"The Pearl of the Orient"    1989 -    
"Good guys finish last because they put their ladies first."
"Good guys finish last because they put their ladies first."

In the gut of the trunk, lies a rodent,
Its young, a cheek full of almonds.
The green leaves have already met the fall,
As I succumb to the hibernation of it all.
I cannot love you and love rubs itself
To the heart, that, pity, does not burn.

© 2016 J.S.P.


Minutes are myths
     Seconds seemed syrupy.

Each time, when we kiss, as smiles
Pave way for us, ever so close,
And the mood is righting all our wrongs,
     Dear, you eat away from Time,

Biting at its ear with a giggle. No wonder,
When Manong Sorbetero passes by,
     And when we hear one shouts Taho,
The passion lives on, stirring from within,
     We will touch with our tongues still,
     Precise, tugging at our words,

Or the sword of approval, sometimes,
Uniting us. In the distance,
There's a jealous light on a staircase
     In the distance, carefully descending.

And the flashes in the sky, how majestic
May they seem, anger in colors
Of leaves and daffodils, are nothing
     But a Man-of-war embarking
          On the deeper seas.

© 2016 J.S.P.


It will never be clear to me,
If the stars have their shadows,
     Or was it the dark, deep night

If so, then
Why do I wait for you, you,
     Who turbulently loved me?

How come each of my night
Has to be for star-gazing,
     And yours an early sleep?

Why do I bother,
     At your closed eyes?

Tell me,
Why do I dream
     Ahead of you,
     Lightyears, future away?

Love, perhaps, is a journey
To contentment. It is either
I am looking for it, or, with hope,
Finding someone
Who'll be contented
     With what I have.

So, If I will do this, bravely so,
Just this, just this one kiss,
     Will you kiss me back?

Because if you do, dearest,
     With an impenitent sweetness,
Then I would be running out of queries,
And it will all go down
     To one question unfurled

     Which I’d rather not ask,
          That I’d rather leave answered.

© 2015 J.S.P.


How much further down is the sky
Of the root of a tender love? A dove
In search of constraint, constantly so,
That it coos the wind that touches it, we
Are that heart, flying past above ourselves
In vain, having havens, having home,
No healthy hands to dig out
A humbling heaven.

© 2016 J.S.P.


The grand turbulence, the fury
Of the flower's first opening,
     The song of spring
At the tips of the leaves,
     Dripping the delicious
With the buzz and the sting.
The nectar-lady, the juice
That she brings, and
     The chaos of a thirst
     In the mouth, with a burst,
          Scrumptious, satisfying.

© 2016 J.S.P.

Jeffrey Pua
Jeffrey Pua
Dec 26, 2015

The thing about love is that
     It is strategically tragic,
Built to last, made to make you feel,
Feel good and alive, to feel enough,
     Gracefully and sudden
Like a gentle kiss, the spreading
Of wings of the soul, the fall
     Of listless stars, but
          Just as lasting.

I do not know what else to feel
Upon seeing this ocean, except
To remember you with the same
     Natural feeling, inexplicable,
Like the color blue catches on
     With the bleach of white,
Aiming to accentuate, searching
     For the old burn of red
          In vain.

And beauty is felt more
     Than it is seen. Eyes have
Seen more than they have rested,
And they have seen things best,
     While they are closed.

More than sorrow, pain and suffering,
More than sure looped-goodbyes,
     It is the serendipitous affection
That rules over all, overthrowing
The flowing madness of passing worlds,
Passing all the lovers by, mad enough,
     And mad still, yet the fight
          Is worth loving for.

Love is worth fighting with.
Life is worth it. Love is
Priceless, yet, I love you a little less
     Than love itself.

Love never grew, it just stays beside,
Just beside, them, us, blown
     By the havoc of life, fate and time,
Drifting amongst the drifters
Surrounding us, dizzied,
     Ever-tested, enduring all.

© 2015 J.S.P.

Jeffrey Pua
Jeffrey Pua
Dec 21, 2015

It was her first frolic,
Raw, non-prolific, she has eyes
On the ceiling, staring at her, her feet,
     Bare, tiptoe with the wind outside, yet
Her brittle body aches, as though
     To embrace the hardest pillow,
A realization, a brand, a scar, a grand
     Turbulence, somewhere
On the inside, the fury
Of a soft rose, it's first opening,
     Too early for the spring, bitter,

          At the applause of one.

© 2015 J.S.P.

To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment