what is unsaid

everything begins with the boy who is tying his shoelaces.
in the corner of his eye, he sees a young woman
who is seated on a park bench. it looks like she is waiting for someone.
she glances from time to time at a piece of paper. if you look closely,
the paper is slightly torn at the edges. it
looks like it has been folded many times.

the woman smiles softly at times, puts a hand against her cheek.
there is a desperate anticipation surrounding her.
it is a shield, an expensive fur coat. sometimes she yawns and stretches her arms
then looks around. she glances at an imaginary watch. when will
she decide when it's been long enough?

out of her bag, she takes out a knife. she holds it gently
as if it were fragile. it glints in the sun. she shudders
and puts it away. she anxiously looks around her.
the little boy has seen her. he watches her intently now,
suddenly afraid of her wistfulness, her quivering impatience.
but she sits there for hours and sometimes she forgets to blink.
she wrings her hands and gives them comforting kisses.

the boy stays, even after the world has turned a few years older.
he pretends that he is playing
with tufts of grass. he is her lone witness, her afternoon soldier.
after some time, she sighs and gets up hastily, like
she suddenly realized that she was late for an appointment.
she shoves the letter in the bag then
stands up and leaves.

the boy watches her walk away.
he thinks about the letter. he'd like to get
his hands on it just so he'd know what she was waiting for. he
believes that it will explain everything. after all, everyone,
at some point, is tired of reading between the lines.
but why do we stay, if not for the sacredness of things
that are unsaid?

because it's wednesday

Blank Joy
Rainer Maria Rilke

She who did not come, wasn't she determined
nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart?
If we had to exist to become the one we love,
what would the heart have to create?

Lovely joy left blank, perhaps you are
the center of all my labors and my loves.
If I've wept for you so much, it's because
I preferred you among so many outlined joys.

Translated by A. Poulin

when commendation is due

kudos to my friend C who finally, FINALLY cut the ties!:D

got the message, huh? look forward to an interesting ride, my friend. i never really thought you had the guts and the courage to do it but for once you proved me wrong. i'm sooooo proud.:D

sana tuloy tuloy na yan...

Song for D day

Last Goodbye
Kenny Wayne Shepherd

Long before your rusted chains
Busted walls and barbed wire cage
Tried to hold me down
Time was just a fist of change
Tossed in the water just incase
You ever came around

I could lose myself
I could curse like hell
But I’ve lost the will to even try
If you ever doubt, listen to the sound
No lies
No, no, no
This is my last goodbye

Pardon me if I appear
To see beyond the now and here
And try and save myself
I’m not the kind of them to blame
I'm not the kind to pin the blame...
But I can't take more of the same
Livin’ on your shelf

I could lose myself
I could curse like hell
But I’ve lost the will to even try
If you ever doubt, listen to the sound
No lies
No, no, no
This is my last goodbye

Door closes
Another one opens
I feel the cold wind blowing
Over me
Long gone
But not forgotten
I might be lost
I might be finally free
I’m finally free

After the Fiesta

Some things are left here:
Bright confetti spilled on the hard ground,as if by mistake.
There is a lonely, inflated balloon near the
spot where the stage used to be. The remains of
candied apples are peeking out of hiding places.
A solitary chair is waiting for someone.
A forgotten teddy bear lies on its side. Its face
is noticeably askew - testifying to rampage, to
carelessness.
And there is a boy of eight, standing in the middle of it all,
whose mouth is open with wonder.
He thinks it is a battlefield and believes that he has seen glory.
Already, he has forgotten how the
place looked like some nights before. He does not
recall the parades, the whirlwind happiness, the
clowns who cried : step right up and you will see
the miracle of your life. He would rather forget them all.
He prefers the debris that laughter leaves.
It reminds him that he aches when he is bruised.
Suddenly, he hears music that he cannot place.
He makes a sidestep into a remembered dance.
The tune that he carries, which for a moment sustains him,
guides him years afterwards.
Still, he does not remember where he heard it first.

procrastination

come here.
sit down next to me.
for once, let us talk our heads silly
about it -
the inevitably broken heart,
the light and shade of truth,
the pretext of coming and going.
we both know that it will all lead
to the same scenario.
i can see it all now:
i want you to think i am stoic and
god-like, unhurt by calamities so i sit down calmly, eyes dry, while
you bend over with apologies. you are a wreck - a truck
overturned by the sudden push and pull of an unexpected event.
but what do words have to do with anything
at this point? i say i never saw it coming and
privately you think me a bit foolish because it has
happened so many times you are wondering when
i would catch on. you are looking at me as if for the first time. you question
whether i am really as smart, as unhurried as i claimed i was. i used to
say, because I was so young,
that I believed in nothing. leave me and i would not even notice.
everyone is someone else's antidote. you take this as a truth,
as a part of me, like an appendage or a finger.
but privately, i admit that unjustified as it may seem,
there is still the subject of love. even you cannot deny it -
the fact that it exists between us, like a table or a roof over
your head (once). it has already taken the
shape of your cushions, the curve of your arm around
my shoulder. there was nothing like our orange afternoons, i claim, but what have
emotions (mine) have to do with newness, with old/found lovers?
you are decidedly bewildered, like i left you out
of the conversation. slowly, you let yourself drift off peacefully,
allowing yourself to be mesmerized
by her unrealities, her golden mouth. slowly i see you locking all doors, shutting
every creavice leading in and out of you, swallowing your
various keys so that nothing might be wasted on me,
on my pitiful figure so full of hope for returns (yours),
now lying on the floor. and i want to say do not leave
because there's still leftover wine.
there's still the moon, so much dancing to be done.
the band has not stopped playing. don't you hear that?
don't you hear anything other the piano keys
on the other side of the ship - the sound that has pulled
us together and has toppled us overboard.
everytime, you are left in pieces. i try finding you.

but you are gone before i know it.

i want you to know that my eyes are still dry, inspite of you.
i always expect spilled milk.

seeing all this, i change my mind suddenly. today, rules can be broken
because we are laughing and talking about
something riotous.
there is always tomorrow, anyway. it is a tiger burning holes
in my head, waiting to pounce.