kamila-more-cabisada - Hello Poetry

I refuse to grow old and die like most men who only count the downward steps from cradle to Grave.

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Feb 17, 2018

Feb 17, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC

I refuse to grow old and die like most men who only count the downward steps from cradle to Grave.

I do not write poetry because Great dead men on my shelves have done it I must be busy with something that's mine. I do not write poetry because Birds by the millions fly north to their own preachers I must fly to my own east. I do not write poetry because The sun dances in the sky on a flower-filled day I must be there to watch it. I do not write poetry because Though the dogs in the yard Have not bathed for ages They ask for a hug and I must give it. I do not write poetry because The wounds of my past fester now and then I must be there to bind them. I do not write poetry because The father of my children is the best cook in the world I must be there to love him. I do not write poetry because The child wants boots to scale his own mountain I must be there to free him. I do not write poety at all-- because I live it.

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Feb 15, 2018

Feb 15, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC

I Do Not Write Poetry

I do not write poetry because Great dead men on my shelves have done it I must be busy with something that's mine. I do not write poetry because Birds by the millions fly north to their own preachers I must fly to my own east. I do not write poetry because The sun dances in the sky on a flower-filled day I must be there to watch it. I do not write poetry because Though the dogs in the yard Have not bathed for ages They ask for a hug and I must give it. I do not write poetry because The wounds of my past fester now and then I must be there to bind them. I do not write poetry because The father of my children is the best cook in the world I must be there to love him. I do not write poetry because The child wants boots to scale his own mountain I must be there to free him. I do not write poety at all-- because I live it.

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Petal falls alone Stem tiredly withers, stifled Cry of pain echoes

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Apr 4, 2017

Apr 4, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC

Haiku no. 1 (Old Age)

Petal falls alone Stem tiredly withers, stifled Cry of pain echoes

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Moonlit summer shore Blackness deep waves sing He walks A pencil writes His thoughts

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Apr 4, 2017

Apr 4, 2017 at 8:16 AM UTC

Haiku no. 2 (Yeshua at Night)

Moonlit summer shore Blackness deep waves sing He walks A pencil writes His thoughts

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(Song for the Genteel Salesman Blocking My Path Each Time) If only you knew. Beneath blonde, rebonded locks Curled extroverted lashes Cemented titanium dioxide Plastered patient breathless pores Lips-wine-red Nose elongated, Dark strokes imprudent Cleopatric windows to Sadness of soul. Maverick femininity in Saccharine swan-like greeting If only you knew. Eden was perfect paradise She who was crafted Immaculately from your rib She was your Soulmate You were Beloved Protector, keeper, Nourisher of her being If only you knew. You are treasured by Him Who fashioned you Out of mud Breathed life into your nostrils From nothingness You were imago dei. You were anointed shepherd Of all that lived Moved; slid. You were perfect Majestic in Truth You were imago dei As you should have been And can still be.

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Mar 25, 2017

Mar 25, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC

What Makes You Beautiful

(Song for the Genteel Salesman Blocking My Path Each Time) If only you knew. Beneath blonde, rebonded locks Curled extroverted lashes Cemented titanium dioxide Plastered patient breathless pores Lips-wine-red Nose elongated, Dark strokes imprudent Cleopatric windows to Sadness of soul. Maverick femininity in Saccharine swan-like greeting If only you knew. Eden was perfect paradise She who was crafted Immaculately from your rib She was your Soulmate You were Beloved Protector, keeper, Nourisher of her being If only you knew. You are treasured by Him Who fashioned you Out of mud Breathed life into your nostrils From nothingness You were imago dei. You were anointed shepherd Of all that lived Moved; slid. You were perfect Majestic in Truth You were imago dei As you should have been And can still be.

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Every five minutes they come whirring like copters for war slashing through immaculate peace you crave to blanket your day with Those speeding three-wheeled gadflies are kings of small streets and act like you must pay them to Extricate you from a cluster of doomed and dusty eggs and bacon deliver all that racket in your head every time you think about buzzing drones on your meatloaf in your heart in your dreams on your hopes on your thoughts about how marriage should be a man and a woman now one soul in two bodies living together committed fighting for stable “everydays” The roses look damp bouquets of mums on the kitchen table you pouring hot coffee; the mug you took two hours to pick out is punctiliously stained.

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Nov 2, 2016

Nov 2, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC

Drones

Every five minutes they come whirring like copters for war slashing through immaculate peace you crave to blanket your day with Those speeding three-wheeled gadflies are kings of small streets and act like you must pay them to Extricate you from a cluster of doomed and dusty eggs and bacon deliver all that racket in your head every time you think about buzzing drones on your meatloaf in your heart in your dreams on your hopes on your thoughts about how marriage should be a man and a woman now one soul in two bodies living together committed fighting for stable “everydays” The roses look damp bouquets of mums on the kitchen table you pouring hot coffee; the mug you took two hours to pick out is punctiliously stained.

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Gently touch her, gently care, For the day may come — swiftly when That endless cruel knocking on doors bolted from the inside Dies down and turns into gray silence. She, irksome as it is, goes round and round in circles Looking for the missing pair She wears the other one, anyway, And sits down in grief. She says, “I want to go home. Let me go home.” “Mama, you are home,” you answer. Vexation rears its ugly head And you force each horn, one at a time, to recede: To vanish from sight. Then gaining composure you say: “Mama, let’s pray.” God hears, and you are healed. Set free. Instantly. Of the agony of bearing about in your own body The weight of selfishness And sin And sheer ignorance of what it feels like To have Time ****** away Memory From you and those you love. The stark feebleness of this bent, white creature With veined hands and bony feet Reminds you of your own Utter helplessness. Mortality.

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Nov 1, 2016

Nov 1, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC

"GENTLY" (a poem for mama)

Gently touch her, gently care, For the day may come — swiftly when That endless cruel knocking on doors bolted from the inside Dies down and turns into gray silence. She, irksome as it is, goes round and round in circles Looking for the missing pair She wears the other one, anyway, And sits down in grief. She says, “I want to go home. Let me go home.” “Mama, you are home,” you answer. Vexation rears its ugly head And you force each horn, one at a time, to recede: To vanish from sight. Then gaining composure you say: “Mama, let’s pray.” God hears, and you are healed. Set free. Instantly. Of the agony of bearing about in your own body The weight of selfishness And sin And sheer ignorance of what it feels like To have Time ****** away Memory From you and those you love. The stark feebleness of this bent, white creature With veined hands and bony feet Reminds you of your own Utter helplessness. Mortality.

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Red streaks the latest paper The blood of martyrs splattered on walls For their faith. For the whole world to see. Red blotches a Gentile face He wakes up to see Jesus Coming with healing bright Shingles, white patches hideous bumps, flaky scabs. They vanish at His faintest whisper. He runs into Samaritan darkness Screaming, Your name reverberating. Red is what they ate in Eden, too. Red is being torn from Your side By smooth connivance with Reptilian deceit. Red is how the world looks To lovely young eyes Enamored by it for the first time. Red is their world And You turn pale In their sight. Red is what I feel When I learn Your anointing on my throat lies–almost forgotten Preciously hidden Tucked behind the veneer Of daily pinings for applause From dim, glassy faces Made red by stage lighting. Red is the color of my cheeks When I realize You love me despite. Red is Your sacrifice. Red is Your atonement. Red is my ransom. …You are everywhere.

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Nov 1, 2016

Nov 1, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC

"RED"

Red streaks the latest paper The blood of martyrs splattered on walls For their faith. For the whole world to see. Red blotches a Gentile face He wakes up to see Jesus Coming with healing bright Shingles, white patches hideous bumps, flaky scabs. They vanish at His faintest whisper. He runs into Samaritan darkness Screaming, Your name reverberating. Red is what they ate in Eden, too. Red is being torn from Your side By smooth connivance with Reptilian deceit. Red is how the world looks To lovely young eyes Enamored by it for the first time. Red is their world And You turn pale In their sight. Red is what I feel When I learn Your anointing on my throat lies–almost forgotten Preciously hidden Tucked behind the veneer Of daily pinings for applause From dim, glassy faces Made red by stage lighting. Red is the color of my cheeks When I realize You love me despite. Red is Your sacrifice. Red is Your atonement. Red is my ransom. …You are everywhere.

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"Wala pay sulod atong sako Nay.” Sack of rice is empty Stomach rumbling mercilessly Mind is hazy, breathing sporadically Cold porridge is a feast. “Go home!” says Mama sternly Frantic, frightened, panicky Rocks hurled, bullets fly Blood splatters; running aimlessly We dodge our way to safety Cold porridge is a feast. “I will not,” I say adamantly She looks at the sack mournfully Empty. Devoid of sanity. Cold porridge is a feast. “We’ll get some soon. Don’t worry.” “I don’t believe you.” I feel weak, I am crabby I’m staying despite this misery Cold porridge is a feast. Childlike will, piety of soul Purity of intention, pursuit of living whole Cold porridge is a feast.

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Nov 1, 2016

Nov 1, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC

Cold Porridge is a Feast (for Yenyen)

"Wala pay sulod atong sako Nay.” Sack of rice is empty Stomach rumbling mercilessly Mind is hazy, breathing sporadically Cold porridge is a feast. “Go home!” says Mama sternly Frantic, frightened, panicky Rocks hurled, bullets fly Blood splatters; running aimlessly We dodge our way to safety Cold porridge is a feast. “I will not,” I say adamantly She looks at the sack mournfully Empty. Devoid of sanity. Cold porridge is a feast. “We’ll get some soon. Don’t worry.” “I don’t believe you.” I feel weak, I am crabby I’m staying despite this misery Cold porridge is a feast. Childlike will, piety of soul Purity of intention, pursuit of living whole Cold porridge is a feast.

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If I had words and rhyme enough to show That when on thirsty soil my roses grow, In stinging, ice-wrapped cage my songbirds sing A lilting tune that ushers in the Spring. Then such a poem will, of course, prove true That God has worked His miracles anew Through friends so dear as life from life renewed, Such sweetness, oh, such blessedness reviewed! In mind and heart they’re two: Nenette, Andrew. Though years of service each have taken toll On weary shoulders, cares and burdens fall But Love-lit eyes and smiles keep such as veiled As fragrance from the heel-crushed violet. Praise Him who made you both as beautiful As summer rain.

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May 21, 2016

May 21, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC

Miracle Workers

If I had words and rhyme enough to show That when on thirsty soil my roses grow, In stinging, ice-wrapped cage my songbirds sing A lilting tune that ushers in the Spring. Then such a poem will, of course, prove true That God has worked His miracles anew Through friends so dear as life from life renewed, Such sweetness, oh, such blessedness reviewed! In mind and heart they’re two: Nenette, Andrew. Though years of service each have taken toll On weary shoulders, cares and burdens fall But Love-lit eyes and smiles keep such as veiled As fragrance from the heel-crushed violet. Praise Him who made you both as beautiful As summer rain.

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