Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.

Rushing,
mother and child ride along.

Greasy, *****, malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.

Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes

His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…

He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration

I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.

He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.

I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.

I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.

He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.

The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.

What do you do,
what can you do?

The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat."
It goes straight to my heart.

Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?

That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…

Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…

What can you do?

Wave a hand in front of my face
and see magic happen…
That’s how I feel sometimes
Replace the face with a clean slate
or maybe not,
rather a scanned image of what’s truly within
so people will finally see
what should be seen,
and not what they want to

Somebody pointed it out to me one time,
and how true he is…
He said that one has never truly seen
one’s own face.

How ironic, right?
Yes, you see yourself in the mirror
but that’s only a reflection of yourself
And how you see your face,
would depend on the lighting,
and on the quality of the mirror…

I also have to ask, what defines a “good” mirror, anyway?

Photos of oneself are still somehow altered one way or another.
passing through lenses,
just never a firsthand account of seeing oneself
face to face—

I have seen my hands,
  each line, each groove and ridge of my fingerprints...
I have seen only the top view of my nose
…not my entire face really

So how ironic really that the blind
probably see their true selves,
see their faces much, much better
than those who can see with their eyes,
because they do so, through their hands…
touching,
         just feeling…

Wishing it was Wednesday
                            just so that today is over
                                     Doesn't matter what happens
                                                  between­ now and then...
                                       I guess I could live with that--
                            with what I did,
                    how I did it
               and why...
         Wish it was Wednesday
so I know how
to react
by

then

I may never know what exactly happened,
but I think I know the why of it

Tadhana…Fate…Destiny…Kismet…

Put it in so many words,
but it all boils down to that.

Tadhana…

shivers down my spine,
tears prickling my eyes,
as I hear once more the story,
the destiny
of two souls
one stormy day in July…

She was being stupid,
crashing into the waves that day
just for the thrill of it

He was being pensive,
reflecting on how those waves
just somehow seemed to soothe him

People slowly left the shores
as dark clouds loomed in the horizon
save for these two souls...

She wasn’t even supposed to be there,
just a spur of the moment thing,
forgetting her other worries
she loved storms, she loved the beach
combine them and for her it was bliss…

He went there for closure,
the 10th year of his brother’s death
trying to accept that he did all he could
he loved him, he loved the beach
but guilt drowned him…

The rains then came down in sheets,
winds whipping, storm waves crashing
she was almost at shore though,
when the undertow pulled her back

He thought he was imagining things,
his brother’s ghost perhaps?
When he saw her again,
and fear was tossed like jetsam

Was she the answer he was seeking for?
His redemption in another form?
Was this the reason why he was here now?
Her only hope for salvation?

Rushing out to sea,
adrenaline rushing through his veins
Faith and Fate working together,
he swam towards her

and as they reached the shore
the winds dropped to a whisper,
the waves went back tickling sand,
the raindrops trickled into drizzles

She was breathing, thank God
He lay beside her, exhausted
She could only thank him with a smile
well, a smile that could match the Sun

and she took his hand...
and put it over her heart

It was not so much that their hands fit perfectly,
but there was something else
mole on her right ring finger
perfectly aligning
mole on his left ring finger

Tadhana.

Shivers down my spine,
tears prickling my eyes,
as I hear once more the story,
the destiny
of two souls
one stormy day in July…
and of why I am here.

Tracing back…
that is what I am doing now,
just tracing back
along this woodland path,
in an attempt to grasp remnants
of a time
when I felt so alive, yet dying.

Thoughts and memories,
they fall  like these leaves,
a melange of confusion, beauty and frailty

Swept away by the wind, scattered
or swept into a pile, unified.

Either way, they can be stomped on,
brittle leaves crushed into a satisfying crunch.

All around me,
there’s a profusion of vermilion, gold and copper
but those reds have always been my favorite—
so alive, yet can also mean bleeding.

I see a pumpkin carved out,
a creepy smile adorning its face
A chuckle escapes from my lips,
remembering that time
when laughter lived in harmony
with love.

Now, I am not sure anymore…
Because how can something
that had so much hope, so verdant,
change?

I am a fool, for the answers
are so obvious—
I only need to look at these leaves.

So much like our lives, these seasons…

Not very long,
I will be staring up at argentine skies.

The thought of it gives me chills—
I pray for spring.

In a place
where trees caress heaven's cheeks
where winds whisper wistfully,
           sharing their secrets to those who care to listen...

In a place
where sun and moon meet, however fleeting,
where death and birth collide,
            giving way to the cycle of life

There is She.

the Diwata

enchanting ebony tresses amidst fairest skin
unspeakable beauty manifested
with a voice that could melt the sun
guardian spirit of nature

There she resides quietly in the trees,
~the Narra, the Acacia, the Balete
a blessing for those who care for nature
yet wrath and curse await those who abuse it

You may hear her song echo in the breeze,
her sweet breath to cool the rivers,
her teardrops mingling with the dew...

Next time you take a nature's walk,
stop, listen and just feel---
close your eyes and when you get that tell-tale chill
through your bones, through your soul,

know that she is there,
watching your every move---

the *Diwata