maine-dela-cruz - Hello Poetry

She was unsinkable, or so they thought. Woods fired, engines chugged, they sailed her West in fair majestic pride unknowing of a tragic ending, a harrowing recollection. In a blink of an eye, she collided with a tip of the ice, a thousand lives and more swallowed by angry tides, cries of mercy resonating, woes fading into the familiar shuttered countenance, one by one. Debris floating back and forth, a horrifying spectacle of bodies buoyant, breathless, as salty waters sing a lullaby, consoling souls from a sudden departure. The Ship of Dreams, The Unsinkable, in all her vainglory a grand exit on her first and final journey, but not before a farewell kiss pressed on her lips— She, in a trance, breath withdrawn, her limbs weak and weary. Slowly she plunged but not before looking back one last time.

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Feb 3, 2024

Feb 3, 2024 at 1:50 PM UTC

Maiden Voyage

She was unsinkable, or so they thought. Woods fired, engines chugged, they sailed her West in fair majestic pride unknowing of a tragic ending, a harrowing recollection. In a blink of an eye, she collided with a tip of the ice, a thousand lives and more swallowed by angry tides, cries of mercy resonating, woes fading into the familiar shuttered countenance, one by one. Debris floating back and forth, a horrifying spectacle of bodies buoyant, breathless, as salty waters sing a lullaby, consoling souls from a sudden departure. The Ship of Dreams, The Unsinkable, in all her vainglory a grand exit on her first and final journey, but not before a farewell kiss pressed on her lips— She, in a trance, breath withdrawn, her limbs weak and weary. Slowly she plunged but not before looking back one last time.

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Not odd nor bizarre Not different, or god forbid, strange Not quite unusual or irregular Neither twisted nor morbid Never disgusting but queer. Bruised, but still, beautiful Scarred but steadfast Resolute and radiant Free. Explosive. Human.

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Mar 19, 2018

Mar 19, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC

Spectrum

Not odd nor bizarre Not different, or god forbid, strange Not quite unusual or irregular Neither twisted nor morbid Never disgusting but queer. Bruised, but still, beautiful Scarred but steadfast Resolute and radiant Free. Explosive. Human.

11

morning light spills upwards from the horizon, salt lingers in thin air tangerine skies watch over as we take the road filled with anticipation we turn the stereo on sing to our favorite song— there is no other way to escape but this— you, me, the road and the wind brushing against our skin. we pack our bags, wrap our soap bars spray our favorite perfume, laughing as we peek inside each other’s purses like Pandora’s box wondering what else to try— yellow sunglasses, ball caps an oddly familiar feeling like rummaging a newly-cleaned closet. wind-blown and sun-kissed, we take the path to paradise in bikinis pastel and printed hair braided, glare of sunshine touching our faces building memories from scratch— nothing but the sand and the shore and the splash of the waves against the grainy surface. your head rests on my shoulders as we watch the daylight fading— hues of pink, orange, purple, and blue painted on the sky by an invisible hand thinking there is no goodbye as beautiful as this.

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Mar 13, 2018

Mar 13, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC

To Where We Must Go

morning light spills upwards from the horizon, salt lingers in thin air tangerine skies watch over as we take the road filled with anticipation we turn the stereo on sing to our favorite song— there is no other way to escape but this— you, me, the road and the wind brushing against our skin. we pack our bags, wrap our soap bars spray our favorite perfume, laughing as we peek inside each other’s purses like Pandora’s box wondering what else to try— yellow sunglasses, ball caps an oddly familiar feeling like rummaging a newly-cleaned closet. wind-blown and sun-kissed, we take the path to paradise in bikinis pastel and printed hair braided, glare of sunshine touching our faces building memories from scratch— nothing but the sand and the shore and the splash of the waves against the grainy surface. your head rests on my shoulders as we watch the daylight fading— hues of pink, orange, purple, and blue painted on the sky by an invisible hand thinking there is no goodbye as beautiful as this.

33

just one night let me run away to where I could feel utmost freedom to where I could be a faceless stranger. just one night to feel the wind brushing against my skin to lay on the grass and stare at the astral sky. just one night with a familiar face fingers intertwined dancing under the lamplight flickering, catching a common rhythm one tap after the other. just one night of never having to feel the apathy wrestling inside of me believing it would never matter so long as I am free.

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Feb 14, 2018

Feb 14, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC

Scapegoat

just one night let me run away to where I could feel utmost freedom to where I could be a faceless stranger. just one night to feel the wind brushing against my skin to lay on the grass and stare at the astral sky. just one night with a familiar face fingers intertwined dancing under the lamplight flickering, catching a common rhythm one tap after the other. just one night of never having to feel the apathy wrestling inside of me believing it would never matter so long as I am free.

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metaphors, they lie we are made to believe there is meaning beneath every symbol we try to decipher— the door is red, it expresses anger I wore the red but I am empty as I try to grasp the reality I am alone and bathed in shame flicking switches on and off in the bathroom soaking blood-stained sheets blood is death death is rather colorless— a starless sky a vacuum.

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Feb 14, 2018

Feb 14, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC

Ask the Author

metaphors, they lie we are made to believe there is meaning beneath every symbol we try to decipher— the door is red, it expresses anger I wore the red but I am empty as I try to grasp the reality I am alone and bathed in shame flicking switches on and off in the bathroom soaking blood-stained sheets blood is death death is rather colorless— a starless sky a vacuum.

15

below is a bed of asphalt, surveyed by a creature covered not in velvet, nor in silk flaunting in muted strut deafening silence preparing for hunt or coming home no one knows. illuminated, the creature casts a shadow against the grainy surface bleak, distorted reflection that mocks you with its empty mercurial gaze like a soul trapped in ebony cage an empty space, a vacuum. the absence of light is darkness darkness is haunting light in itself is haunting the umbra, an illusion of a phantom in the middle of the night perplexed by reality and apparition intertwined if curiosity kills, I bet the nine lives.

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Jan 25, 2018

Jan 25, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC

If Curiosity Kills (an ekphrastic poem)

below is a bed of asphalt, surveyed by a creature covered not in velvet, nor in silk flaunting in muted strut deafening silence preparing for hunt or coming home no one knows. illuminated, the creature casts a shadow against the grainy surface bleak, distorted reflection that mocks you with its empty mercurial gaze like a soul trapped in ebony cage an empty space, a vacuum. the absence of light is darkness darkness is haunting light in itself is haunting the umbra, an illusion of a phantom in the middle of the night perplexed by reality and apparition intertwined if curiosity kills, I bet the nine lives.

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You always wanted things exquisite So I made a pair of wings out of wax In hopes of reaching you But I must have forgotten you were the sun I flew too close only to find myself Crashing down to my own demise.

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Jan 1, 2018

Jan 1, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC

Icarus

You always wanted things exquisite So I made a pair of wings out of wax In hopes of reaching you But I must have forgotten you were the sun I flew too close only to find myself Crashing down to my own demise.

6

Forgetting is an act of human will An animal does not forget the scent of a blood trail Nor the track of lightning through the trees It’s the smell of survival The sound of another day existing. What is thicker than water But the blood of our brothers and sisters Who had forgotten too soon how We were weaved into a common thread? The bloodline we shared, forgotten, taken in vain They have conquered from us the land of our ancestors Centuries old, stories left untold They shoved the life out of us Leaving us indelible marks of shame. Forgetting is an act of human will But we have not forgotten how to blame So we blamed the gods, We blamed our fathers and the fathers of their fathers We blamed the books We blamed the espresso machine We blamed all that was to blame We blamed because we were helpless. Forgetting is an act of human will But we remember. We do remember how we spoke To faces with perfect set of teeth They showed us the rooms of dark wood floors They stood on the doorway. They moved when our Eyes passed them. Showing us one corner Like every other corner. They showed us how to turn on the water, Where the light switches are, Which door would lead to another. They took our money. They smiled. “Here is my face,” they always said. Some hollow, some swollen, some sagging Flesh and bones. “You will know me by this face.” Forgetting is an act of human will But we remember how we mastered the language Of the wild A jungle with no trees, they call it “metropolis” Where streetlamps shone brighter than the stars, Where shadows aren’t made of animals Meant for bedtime stories Where men’s faces, pink and stained With camouflage, shined with the sweat of the hunt Their dogs knew us by our accents The plight wasn’t over after all. Forgetting is an act of human will But we chose to remember We’ll never forget.

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Dec 5, 2017

Dec 5, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC

Plight of a Promdi

Forgetting is an act of human will An animal does not forget the scent of a blood trail Nor the track of lightning through the trees It’s the smell of survival The sound of another day existing. What is thicker than water But the blood of our brothers and sisters Who had forgotten too soon how We were weaved into a common thread? The bloodline we shared, forgotten, taken in vain They have conquered from us the land of our ancestors Centuries old, stories left untold They shoved the life out of us Leaving us indelible marks of shame. Forgetting is an act of human will But we have not forgotten how to blame So we blamed the gods, We blamed our fathers and the fathers of their fathers We blamed the books We blamed the espresso machine We blamed all that was to blame We blamed because we were helpless. Forgetting is an act of human will But we remember. We do remember how we spoke To faces with perfect set of teeth They showed us the rooms of dark wood floors They stood on the doorway. They moved when our Eyes passed them. Showing us one corner Like every other corner. They showed us how to turn on the water, Where the light switches are, Which door would lead to another. They took our money. They smiled. “Here is my face,” they always said. Some hollow, some swollen, some sagging Flesh and bones. “You will know me by this face.” Forgetting is an act of human will But we remember how we mastered the language Of the wild A jungle with no trees, they call it “metropolis” Where streetlamps shone brighter than the stars, Where shadows aren’t made of animals Meant for bedtime stories Where men’s faces, pink and stained With camouflage, shined with the sweat of the hunt Their dogs knew us by our accents The plight wasn’t over after all. Forgetting is an act of human will But we chose to remember We’ll never forget.

50

My recurring dreams typically involve myself running in slow motion being chased by butterflies their wingspan as wide as the atlas mom stores on top of filing cabinets on the section labeled, “General References”. Those humongous creatures with their sinister looks protruding eyes as if breathing a life of their own, their wings containing poison powder a speck proven to be fatal. Sometimes my dreams involve myself hanged upside down being pecked to death by crows those hungry devils feasting over my flesh my innards slipping into their mouth like spaghetti some of them even sharing a strand like that classic scene in Lady and the ***** never in my life have I seen such a lovely spectacle caressing feathers, rubbing beaks, sharing warmth So lovely I could have written a fairy tale out of it except that, of course, they’re crows. I have deactivated my nocturnal juices allowing every monster under the bed to trespass my innermost thoughts Clawing their way out of the depths to take form in all sizes and shapes screeching for attention, strangling, suffocating, “My body is not yours to own”, I protested. Led me to the edge of the cliff, those devils Pushed me into the abyss, nothing to hold on to called out for help, somebody save me. Woke up screaming, rushed to the kitchen emptied the bottle of melatonin those **** pills, minions of menace. I don’t want to sleep anymore. Keep me awake. Keep me awake.

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Nov 21, 2017

Nov 21, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC

Bedtime Monologues

My recurring dreams typically involve myself running in slow motion being chased by butterflies their wingspan as wide as the atlas mom stores on top of filing cabinets on the section labeled, “General References”. Those humongous creatures with their sinister looks protruding eyes as if breathing a life of their own, their wings containing poison powder a speck proven to be fatal. Sometimes my dreams involve myself hanged upside down being pecked to death by crows those hungry devils feasting over my flesh my innards slipping into their mouth like spaghetti some of them even sharing a strand like that classic scene in Lady and the ***** never in my life have I seen such a lovely spectacle caressing feathers, rubbing beaks, sharing warmth So lovely I could have written a fairy tale out of it except that, of course, they’re crows. I have deactivated my nocturnal juices allowing every monster under the bed to trespass my innermost thoughts Clawing their way out of the depths to take form in all sizes and shapes screeching for attention, strangling, suffocating, “My body is not yours to own”, I protested. Led me to the edge of the cliff, those devils Pushed me into the abyss, nothing to hold on to called out for help, somebody save me. Woke up screaming, rushed to the kitchen emptied the bottle of melatonin those **** pills, minions of menace. I don’t want to sleep anymore. Keep me awake. Keep me awake.

32

The truth is I have no idea how to begin this because I don’t even remember how or when exactly you began to invade my consciousness. you were an uninvited guest, a gatecrasher, an intruder filling my mind with paranoia and endless dilemma — how I contemplate about going out or not because I get overwhelmed with crowded places like public transports, and malls, and fast food chains, how I s-stutter whenever placing an order, or how I could not finish one sentence without repeating repeating a word or or two. It might sound funny how I find a sea of people terrifying, how I feel a dagger or a gun pointed at me every time I step outside my comfort zone, how I would replay failed scenarios inside my head like a broken tape, how I would apologize for actions that demanded no apology. I often get nightmares about being asleep and not being able to wake up and sometimes I dream about waking up in a strange bed in a foreign room filled with people with the strangest faces talking in tones barely audible but when the voices would all stir together I would run out of air and pass out, but I still wake up though, screaming, trembling signaling another episode of survival. If I could drive, I would take you away with me and bring you to a sunset beach tell you that everything’s gonna be alright that it’s okay to knock me down sometimes but not too hard to break me just enough to remind me that I am, after all, human Or maybe I would drown you or maybe not because I get too overwhelmed with the waves I struggle against the current, and I am the one who gets drowned instead. I hate you, no, I mean I love you. I should love you because they said those we love are meant to leave So I will love you, I will love you until you get tired of me, until you no longer find me appealing I will love you obsessively, until you get sick of me, until you run out of places to run to, until you run out of air I will love you until I run out of words and metaphors and rhyme or reason, I will love you with the hopes that one day I could finally say: “My anxieties have died beautifully, with dignity, in their sleep.”

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Nov 15, 2017

Nov 15, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC

A Love Letter to My Anxiety

The truth is I have no idea how to begin this because I don’t even remember how or when exactly you began to invade my consciousness. you were an uninvited guest, a gatecrasher, an intruder filling my mind with paranoia and endless dilemma — how I contemplate about going out or not because I get overwhelmed with crowded places like public transports, and malls, and fast food chains, how I s-stutter whenever placing an order, or how I could not finish one sentence without repeating repeating a word or or two. It might sound funny how I find a sea of people terrifying, how I feel a dagger or a gun pointed at me every time I step outside my comfort zone, how I would replay failed scenarios inside my head like a broken tape, how I would apologize for actions that demanded no apology. I often get nightmares about being asleep and not being able to wake up and sometimes I dream about waking up in a strange bed in a foreign room filled with people with the strangest faces talking in tones barely audible but when the voices would all stir together I would run out of air and pass out, but I still wake up though, screaming, trembling signaling another episode of survival. If I could drive, I would take you away with me and bring you to a sunset beach tell you that everything’s gonna be alright that it’s okay to knock me down sometimes but not too hard to break me just enough to remind me that I am, after all, human Or maybe I would drown you or maybe not because I get too overwhelmed with the waves I struggle against the current, and I am the one who gets drowned instead. I hate you, no, I mean I love you. I should love you because they said those we love are meant to leave So I will love you, I will love you until you get tired of me, until you no longer find me appealing I will love you obsessively, until you get sick of me, until you run out of places to run to, until you run out of air I will love you until I run out of words and metaphors and rhyme or reason, I will love you with the hopes that one day I could finally say: “My anxieties have died beautifully, with dignity, in their sleep.”

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