three rocks
casting shadows
upon a crystal pool

three rocks
casting shadows
upon a crystal pool

three rocks
casting shadows
upon a crystal pool

there was a time
when he knows that he is never liked
by anyone in that room
where the talk is going on

but what is the use of backing off
from this social stigmatization?
how many times have you been
ostracized because you speak your
mind without the limitations of their
usual characterization of who you be
must? how you must behave pursuant
to their questionable standards?
you stay there and talk and drink and talk
without restraint and you know the time
to leave and you know how is it
not to step back on the floor anymore.
for you are a free spirit
a bird flying low on the horizon
always dreaming of the place for
its final migration.
there is no home that satisfies its longing
no man, no woman, no land.

no one
holds us forever
as no door
is closed for long

no window
no river holds stagnant
water
no one suffers
to sorrow overwhelming
she needs help
and so i held her face
kissed her lips and
let her go
"it is time for you
to play
it is not dark
yet
it is not
too late", i said.

a while ago
he found himself alone in the room
he had slept early
for he was tired and then when he woke
up

it was a little bit dark
as trees appear merely as
shadows
fronting the window of the house
and then the shadows
dissolve in that space of
silence
"why should i be surprised?
what is this fear ? this nothingness?
it happens all the time
and he does not need same cold glass of water anymore
for he learns the trick
of solitude's magic.

suffering is a long procession
that walks around time around the whole
circle of this town
and soon it will find its final destination
in a door
just one door in a house just a very
small house
where happiness is given
and one wonders if the accounting of joy
and sorrow balances itself
in justice
or equality where happiness is just a pinch
but mind you
in eternity.

i do not keep a record of wrongs

each moment of
loneliness
each sorrow
grief
each tear and
scratch
each injury
each departure
each time you break my heart

there will be no record of
it. Each page is blank
each pain
forgotten

the sun

sun shines now
the sky
is giving it to the
surfaces of
leaves

the leaves say
it has trapped it
it has taken it
inside

the sun goes
the man says

the sun does not
know everyone.

to live
you must learn what is
every day,
which is nothing
but a day and
another day,
there is nothing
special,
it is just the closing
and opening,
the darkness and
light,
we learn something
new
and a little old of
living
just this moment
this moment
and nothing more.
this is it how to live,
do not spread.
settle.

at a writer's nook

you go out of the house
it is bored of you

you ask refuge to what the
ylang-ylang offers
at least one flower

one flower to be put on
on the sunset's hair
by the side of the left ear,

there is none. And the world
becomes a disappointment to you.

what if the house is bored of you.
You have the right to be there.

the world is a disappointment.
The room takes you.

as a punishment of the house,
then the fire.

it is the silence that
wraps the noise

it is the leaving that
puts the knot

we know which is
hanged by the beam
of this house

of words,
heavy, and dripping
tapping like a rhythm
of the measured sound
of your poem

as though
someone is sobbing

the port is land's
last extension to the sea
whose depth and
secrets warn you
of your
further interference,

try jumping
the waves though
calm
shall open its mouth
and swallow
you whole

at night when no one
is looking
it won't be
much of a telling

what you see is
only the beauty of its
silence.

since you did not
come
for the much
needed talk

the old man talks
to his horse
the spinster talks
to the tree
the baby talks to
its crib
the little girl talks
to her doll
the mother talks
to the picture of her
daughter
the father talks to
the bicycle
grandma talks to
her rocking chair

and then i talk
to myself

like the way i
write
another letter
to you....

he was five
when a party was tendered
for his birthday
and he received a brown coat
from his eldest sister

so many things happened
she grew old and he left
away
for greener pastures, but always, always

the brown coat he carries with him
kept its scent

that smell of pure love
of generosity still undeserved.

trickles of light
gold

spread upon the
cloth of
sea

another
sunset

always
different

democracy is
a lady in waiting

but it seems that the
right man has not yet
arrived for her
safe keeping....

a dog is a good
escape
you take it with
you
in your arms
towards the door
of the house
into a garden
into a path that
leads to the woods
and you walk
with it
and you think a
lot and
the dog
does not speak

you like this
the world listens
the dog
jumps
waggles its tail
and moves
ahead of you

always the best
of friends.

no one is pleased
with what you dropped by the sofa on the receiving section

fat man, you dropped a glass, it broke into tiny pieces like fleas,
"you are free to leave. The door is wide open
This is life. No one is indispensable.
It is a fact. This coming and leaving"

the thin cashier merely listened. Pretending not to be moved.
Her heart aches till dawn.

the pillars of the building shake. Some pieces of adornment fall.
the word that spreads around the corners is

"soon" and it multiplies like a geometric cube into smaller cubes
like a tattered image of an angry utility man.

"soon" the broken pieces have become fleas of a dog.
the fur of the cat, the hair of a woman, the lichens and the moss
upon a bark of an old tree

"soon" they will show you fat man how grease is removed
from a metal. How pork is melted, like butter upon its mold.

"soon" is a vulture. And soon you will be dead on the desert.
The vultures soon will eat all of your rotten flesh.
And there will be no satisfaction.

Ever.

happiness can be
dangerous.

It looks inside you
and closes your eyes
to see
a world in agony.

it settles only in the
confined picture of a family.
son, daughter, dad,
dog, cat
household pictures,
coffee mug,
a private letter,
a box,
a slit
a venetian blind
a feather duster,
a line of shoes
a collection of stamps,
an album
a poetry collection,
a fence,
a secret door
just in case.

have a little of it
just enough
to make you live

a san mig lite
some foams for the night
and then look
around you

sadness helps a lot.
it makes you
a bird.

perhaps you have
understood
a thorn.

roam around a
planet
named cactus

be hurt. A fish bone
is caught
in your throat.

There is no cat in
the house.

be calm.There is
a patch of
bermuda grass
lighted by the morning
sun

a dog rests there
sun bathing

be attentive. Just
be one

do not talk
it makes you more
crumpled

be kind. Yourself
needs
this virtue.

put your hands on
the grass
lay your body beside
a white dog
let the sun do all the
blessing.

Now, tell me
write a letter for me
compose it
at night
when the world is
already
lulled into sleep.

it is the usual darkness
when i go home at night
towards
a place of
a dream

another collision
people crowd to take a look
and find
news

two people met an accident
one of them is dead

it is the usual happening
i stop my car
open the window
and gather
another sigh of this
homing world

someone opens his arms
and hands and
say

this is usual
and then forgotten
this happens
all the time

mourning is only for those
who are concerned

cars move, people retreat
the road empties for a while
and then

back to normal. Each
to each, windows close,
darkness

you start the engine
and you look for a door
a dog
a light from a bulb
a garage
green colored tiles
a certain music
fainting...

there is lump
in your throat

a needle of pine
inside your
book

a pen in your pocket
a stationery
blank on the table

you like to write
a letter
but you can't

there is bird in
your palm
it pecks on the
lines

you open the window
of the house
you open the palm of
your hand

you let the bird fly away
at night
you take the needle of the
pine
you throw it away

you close the window
you write a letter
you fulfill the essence
of stationery

dear papa.......

a chain becomes long
because we connect to it
like a chain itself
and we become the weakest link
which others of
course
regret much.

but they must know
how we have become blessings in that disguise

weak as we are
the chain snaps
cut
and some links fall
like
shatters of glass
memories
like tear drops

and then we become free
the chain is broken
by our very own weakness
which
they must be
thankful.

the rebels
come one time and i am supposed to be part
of the
inner circle

one says it is his birthday
and he is going to celebrate it
since there was that unforgettable day in his life when
he almost died
saved by a friend who did not leave him
in the middle of
death's coming

they exchange old times
lots of fun their faces show
i am not part of that struggle anymore
i am just someone fading
they cannot remember anymore
who am i?
who was that guy again? the man with a long goatee asked

i have no name
i am not part of any gunfire
it does not mean that i am sad and that i regret what i did
that hiding and
indifference
i was selfish. I relied on the stars.
There was no one on my side.
I grabbed a future and then i stood alone
behind my the sun
and then i recited my lines,

i am myself and completely own this.
i still have the future inside my hand.
No one.No one, not even those who say that the circle is theirs alone
can take it away from me.

when i die, i do not worry who will bury me
who will throw stones or flowers
who will cry.

you open a door
it is your room that you enter
and it s a big mess
your toys are scattered on the floor
your childhood wrecked
your books are like lizards on the ceiling
you say, "this is impossible!"
but it is a fact
the water is flowing in a broken faucet
and you do not know how to stop it
soon the water will flood your floors
and it will spread to the other rooms
of this building
you do not panic
you have presence of mind after all
you rush to arrange all these things
put order, stop the water, turn off the faucet
and stay there for a while,

and then you remember that this is all
a metaphor

that the function of art is to repair a mess
to arrange what is ugly and
unreasonable
to make others turn into a flame
a fire
a glow
a day, light and reverence

and you are telling me, you do not know how to do this

let us go back to reality,
it is your room now with four walls
with solid floors

i turn on the faucet and leave it
i am sure
you will always stop it.

literally. Now you can write about it.
or at least tell me tomorrow after you have taken a sound sleep.

the sands we take from
the shore

now in our palms

the eggs we collect from
a nest
we put them back to
their mother feathers

the kites we hide the
bitterness of a seed

the words we keep in
our hearts
the sighs in our teeth

we open our hands
our mouths
our way of cutting strings

oh, we all let them go

now we are watching
what flies away
what is not ours
we just let them go....

i can always ignore you
dear world

with the lines of my poems

you were here
even before i was born

you have drowned so many
in their depressions

you have smothered those
who cried

those who have confessed
hopelessness

now i am next to your line
asking how do i live tomorrow?

prayers have changed to simple
pleas: teach me how to just exist

you are wordless in your mysteries
you have ignored my presence

so , must i, revenge now, take,
in these lines, i know, not, you.

i thought i never know
how to make wings
from your hands i have
grown feathers
from your shoulders i
have seen wings
you are flying now
higher to the skies
of my own making and
you look back
inviting me to be with you
and everybody
towards a journey of a
higher state of being
i am here, i am here
i strike my shoulder with my hand
i just love watching you with wings
and then i remember....

the skill is there
expensive silk but
the choice of what
to say
and what to do
make the ultimate
difference

remember: side with the
truth
because it is beautiful
as always
no matter how ugly
can it appear
to your own perspective

a reader
true too to his mission
rejects
fantasy or horror

what about the sick
and the dying?
the unhappy and the
hopeless?

so many of them
subjects of a good write.

sometime we feel
we are trees
birds roost on one of
our nights
and early morning
even before the sun
shines
upon our leaves
we already experience
a series of
departures

and because these
departures come in so many
forms and
colors
soon we become so attuned
to all

pain becomes a natural thing
like rain
like leaves falling
like winds coming
and then going somewhere

and we gain the courage to say,
"who cares?"

for as long as there are sands on
the shore

leaves on trees, air in space,
sun on the horizon, moon on the marsh,

there will always be
a poem to write

a note to an experience
a syllable in my tongue.

there are just too many
lurking inside my mouth

words overflow
lips can not hold each protrusion

and so i squander them
we part

i need air, a space
where i can put the meaning

of emptiness....

there is this new house
beside Petron

it is the house of a new couple
loving as they
are
they never had
a child

so they keep a puppy
instead

until one day the wife
met an accident
and instantly died

this leaves a man in
extreme sorrow
drinking his
life
away

and this leaves
the dog alone in the house
which was later sold

the dog has no one
to feed it and
most of the time spends
its days
in the Petron gasoline
station

which made the gasoline boys
take their time
feeding it
until it became their
property and friend

soon all the gasoline boys
had to leave
seeking greener
pastures
somewhere
else

this leaves the dog alone
again
sitting on the side
of the gasoline station
still dreaming
for its long lasting
master

of course,
there is none
and this leaves the dog
alone again

unfed, waiting for its
life span to
end

i cannot be
within you wings
i fly low
torn between my love
for the
soil and
the sky

i do not have
to have your wings
your clasp
for i too have my own grasp
of what
is really going on....

someone
who loves you is finding it hard
to speak to you,
it is sad indeed
you do not even notice this
the stutter of words
the shy syllables move back to the throat
when the speaking is begun
it is like dancing the ballet
the toes always tipping
and the body busy balancing itself
in order not to fall
and then be shamed.

it has become a public knowledge
borne over the airwaves
and print

you have severed so many heads
in the jungle
and so many lives had been wasted
unaccounted

and talking to you too
even from someone who loves you
has become
one big burden

this notorious deal
when will this end?

you do not teach a
mellowed orange how to be
orange

in scent and
color
it has always been
orange

put it by the window
or in the garage
roll it on the road
take it on the plane
with you
it will always be
orange

in scent and color and
texture
it will always be orange

you only have to
peel it
and perhaps taste it
and make it
feel that it is a
delicious orange

you do not consume it
you leave it
in your room and you
date your lover
for weeks

it is at this moment
when it is most orange
its juice drying up
as the ants make their
feast

the best orange,
in pulp bits bleeding

why do you think
i can't forget it?

because is it shiny, smooth,
attractive, luscious and sweet,
it is named
Apple,

because it is scheming and wise
and tempting and articulate with
a promise that soon with this apple
you will be wise and
enlightened
it is called a Snake.

we pretend to be just victims of
circumstances
and we call ourselves as
Adam.

without your
rain
the trees will die

without clouds
there will be no rain

be the clouds
gather all doubts
store the heaviness
within
then let it go
pour
make the rain

let the trees live
let the grass spread
let it be
please, please

i'd rather be the river
than a driftwood,
you once said that,

in life however, without
the rivers
intermittent as waters
have become
on glass
fragile containers,

most of us have become
perhaps without our knowing
(who wants to admit
that our skins are rough
our manners berserk?)

the amphibious crocodiles,
ambidextrous hands,
where the left and the right
no longer matter

and most often we come
home bringing
the whole deer with
blood still on our sharp
teeth dripping.

it is a little bit ironic
we remember friends
write that we miss them
and soon we plan
meeting them again

before that
we remember our comforting
follies
those cheap drinks we
have afforded ourselves
lazy conversations
high ambitions
out of this world ideas
some secrets of the heart
chipping in
possibilities

the meeting realizes itself
we like to go back to the place
where we think
we have been too simple
innocent
wholesome
well integrated in that fabric
of friendship without
any vested selfish interest

after that night
guilt emerges like an actor
who failed to gain the applause
of a small audience

somehow we keep moving on
but we do not say that anymore
that place is that garden where
flowers are changed
where varieties have become
more like questions
rather than answers.

the earlier you realize
that we are small islands whose boundaries are
oceans

deserts on high noon
with mirages as the only possibilities

dreams are achievable somehow
why can't you wait a little while? you remind us
just be patient, keep the hope
let no one die
or you're no hero of this story

the story you make yourself
without a definite ending
undecided
about the fate of this mankind in your
mind

smear the glass wall with your own blood
bang your head
let me see it
prove to me that you can be
who your friends are

let me realize it
we are all isolated islands whose boundaries are always
those bloody oceans

keep that in mind
keep that in mind.

we have actually so many things to say
something to do with rivers, the boat we are riding is sinking,
just a wooden boat anyway
in this story,

we know the weight of guns that they carry
bullets are scattered by them in every wave
we like to say that this is wrong
but if we dare then we will be next to the list
of another chain of silenced.

so we keep dealing with metaphors
we chant an alliteration of other people's wrongs
their violence has become an art for forgiving
always, always forgiving,
always, always tolerance
we know better, we must understand
deep deep down the deepest part of the
brown river

no fish lives there anymore
no bird dares migrating
only shells and coverings

we always justify all these wars
with the history of a beginning
how they were ousted from the shorelines
how the mountains have to be regained
with the height of their old confidences.

another one is shot today.
They keep on saying it is deserved.
They keep on saying it is not even enough for
the number of their dead long years back
before we arrived here.

another body is buried.
We fall short of stones and flowers.
The eulogy is kept unsaid.

We are always afraid. They know the real reasons.
They keep on saying we are not from this place.
We must go away, we must surrender all roots of our trees.
That is the condition for peace.
Their term is our death.

If we do something there will be a flare of flames.
We are certain. It is just a matter of time too.
When pushed beyond our limits

We do not write a novel of forgiveness.
We have poem inside our hearts.
It is a fire bird.

When freed from our hands after a hundred years of slumber
It shall sing of violence too.
What option do we have?

Tell me, good historian.

your elocution
is an array of
what they always
think as
errors

not syntax or
grammar

but what they
believe otherwise

they have a mold
for a desired
shape

the correct jelly
the sweetness to
their taste as
judge and jury

how can you win?
you are original
and never like
anyone of them
shaped from an
old shape
shaped by same
shape.

don't wait
walk away.

without your permission

some things are meant to be lost
others thrown away
just like that

the people you trust, sometimes,
are the people taking them away
and you begin to think,
i am wronged.

trust can be misplaced, like a
love that you want to give,
but never taken,

like a seed that you throw away
but grows not in your soil.

like a person you leave in the house
while you take a break somewhere,

and when you come back
you notice that some things are missing
very important details
of a landscape

but out of love, or respect,
simply that way to buy peace,
you simply ignore, and move on
with what is next,

because those things
are meant to be taken, to be lost, to have
been given at the right time,

but which had already been taken,
always without your permission.

An Expectation.....

this is the usual feeling anyway,
the more i read, the more i do not know,
the more i know about you,
the more unpredictable you have become.
you are not the weather that i can put on the map
and say that tomorrow surely it will be sunny.

perhaps, i have changed myself too,
and so you have ceased to be another pattern.
the beautiful city that used to be in the map
whose road i can take by night even without the
light of a star is gone.

a morning talk

the sounds of the cicada
at dawn,

the buzzing sound of the
computer,

the wind outside
the coldness of the mountain breeze

within my mind,
comes rushing the music of the next lines

predominant is still the
silence
of this being

within us
always wanting to be heard

guns and thorns

you take him in
you want him to fit
and be
in your circle

late at night he asks
if you are coming
as promised

he was looking for you
you said in due time you will be
there
a little busy body this time
making peace
with everybody

he was asked to talk
about something that he never
has an inkling
as to what is it

about a world that he never
for once
entered
nothing like a cave
for bats like him
operating more in sound
rather than
sight

he was honest
sadly he declared
' i have nothing to say'
this is not the world of my
fathers
'i am glad i am the victim
i have not killed
anybody'

on the other side
i write some notes,
' why do we transport
an alien to our world
and make him live there and suffer?

why did we invite him
to a party and then we are not there
to make him at home
with every social climber
of words?

and no one
talks to him
to make him a livable
home? '

you are unfair
i keep talking to myself
i cannot be responsible for this
i am an introvert
in fact i belong to no one
even with the good
i have long classified myself
as beyond
the tower of the church or
the pinnacle of governance

i have light kept
inside my body

it is you
but you are never there
you leave anytime you want
to go
you come when you like
coming

when you arrive at last,
the damage has been done.
He regrets your
procrastination
but will never tell you.

if you did it to me,
expect a rebellion
my words are knives
guns and
thorns

shutting you out of my life

i hear you speak
i like it.

It is past however
&
there is this fear
that with you in my life

i may cease
to be what i am.

so i think at night

if like a bulb by the kitchen
door outside the house,
i should switch you off
the one that
sometimes we like to forget
doing.

if i continue adoring you
i will be lost
and if i allow this for more
days,
i may not find myself again.

so i shut you out
the way i close a window
the way i pull
the drapes from the ceiling
to the floor
to put back the cool shade of
dark,

you must understand
i could be
my own disaster too.

we have actually so many things to say
something to do with rivers, the boat we are riding is sinking,
just a wooden boat anyway
in this story,

we know the weight of guns that they carry
bullets are scattered by them in every wave
we like to say that this is wrong
but if we dare then we will be next to the list
of another chain of silenced.

so we keep dealing with metaphors
we chant an alliteration of other people's wrongs
their violence has become an art for forgiving
always, always forgiving,
always, always tolerance
we know better, we must understand
deep deep down the deepest part of the
brown river

no fish lives there anymore
no bird dares migrating
only shells and coverings

we always justify all these wars
with the history of a beginning
how they were ousted from the shorelines
how the mountains have to be regained
with the height of their old confidences.

another one is shot today.
They keep on saying it is deserved.
They keep on saying it is not even enough for
the number of their dead long years back
before we arrived here.

another body is buried.
We fall short of stones and flowers.
The eulogy is kept unsaid.

We are always afraid. They know the real reasons.
They keep on saying we are not from this place.
We must go away, we must surrender all roots of our trees.
That is the condition for peace.
Their term is our death.

If we do something there will be a flare of flames.
We are certain. It is just a matter of time too.
When pushed beyond our limits

We do not write a novel of forgiveness.
We have poem inside our hearts.
It is a fire bird.

When freed from our hands after a hundred years of slumber
It shall sing of violence too.
What option do we have?

Tell me, good historian.

some things are meant to be lost
others thrown away
the people you trust,sometimes,
are the people taking them away
and you begin to think, trust can be
a mistrust,
trust can be misplaced, like a
love that you want to give,
but never taken,
like a seed that you throw away
but grows not in your soil.
like a person you leave in the house
while you take a break somewhere,
and when you come back
you notice that things are missing
but out of love, or respect, or simply
that way to buy peace,
you simply ignore, and move on
with what is next, because those things
are meant to be taken, to be lost, to have
been given at the right time,
but which had already been taken,
always without your permission.

this is the usual feeling anyway,
the more i read, the more i do not know,
the more i know about you,
the more unpredictable you have become.
you are not the weather that i can put on the map
and say that tomorrow surely it will be sunny.

perhaps, i have changed myself too,
and so you have ceased to be another pattern.
the beautiful city that used to be in the map
whose road i can take by night even without the
light of a star
is gone.

the sounds of the cicada
at dawn,
the buzzing sound of the
computer,
the wind outside
the coldness of the sounds
within my mind,
background music of the next
lines.
predominant is still the
silence
of this being
within us
wanting to be heard.

you always pray
for that gift of that sense
of wonder,
the way your eyes see
for the first time
a tree, a cloud,
the way you ask about
the sun's name
whether the moon is
a gem of the dark
night,

let it not be lost
it is our only amulet
for survival
it is our mantra
for another prayer.

for in truth
our gifts had long been given
the wrappings
torn and thrown away
i have mine
and i am enjoying it to the full
there is no need for me
to see what you have gotten

i've seen the way the days of my life
take the life of a door
opening and closing
with a lesser sound
nothing so dramatic
nothing to expect about
explosive expletives

i like it this way
when you are gone somewhere
to that trip of your own
soul searching games

i am alone in the living room
inside a glass wall
borrowing the light from the fields
as i read
what new books i have.

you take him in
he wants to fit and be
in your circle

he was looking for you
you said in due time you will be
there

he was asked to talk
about the world that the never
for once
entered

he was honest
saying " i have nothing to say"
this is not the world of my
fathers

on the other side
i write some notes, " why do we transport
an alien to our world
and make him live there and suffer
why did we invite him
to a party and then we are not there
and no one
talks to him
to make him belong?"

you are unfair i keep talking to myself
i cannot be responsible for this

it is you but you are never there.
when you arrive at last, the damage has been done.
He regrets you but will never tell you.

if you did it to me,
expect a rebellion.

i heard you speak
i liked it.

It is past however,
there is this fear
that with you in my life
i may cease
to be what i am.

so i think at night
if like a bulb by the kitchen
door outside the house,
i should switch you off.

if i continue adoring you
i will be lost
and if i allow this for more
days,
i may not find myself again.

so i shut you out
the way i close a window
the way i pull
the drapes on the floor
to put back the cool shade of
dark,

you must understand.
i could be
my own disaster too.