spring was never here

Silent were the cherry blossoms

when they shed out the lifelessness

in petals pink and vibrant

against the Tokyo sun

loud was the welcome

for the employee rushing

to his bleak office building

need not seek warmth

in his coat against

the resting breeze

of a once frozen city

and the beggar may now

breathe the lively air

and the cheerful faces

momentarily forgetting

the winter inside his stomach

for others I can’t imagine

since the silence or the screams

can never tread like ships

over the blind mad sea

unaware of the rain of ice

or the fall of cherry blossoms

and the silence and the screams

can never cross the breeze

that passes over my window

as the colors of the sky

dances like paint melting in water

or like lovers melting in today’s sunset

who only read the four heartbeats

of the trees and bushes and rivers

but can see how

how the sky turns pink

and black and grey and blue

and milky and dirty and clear

over their lovestruck walks

and our tiring errands

that trail over the lives

we can always imagine we share

Cherry blossoms began the season of spring in Tokyo. Never really felt it here in the Philippines.

Poem No. 3 of this week’s theme, “writing summer.”


Sparrow Words

our words
the sparrow in the window
which when breathed
flies away to thrive
in the web of branches
fragile but strong enough
for its small claws

our words
the sparrow in the window
elusive and fleeting
fluttering into trees
perching in sturdy rods
silently breathing
until our distracted eyes
rests into recalling
that it will always be there
and we will never know
when it will die

our words
the sparrow in the window
crushed in my hungry hands
bones and beak breaking
feather and muscle ruffling
heart like ours beating
its death scattered
red in my fingers
left to me to be written

Oh, almighty xarfex, I offer you this sparrow! Let your powers flow through me! Augghhhhh! Nothing, just referring to this comic drawn by the cute Chris Allison. And no, I didn’t kill a sparrow. Really.

Poem No. 2 for this week’s poetry theme, “writing summer.”

the world and I, le petit mort

Once when I had a room I snuck past bedtime
And climbed in the cold roof of our home.
The stars are all above me, seeds of our birth,
scattered in the womb of the void
embracing us when we close our eyes
and drown in its loving arms.
I reached out into the emptiness
and saw my fingers turn into the void
with starlight dots in the sheet of existence
waiting to be connected together
by the flow of blood and sparks.

I am part of the void.
I often forget I am.

For the void is alive
and its bursting with the echoes
of the primordial orgasm
that pushes and pulls
us against our skin
waking us into the beauty
that is the sun,
like us,

a near eternal day.

This week’s poetry theme is entitled, “writing summer”. This is poem No. 1.

And a repeated announcement: I am now preparing most of my poetry in advance in preparation for the looming possibility of life’s busy jaws chewing me into its stomach of responsibilities. Am I to crawl myself out of it, or give in to its acid juices, offering my body and soul for its nourishment?

Of course I’ll never give up dreaming and I’ll never give up writing and I’ll never give up poetry. And I’ll never give up. For these things have long been part of me and my connection with the heavens above and the memories around me.

But that means no daily prompt poems for a really long while. I don’t know when I’ll be back in this tradition, but I am glad to still be attracting readers, no matter how few, even when I am out of the pinglist. Thank you my readers. I hope that my words will enlighten some corners of this strange and wonderful life we all share.

And I hope that someday, I’ll write something others will share far and wide. Someday. Someday.

Tonight a tragedy

Tonight I sit with my dog
underneath the murky skies.
Together with my beer
and his empty stomach
we look at the tragedy
of the heavens
for it failed to hold on
to the lights
that kept memories
the sailors once mapped
as they charted
the unlit seas before them.
Well for me what is charted
in the memories of my fingers
is the dusty fur of my friend
as I ease him to forget
his hunger for life
and the last can of beer
I kept in my dead fridge.
If below us are memories of the sky
would the memories above
be of the uncharted seas?
Maybe, because no one
could ever see what lies before it
without throwing voices
and bodies before it.

What if,
I wonder,
I throw myself before it?
Would I chart it like the sailors of before?
Would the stars before me guide me on my journey?
No, it will be a tragedy,
for we in our craving for guidance
would drag me and my memories
into poles and chain me
like stars.

Poem No. 7 for this week’s poetry theme, “on summer I toil, on summer, I dream.”

Coffee Cups

Once I sought
the bitter coffee cup
the baristas
sell at breakfast
where my eyes are reflected
in the warm blackness
like a bitter soul.
Once I’ve taken in
the megabytes of my surroundings
I close my eyes
and looked into the void
as it fills my tongue
with warmth and life.
Is it the same as this
instant dose of caffeine,
prepared and manufactured
by the crafted machines
of the cold earth,
a brownness filled with
powdered sweetness
and cheap foam like the ones
that they say
trail the evening void
with life?

My tongue burnt its presence
and hid from the
soul my body craved.

It can be any soul
as long as it can fill the void
and lighten a busy day.

Poem No. 6 for this week’s poetry theme, “on summer I toil, on summer, I dream.”