wanting to save someone
from an impending harm

the valley presents a shadow
of a gray land
offering the promises of
a bumpy harvest

meanwhile everyone watches
how a creek dies.

at dawn sleep left without a word
my back curves and my arms look for something to hold
to grip what is there before me
my fingers shake and holds the keys
of the computer
they all begin to scribble words
to assure my being
that i am a tree with roots
a vine with tendrils
an earth still blessed with a sun
and winds and breeze
i sweat and look around
i stand still beside a window
i open the eye of the world before me
and said to myself
everything is alive
to include me.

some questions

for years of harnessing the horses of
word
scrubbing the back of phrases
what shall my hands become?

shall these hands be a vase for flowers
wilting in your room?
shall these hands be barks of trees
where your moss and lichens thrive wild?
shall these hands be finally exhausted
and grope again the shaken beams
of my own confusions?

or soon shall i speak in tongues
in the tower of babel
shall my thoughts become tribes
scattered in different directions?

shall i soon speak like you on the eloquence
of the pedestals?
i look forward to this art
as a savior of my crucifixion
i look forward to Frankensteins finally
converted as angels
as fairies in the lands of my fantasies
or shall i be roaming on the fields
of realities
stark and open
lighted with the sun and
refreshed with the true winds
from the waving seas?

i think you are right

when you said that it is harder
to hide something which is not there
i tried to think upon such a paradox
of hiding nothing

you are right
when there is nothing to hide
that becomes a heavy burden

when you open my mind
and find out that there is nothing in there
worth loving
worth reading
the burden becomes unbearable
all your castles of expectations fall
like the tower of sand
on the shore

there is this cat
that looks like a feline version of batman
though without a cape
and a bat-mobile

it sits on a fence
and waits

the trees murmur
and the house stares at it
curiously without blinking

this cat has one life to live
the other eight it lost to the
years of his giving up
that despair and
psychological confusion

now it is prepared to give
the last one

the house is afraid
and closes its door

the wooden fence shakes
like a bridge losing its hold on the other side

tomorrow the cat shall be dead
yet it is prepared with an epitaph

of no regret, its life is always lived
for another
and this is it that really matter

when i see a sunflower
van gogh comes into my mind
then the fear
that i will be next to commit
the same mistake as his

i divert my mind for something else
perhaps a very red red rose

well anyway, what mistake was that?

it is a black bird with a shade of red
on its upper wing
that perches on the wooden beam
cracking under the sun
last summer

below the beam are the tall reeds
i forget whether it was the black bird
or the tall reeds
which was singing

but i am sure i heard a song
so sad like a dying note from the throat
of a mad man.

i'll take a bite of the luscious grape
break the pulp within
savor the sweetness inside my mouth
play with the hands of my
tongue
i always close my eyes
when i swallow what is supposed
to be yours.

a still life

a pair of eyeglasses with brown frame
lays itself bare
on a white cloth
actually a wiper of mist
or tears perhaps
or dirt like oil or stains
a black casing
stares at it like a niche
as though someone that
appears later
shall be buried on the
red mantel.

sometimes the stones amaze me
as i tread upon them
they hurt and they look at me
as though asking questions

what is it that hurts you most?
i like to answer but they are all too numb i think
to understand any word that i say

sometimes i like to hurt them in retaliation
but i know i wouldn't work
there is no way that they will say they get hurt
there is nowhere
where i can hurt any stone that i throw to the sea

a stone is gone but not forever
as though it has its own feet and comes back to me
asking the question again: what is it that hurts you most?

i know this vengeance
there is no way that i will tell them
my secret too is like a stone and it will come back to you
without any word, still, silent, sagacious.

a note of a certain film

it is right here from this cafe des 2 moulins
where one day she decided to find a way
to make others happy

she is in a quandary
for in here there are always lonely men and women
and even children

she takes note of each of them
a child lonely because he lost his toy car
a woman whose marriage is on the verge of a collapse
and she has nowhere to go
a man whose wife left him for another younger man

they sip coffee here
their gazes as far as the farthest distance of the star

she is a very unhappy woman herself
but for now
she does not care

she finds a way for them to be happy
she found the lost toy, the wife came back to be reunited with the husband
the husband realized that he loved her more

she does not tell what caused her sadness
but she does not really care about herself now

at night she goes to her bed
soundly sleeping after

tomorrow, she will find another lonely soul again
she has become an angel

by her own choice

in our loneliness

as we trek upon another high mountain
when darkness sets in
when food is scarce
when paths erase themselves
with the rain
when the rivers do not have voices anymore
for a song
when we warm ourselves around a fire
deep in the forest

you finally find time to imagine a guitar
that you once had in the city
a precious property that in here
you are not even allowed to carry
because strumming any of its strings
can become too dangerous

to please ourselves we too imagine you playing it
we too imagine ourselves singing with you
that song of freedom, of love, of a humanity
that selects only those whom they think
is fit to survive.

AT THE ORDINATION

my mind was as young as a bud
of a white rose
when you were ordained somewhere
in that high place of the city

i thought i saw God descending from
his mighty throne
laying his hands upon your head
transferring some powers

i believed you then

time proves who the innocent are
who the culprits are
later exposed under the mighty sun
of truth

you are part of the stain
you call yourself the fallen manna from heaven
food for those who think they are lost
those slaves set free by the shackles of
ignorance

now you are like us
the grasses of the lawn
the pebbles of the pavement
the sands of the shores of time

now i believe you more.

Me

at the moment when i put my head
on my left hand
my left cheek on my left palm
feeling the warmth
of myself to myself
i may say without shame that
here i am again
thinking of you

my mustache is untrimmed
i have not shaved for day
my hair needs a cut badly
i smell i stink like a skunk
my coat has dust and dirt
my underwear has not been
changed
my undershirt has dried sweat

i feel so low these days
i have this discomfort of my soul
this pierce of the pins of my conscience
the furies are attacking me
day and night
with the possible weight of disgrace
and ripping grips of my regrets
perhaps because to you i have always
lied.

the taoist temple

the place is well trimmed
bushes with leaves well arranged
like the haircut of a soldier
the dragon guards the place
the one that does not spit fire
nothing to fear in this place of
worship this place of calm and
quiet where cameras are prohibited
but we all tread our steps towards
the holy and the divine that
unholy hour of our existences.

i was once here and there is
someone i cannot forget
the close friend i had who
clicked her camera who told
me to pose here and there only
to realize later that there was
no film.

oh, those were the younger years
that speak of lies
that gives nothing but false hopes

meanwhile, i am amazed at this
temple
a tip that tries to reach the clouds
telling us
though that we are less inferior.

the lesbian

i guess it does not really matter
whether she is a lesbian or not
at the university she teaches
the philosophy of man and she
ticks, bites, slashes, and rubs
our minds with the sharp knife
of her understanding as to
who we are, what we are and
what we are apt to
this becoming of being crawls
from her very tongue
the one that she uses to make love
love, to make love work
in an age of hatred and war
her fingers are gentle and i know
how they are used to make
her lover feel the love that much
often real men deny her
outside the doors of the university
she lets out smoke
and somehow she exits regrets
that pleasure and its extremes
can be obtained not inside the book
at the libraries of this world
but in the intimacies inside her
locked room with someone
whose name she cannot even
reveal for fear of reprisals
she has to earn her bread to live
and at the same time
make her life a secret rose
a tight bud, a falling leaf
a twisted twig, a hidden island.

the rocks in front of me
are layered like sheets of paper works
a load i must suppose for
centuries unread
the grasses of the desert
have come to cover
a part of the history of their
shale
i am the shadow at noonday
asking
what these rocks can do for me?
or shall i say
rocks, rocks, boulders of rocks
tell me the heaviness of your
burden
tell the secrets of your
strengths
the echoes keep on rebounding
sounding like the
laughter of a madman
asking the questions and
figuring out the answers
from the same sound

on a moonlit night
the shadows of the coconut trees
and the grasses
and the hut come to my mind
again

and i exclaim
how beautiful are these simple things

above them
purple clouds like a cape
beside a pearl moon
above it
a tiny star like
diamond

when a man feeds a number of ducks
on the river
he thinks of the money and the meat
and the eggs
setting aside the noisy quacks
and the pestering constant
call for attention,

i wonder how the ducks see the man
his demonstrative care and charity?

did they see him as God?

the triangular iron grills

the safety you planned
did not work out
outside the danger
did not come
between the two worlds
separated by iron grills
you thought that nothing
evil comes your way
you have not anticipated
that the monster was inside
it spurted the gas
and the flint caught it
and the tongue of fire
came out licking everything
you own burning everything
you stored for the future
dreams and all
and fantasies and hopes
now everything is gone
what is left is the charred bone
a broken Achilles' heel
smothered face
and a twisted view

beyond us is the long line of
high and steady black shadows of
the mountains
between us is the shimmering
dark blue sea
we stand on the shore where the
waves keep on teasing us
with its foams and sways

we are in love with the view
we are in love with ourselves
now we must do what we must do
love me as i have loved you
kiss my lips and fill my emptiness

laying bare

amidst the softness of the big
sofa
you lay your naked body
your breasts stare at the ceiling
your hair freely falling
on the arm
of that big sofa
you close your eyes on this
baring
you point your toe
to the carpeted floor
your arms are light
as your hands rest
on the furry cover

the silence is sweet and this
time the world is calm
no word creeps on your lips
come to think of it
what is the description
of this bliss?

after the love
you sleep facing the bed
down
you fall in a trance
of a fantasy fulfilled

the room is dimly lit
a glass half empty stands
below the lampshade

the dirty linen is set aside
stained
and ready for another
washing
tomorrow morning

two ducks wading
on the blue water
beneath them
refracted images of pebbles
dancing

a scene one summer's day

the rainbow is a dome
behind the blue horizon
a bridge carries a jeep
loaded with ordinary people
the story is true
below there is no water
rocks and pebbles and grasses and
then the emptiness of space

half of me

half of me is darkness
half of me is light

half of me is a shadow
half of me is my body

one hand is above the other
elbow to elbow that is what levels me

i ponder upon there
one body pulled by two horses in opposite direction

i ponder upon a way
to tame this wildness
this anarchy of my senses
these desires not properly canalized
on Eros overflowing
on a confusion of my mind

there is always the urge

to scratch an itch
to caress that which gives us pain
the fingers play a song
on the body on the hair
deep within
the lost purity of my soul

there is always the satisfaction
after the scratching of an itch
there is a smile on closed eyes
lips wet and body sweat

there is a dream
a fantasy somewhere

without you
my thoughts of you
my longing about what you are to me

there is in my body a black bird wanting to fly away
without you

what are we now

we are two blue clips of the clothesline
we cling to a rope
hold on, hold on
lest we fall to the ground

behind us is this blur
of trees and leaves and twigs
above us the clouds
heavy with rain

then the shower begins
hold on, hold on to the rope
lest we fall to the ground
dead and then be gone

the drought dries the land
there is no rain coming yet
the grasses wilted
and the soil turns to dust
the winds are blowing
sadly

somehow the miracle comes
with running water
along the dikes of hope
and then the first seed of grass
sprouts
its bud looks around
gives a smile
to the cloud
and then sings the beginning
of a new season

when you read that poem about deleting Maureen
i regret to have given you the wrong spelling for delet...

i know it lacks an e.
but i do not wish to delete it anymore or even edit it.

i have this philosophy in life you know
do not go back
leave all your tracks as they were once made

do not edit life
let them see how mistakes were made and how they need not be corrected

simply because you know that
people are patient and they understand the common ground of our humanity

errors, not eros.

right, wrong,
neat, or dirty
whatever that be
he goes for consistency
loved or unloved
hate, indifference,
reunion, departures
hellos
he goes for consistency
stay put and travel
silence noise
chaos pandemonium
he goes for consistency

moving on always moving on
with the earth in circles
revolving upon an orbit
always moving on and moving on

what choice does he have?
if he stays, he is left out
if he moves on, the horizon is edgeless

it is the saddest thing
metastasis,

when the fluids do not
just stay in the lungs
but in the heart
in the liver
practically all over
the body

the big C,
AT the apex of its success
one cries out

God's will be done
and takes a smile at the last
shot.

at first the wind blows
with cruelty
uprooting all the root of
your being
but this is only at first
you are but
a tree tested
for how long you can
continue
being attached to the
earth
the wind makes it sure
that you know
what attachment is
the meaning of being
rooted

after the uprooting
when all your leaves are taken away
when you are but all hands
with nothing to grip

then the wind begins to show
its true nature

it is lovely
fresh and pure

reality is not in the red petals
of the rose
decorated with six drops of dew

it is in the prick of the thorns
piercing your skin
letting out drops and drops of
blood

it is the pain in the mind
when the body starts to move out of focus
when the heart
begins to sing the old lines of the blues

sometimes there will be a sunset
different from the rest of the usual sunsets
the one that threatens us
of a darkness that does not give anymore
the hint of another day

we shiver to this idea
of an irreversible rule of evil

darkness in eternity
disorder forever

but come to think of it
that sunset cannot be true by all mean of our logic

hope sets the mold of the triumph of the good
the just and the sanity of reason

the hands of love keeps holding the light to our
freedom
from despair

we do not mind all these doomsday prophets
we keep the boat sailing
under the moon we shall hear more of the songs
of the happy angels

we have nothing to lose now
since everything is taken

what we keep is only ourselves
that promise that must take us to the other side of our
world

there they say
what is eternal is a sunrise.

and then i went to the rest room
to touch the coldness of water
my fingers want to feel
what numbness is in my head

i see the woman crying
i see the child inside the niche
everyone is looking for the comfort
in each others hands
a hold, a stare, a word

to date, there is still none.

us

we have enough
firewood
to feed a fire
for our
long night
together

now we must
sleep and dream
about firewood
still?