I dreamt of you yesterday.
We were walking by the sea
barefeet on the golden sands
of a faraway memory.
When was that? I can’t recall.
Last year? Five years ago?
But this, I do know …
like the ancient ocean in my dream
constantly reborn it would seem
with each turning of the tide,
this constant pain too, pulses anew each day.
And the sea, in its murky gray depths
calls to my turbulent soul,
howling across time and space
a pain — this pain, so old and timeless
like the ocean in my memory
where once we walked together
hand in hand
blessed by the warmth of the sun,
with the seawater serenading us
and the sound of your laughter encompassing
that day, that sweet glorious day
where forever was both a dream
and a heartbeat away.
And in my dream,
you looked up at the sky
and the wind blew around you,
lifting your hair to the heavens above.
And all the light of this world cannot compete
at that moment with you.
Everything felt right and complete,
and I was home, and I was whole
within the breathtaking iridescence of your soul.
And the sea, the sparkling, wise, ancient sea
quietly watched us, like an old man knowing
that such happiness cannot last
that the world turns and time flows
like the tides of the ocean, always churning,
and memories of such days would be lost
in the waves of consciousness,
but never completely forgotten …
for time and tide have a way of washing up
our lost treasures on distant shores
where the sun shines, and the wind blows
and a love so timeless could exist
to dance forever upon clear divine waters
reflecting the perfection of an everlasting sky.
But I woke up.
It was a dream.
There was no sea
and no blue skies.
I heard the clock
time slipping away.
Each second turning into yesterday.
Yet memories have me in their grip.
And before I knew it,
I tasted, once again
the saltwater on my lips ….
Featured image above was taken from: photocase.com
W.H. Auden once wrote, “We must love one another or die.” His words inspired me to write a poem about love, acceptance, and unity. My poem could never be as good as Auden’s, but given the state our world is in now, I think I should re-post it.
We are all in the same boat,
in unpredictable but familiar seas.
Traversing the fate of humanity,
each of us … weary …
in need of a sanctuary.
So come, join me
within life’s sacred circle.
Let us accept one another —
sister of my heart,
brother of my soul.
Bound by invisible common lines,
drawn together by Providence,
our paths are intertwined.
Spin this tale with me.
Shall we weave together
our shared history?
Shall we compare stories —
of mothers and fathers,
of sons and daughters,
of husbands and wives,
of young men and maidens?
Each one connected —
fellow travellers in life.
Young and old,
of happiness and despair.
Do we not breathe the same air?
In homes, in seats of power,
in palaces, in places of worship —
from sunrise to moonrise,
in each echo of the ticking hour,
are we not bound by mortal lot?
Treading the same path.
Walking the same road.
Shall we give voice?
Sing the same myths
and see with clear eyes;
the celebrated fate
of our connected days.
Shall we reach past
color, religion, and race,
and hold one another’s hands,
acknowledge our shared bonds?
Shall we, like children, guilelessly —
intricately knit our lives with each other?
Is it not better to stand together?
For we are, after all, all of us —
Are we not all the same within?
Have we not both known pain?
Have we not both known love?
Did we not gaze up at the same stars?
Or bled from wounded souls,
reeling and healing from scars?
As this world turns,
shall we continue to burn?
We have the power to change history.
We have the power to create our story.
We have but one voice,
And we have but one choice —
we must love one another
become united and strong,
or else fall hearts apart …
dwindle and bleed away,
terrible scarlet day ….
Lying on the street
between Taft and Vito Cruz
soaked in a puddle
drenched and looking forlorn
was half a chocolate heart.
where could its other half be?
Is it lying at some forgotten corner?
Staying, hoping, and waiting for forever?
And if by some miracle, they do see each other
would they still fit together?
Uneven edges and all? Would it be that easy?
Wouldn’t it be messy???
But wait …
I guess the biggest question of all is —
can we really call this dismembered remain a heart at all?
Does a heart remain a heart, even when it’s not whole?
And while I thought of this,
a passing jeepney backfired
startling a poor soul walking by
causing him to jump and step on
that poor half a chocolate heart.
Ah, what a horrible end to this story
For now we know
the two halves would never meet,
for our half a chocolate heart
is definitely crushed beyond heartbeat.
Yes, too bad, it’s too late …
and now, all I could think of
is how badly I’m craving for chocolate.
There are no stars tonight
the sky is dark
black as a funeral shroud,
and all I could hear
are the croaking of frogs.
Faintly, from somewhere,
from everywhere, it came
like a thousand thunder
the deafening sound
of a multitude of gnashing teeth
and the keen wailing cry
of banshees running mad,
as the moon turns red
looking like the great eye of God
fixed, eternal, steadfast
all seeing, all knowing
the hearts and thoughts of men
putting on record all of man’s mockery
waiting, until the appointed hour
when the well of mercy runs dry
and the moon is eclipsed
as the great eye closes,
upon hearts of stone that are cursed
and there is nothing more, but darkness
for we reap what we sow —
and the juggernaut of reckoning comes
on burning wings of requital it strikes
by time and the rise and fall of kings,
and I could hear angels sing
as the rain of blood
fell from the sky
drowning out the frogs
and the land turned crimson
when judgment came
beyond human will and reason.
Artwork was taken from allnewspipeline.com
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 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,
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:
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 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.
Galerie Francesca on Jef Cablog “Liquescent”
Manila on my Skin
I want to wear Manila today
like a shirt
bright, tattered and frayed.
embroidered, printed, plain.
Studded with colors
of maniacally insane designs.
Criss-crossed patterns of lines.
I want to wear Manila today
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
my skin, my soul
beating and searing
its sacred sins
its vibrant art
around me, on me
my tattooed fickle heart.
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.)