Ashes of Yesterday


, , , , , , , , , ,

She was earth,
warm and giving
perhaps too willing,
perhaps too trusting.
He was fire,
hot and fiery
too burned
too weary
to see how he hurts her
how he consumes
all she could give,
until in the end
nothing remains
but the ashes of yesterday.
Note: Photo is mine.

Thoughts of A Nobody


, , , , , , , ,

I am a nobody.
A disembodied face
wandering the narrow streets of this city,
a constant in the alleyways of squalor,
a witness to everyday horror.
I am a nobody.
A normal abomination.
Civilized society’s aberration.
Seen yet unseen.
Child of the sewers lost in the din.
I am a nobody.
A ghost? Spirit? Monster?
No one could tell,
but one thing is certain,
I can inhabit any shell.
I am the undead walking
looking at you with red bloody eyes.
I can make you turn away
with derision or confusion,
and your conflicting emotions
leave us all, with nothing to say.
I am the unpleasant prick
who stabs you, in your face
with the savage force of truth
and you wonder why you are bleeding
as your heart constricts in panic
while I feel — nothing.
I am the gut-wrenching stench
that you cannot get rid of,
seeping out of the gutters
creeping towards you
with the fatal embrace of decay
making you sick
with a soul-numbing fear
that you cannot allay.
Look closely now and see …
the ghost
the monster
the unpleasant waif of reality —
the hollow souls of this city,
fleeting from place to place
in the darkness
under a bridge
in the smoky chambers
deep down a filthy underpass
in shrouded crowded corners
of boxed walls and pungent floors
in carved-out tree trunks
surrounded by patchworks
of tattered tarpaulin dreams.
Can you see me now?
I am the little girl clawing, reaching
for the juicy meat that you’re eating.
Or perhaps, I am that little boy searching
for priceless plastics and papers
worth an honest day’s meal.
Maybe, I am the old woman, hunched over
on some forgotten steps, begging for mercy –
the compounded interest
of century after century
of flawed democracy.
A broken soul, purloined
who now lives for the rattling of coins.
But I could be that man, waiting at the corner
emaciated but still acting tough
scrambling to call you a cab,
because if I’m lucky enough
you’ll toss me some dough,
but are those ever really enough though?
Better yet, I am that woman, carrying a baby
peering and knocking on your window,
hammering down on a glass,
separating me from you,
forever closed,
like the display cages at a zoo.
I gaze at you, from the outside
I stand, quietly staring.
Asking for some loose change
that, I know, is far from coming.
I am them. I am a nobody.
Unknown. Unseen. A statistic in your book.
Just another number in your ordered world.
Yet, maybe, someday this nobody
will make your blood run cold.
After all, I have nothing to fear.
Nothing to lose.
And each day the hunger grows
fed by pain and loneliness
fueled by your beautiful apathy
parading each day in designer clothes
that everyone could see,
I could see ….
And I grow tired of seeing.
So maybe, one of these days
at knife’s edge
you will see this nobody —
within that split second
reflected brilliantly in silver —
become your somebody.

Photo was taken from:

Morpheus Dreams


, , , ,


Light a candle for me

by your window

keep a vigil 

for dreams of bright-eyed boys and girls

soaring in swirling silver moonlight,

flying toward the sky

on backs of dragons

so fierce that their stare

could make the moon blush bare.

As phantoms of starlight

dissolve in pools of sunlight

lost in depths of wispy details

this heart must stand witness 

for the stories, the forgotten memory

of a night that was

but could never be

in the shadowed halls of your mind

in the sleeping corner of your heart

where myths live and breathe

and nightmares have teeth

that gnash and howl 

under the fast fading night.

(Artwork. Tomcrielly. “Morpheus The Sandman”. Web.

Chasing Sunsets


, , , , ,

Have you ever looked back  

at a sunset and felt 

all your yesterdays 

staring back at you?

Then your heart

ached and swelled

at the bittersweet knowledge

of how fleeting is today?

(Photo is mine, from my IG account: saintcharlotte)

The Baptism of Rain


, , , , , , ,


With my arms wide open

spinning like a child,

under this pouring rain

caught in this curtain 

of cascading silver ribbons

baptizing me with awakened dreams

I will laugh

l will live

l will love

And with my tongue sticking out

in defiance to this world that says

I can’t

I won’t

I shouldn’t

I will raise my cup in laughter

and drink liquid starlight.

I will taste with pleasure

the freedom of being reborn,

and thank the howling wind

and the relentless beating rain

for seeping through my tired soul.

Allowing me to answer the call

of a half-forgotten wish

that came to life again

under this blessed rain’s

quickening insistent kiss.

Manila on My Skin


, , , , , , , ,

 Galerie Francesca on Jef Cablog  “Liquescent”

Manila on my Skin

I want to wear Manila today

like a shirt

bright, tattered and frayed.

Fashionably ripped

embroidered, printed, plain.

Studded with colors

of maniacally insane designs. 

Criss-crossed patterns of lines.

I want to wear Manila today

like pants

stretched, new and faded.

Acid washed, hand-painted 

faux-leather, dignified slacks,

sprouting skulls and flowers

skinny, tired-looking trousers.

Pastel-hue, soft and lovely 

elegant, shimmering, so different

from attitude-filled Divisoria jeans.

I want to wear Manila today

old and new

young and forward

stately, refined — undefined.

I want to feel it 

seeping into 

my skin, my soul 

beating and searing

its sacred sins


its vibrant art


around me, on me

its psyche

its spirit

echoing, haunting

my tattooed fickle heart.

The Girl on the Street


, , , , , , , , , ,

She gets nervous with herself sometimes


with the restless companies in her mind.

Thoughts that refuse to be silent

screaming to be heard

like the ear-splitting screeching sound

of nails scratching on pristine surfaces,

leaving deep ugly marks

that would scar over

and bleed out through clenched teeth,

spewing out words

as black as the city’s hidden corners

where fear and hate –

children of pain lie waiting 


in the gutter of her soul.

(Picture was taken from Pinterest. Artist unknown.)



, , , , , , , , , , ,


The pain of your soul ripping apart
caused by an old friend 
who stabbed you in the back
face like a mask, unblinking
as she watched you slowly bleeding.
And you reeled away, in shock
feeling the slow throbbing
escalating intensity 
of heart stroke 
of a heart pained.
And you search for breath
you cannot find.
And in delirium you remember
the fine broken veins 
of wilted roses pressed between pages
the unforgiving glare
of raging orange sunsets by the sea
the decaying smell
of tired old photographs turning brown
the lonely tragedy
of missing diamonds on rings
the not-so-funny comedy
of you, her and him.
And you looked outside 
unto the face of the quiet old moon.
You desperately asked why,
but silence is the only answer
and silver finally falls from your eyes.



, , ,

Thanking God for giving me the opportunity to have my works included in the book entitled, “21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World” 😊