Life has never been the same since your last birthday
When I made that phone call one fateful night
You drove to my house, went out of your way
And served as my people's beacon of light.

You interceded with your stories of love
So beautifully to make them understand
that being true and genuinely happy
are the most precious gifts at hand.

You've taught me so many good things--
To be a good person is the loveliest of them all
This I take with me wherever I go
There's no battle to lose, we rise in every fall.

A thousand thanks may never be enough
To show you how really grateful I am
A family I am to you, you've always acknowledged
Know that I thank God for this strong bond.

Now that you're to set foot on a foreign land
There's nothing else I wish for you
but a strong, steady heart, an unbreakable spirit,
a love that lasts and dreams coming true.

I could still recall how gently I held your seed
and brought you to your bed.
There a drop of sweat from this forehead
joyously mingled with some grains of your soil.
I lay you there and saw the approval of the sun
as he sent his warmth reflected on your cheerful coating.
You lay down restfully on your life bed
And I dreamed…

You rose with your sturdy trunk
so robust with pride that your neighboring flagpole
felt intimated by your presence.
They sang him hymns
they bowed at him with their hearts
while you humbly stood there
swaying your greens, reaching atop, conquering the scorches of your sun
so that they, underneath remain unharmed, unscorched, unsoaked.

Soon you bore velvety fruits that the young munched as well as the old
On lazy days you gave them games of soccers and boomerangs,
and tennis, and catches and fetches.

On moonlights, you appeared to be a violinist
as the lovers kissed under your warm company.

You were the silent listener to the broken hearts
when you offered your comforting barks as a shoulder
till they cried and wept
till they breathed and smiled once again.

You had a way with humans who slouch under your shade
You hummed serenades that only your chirping friends
and fluttering colorflies hear and together
you created an orchestra harmonizing songs of friendship, of peace, of love.

I saw you arise and write down histories on to your memory—
how you tried to reach for the graduates’ caps in the air,
how spirited you applauded for great speeches  on that podium
but no one ever noticed.

I saw you sway your branches gracefully as the marching band went
boom-boom, tug-tug, and kling-klang.
It was your favorite part of the day.

So many times you bore witness to silly fights
of the young and the old too,
but most often you saw these creatures
make peace at dusk.

There I saw you in eternity.
There I saw you to be forever standing tall on your life bed.

Then I heard the hellish rumble of their chainsaw,
the shrill reverberation piercing through this feeble core
as they ruthlessly cut your body.

I could not afford to watch you being slain.

You are my life.

Your death is my death.

To the childhood unforgotten--

Take me back again
To the games of siato, tumba-lata,  and tagu-taguan
with playmates whose faces I long to remember.

Take me back again
To the carabao rides on the muddy ground
The smell of the rain on the rice paddy and the laughs of my cousins as we tumbled down.

Take me back again
To the dining table lit by a kerosene lamp as we feasted on May's salted fish and mamok
With the cold, fresh water from the earthen jar
and the coconut and pili conserva in banana leaves.

Take me back again
To  May's lullabies with the crickets and the river's song in the background
To Pay's playing of the old guitar at siesta
and the passionate storytelling at night.

(c) Glenn Sentes
05.20.23

How does a book cry?
How does an ant smile?
Why do the bird moan
and the dog chirp
when I write a poem?
Why do their eyes listen
and their ears see
when I ***** for applause?

Why does the book cry?
Why does the ant smile?

(The book spits the pages
but smudges remain in the leaves--
forming letters of witnessing and gushing
hours--all implying regrets.)

The ant approached me
but only my heart knew
she was smiling at me.
I asked her why
but she only thanked me
for my sweet letters
that came from my lips.
I gave her a candy
but she refused.
I read her my poems.
There I saw her lips curve.
And the robin
with the blue bill sang
together with the squirrel
with a white tongue
that overheard me.
They all said,
"Why don't you stand on the Everest
and read the earth your poems?"
And I suddenly remembered
I was mute.

(c) Glenn Sentes

M-irthful disposition radiates when you have gotten to befriend her soul. She's

A-rticulate in speaking her mind and adamant in her principles yet keeps her motherly affection--a

R-arity in these difficult times of shepherding. She's

I-ndependently strong, toughened by storms that may have crushed her heart but never her soul.

L-ove reigns in her big heart as she sings you her songs and lays kisses on PL's cheeks.

Y-ou'll want to replay her infectious laughs-a music to the ears,

N-icely reminding you of her presence in cups of coffee with peers.

This is to provoke your eardrums beating to secrete the excessive cerumen of your lies which flow from your venomous mouth repeatedly bragging that it knows all things.

This is to provoke your eye that is not shut yet only desires to see itself, deliriously worshipping the face, so beautiful and thin that when pinched, a pig slop gushes out.

This is to provoke your feet that have long been wanting to stand up, numbed by their prolonged cross-legged pose, cursing the *** that is comfortably seated on the velvety coconut pulp.

This is plainly to provoke your hands that we're supposed to rely on but have no strength, torpid, and only lusting to *******.

This is to provoke you who claim to have been moved but in the end choose to remain still. Numb.
Impotent.

How will one's feet dance to the rhythms if the gongs have ceased to pump the veins?

Are the hues of the palette enough for a leonardeschi art to transcend?

When your mezzo-soprano fails to hit, will your story still get heard?

Will a cyclist still pedal to savor the orange horizons without his friends?

Who will listen when the wrinkled fingers lay on the dusty piano?

Do these words still tell of a poet who once penned in flames?

You smirk
for you think she's the dirtiest.
BABOY.
And you saw the clerk
failed to punch the mentos
and put it in the bag.
You didn't tell.

You cursed her and
almost hit your LED TV
with your coffee mug.
MAGNANAKAW.
You don't seem to remember
one seminar you took two sandwiches  
which you said
you'd give one to your friend but didn't.

You love the idea
of putting her fellow thieves to jail
HAYOP.
Was it only yesterday
when you stole the key to the test?

You thought of reviving death penalty.
MAGSAMA-SAMA KAYO SA IMPYERNO.
And you timed in and were paid for the day's work
which you never did.

each stroke of greased fingers on the mohawk
was a result of a genius work of art
an outlet where my soul barely peeks
yet you cut with your hypocritical shears and your rusty hand
and you call it discipline
and you call it concern
I call it *******

the shadows on my
eyelids were davincis and picassos
sketched in a magnificent representation
of inner self which you all want to see
yet suffocate by your rotten curricula
and you call it quality
and you call it excellence
I call it *******

the silver that glitters in these ears
conceals the tortures of my youth
the horrors that dwell in my every sleep
yet you rip from my skin you are unworthy of touch
and you call it decency
and you call it suitability
I call it *******

© Glenn L. Sentes

Our ashes have settled on the cliff of pride
while the seed of today sprouts your frailty beginning.
We have at last seen the face of our god
which you have not even learned to utter
or never will at all.
Your intelligence gave you power that
failed the comprehension of our yesterfathers.
You built humans in just a sprinkle of *****
on to the skin of alligators and ants
on to the stem of a bee and the sting of a plant.
And you called them your sons
And you called them your kind.
The burrowed earths have no more riches
and they are left unpalatable to worms,
no more worms even
for even these decomposers
learn to tire feeding on your greed
no more shades of blue in the putrid waters
to which this bottle was thrown,
to which this letter longed to swim with your same species
that can never be in our family tree
for it has grown dead atop the impotent soil.
How we wished that your sons wished they
were with us in the time when
sparrows roared in the Kamagong tree when
wild boars chirped in the dancing bamboos when
the snow-like smokes breathed in the cone of Mayon when
the bangus and tilapia worshipped the nets of the singing fishermen.
How we wished they wished they knew.
How we wished they wished they saw.

You stare as if you know
how my blood runs through my veins.

What wood are you?
Did you not come from a clan
of massacred trees
chiseled by an inglorious machete?

Were you the door that barred
the perils to our house?
Did you block the brutal sun from getting in?

Who carved you?
Was it not the ******?
Was it not the thief?
Was it not the murderer behind the bars?
And you accuse me to have sinned
when all you do is mimic the fingers of your god.

Have you even opened those tinted lips
to mutter a prayer?

Why did you not dare to move
or tap my back when I opened my zipper?
Instead you feasted on my obscenity.
Why can you not tell your god
I attempted to fast?

Come!
Bleed and let these thirsty eyes witness your miracle!

Idiot.




©04-10-13

dahil wara katapusan an duon san mga mata
mabubuhay akong minamatay
san dating kaaway ko sa lawas na ini
sa lawas na ini naghambog an talawon
pinapagubtik an kaaluhan na nagpapamuda
muda na nagpupukaw saakon gurugab-i
kendi na nagpapahibi
mesias na naghahala-hala

magiging madalas an pagsid-ip niya sa bintana
para laen ko makita an liwanag
malaog siya sa kahon ko
laen para magkawat
kundi dagdagan an pagub-at
makasakat an pagbagsak
siya na ako
masurat tula.

~Written by Melton Balicano
(a bikol dialect)


since these eyes have been weighed down on unending
i shall live while being slain by an old foe in this body
this body where the craven had once boasted
surging chagrins that blaspheme
blasphemy that rouses this corpse in the dark
treats that shed tears
a messiah that taunts.

he shall constantly peep through the window
so that I see no light
he will break in my casket
not to thieve
but to burden further
the downfall shall rise
then he becomes me
penning a poem.

~a translation of Balicano's masterpiece
Glenn Sentes

She saw the face of Judas in him.
The bearded kiss festered no truth
and the metallic breath
exhaled putrid faithfulness.
The trampled petals spoor no lusting stares,
redolent no more
even as the tongue creeps by the shoulders.

The razors have summoned from the stinking room!
A slit in the neck
could rhythmically go by the thrusts unnoticed
But the chorus of the beasts
as shrill as the gongs of hell
maiming vengeance yet
not in the loss of blood will you die.
Not in my hands.

His demonic pleasures went on as the voodoo doll
resurrected in the beat of my own gongs.
Keep stirring as this spindle rouses my anathema!
his chest hairs
pint of blood
vulture’s beak
stallion’s tails
bobcat’s eye
dead evergreen
Deborah’s tears.
Stir and stir and stir!
Murmur satan’s prayer
mana mana mana boo!
ruba ruba ruba hoo!
Count the sands of the transient hourglass
expiring ‘fore tic tac sound.
Now her man froze,
bulging eyes, blackened pulse!


‘tis freedom, Deborah!

Free.

Doomed.




© Glenn Sentes
03-06-13

Menaced by a triumphant chanting of lament
Entrancing the soul of Hades’ kin
Missed eruptions of the sensory nerves
Onomatopoeic of hollow gongs
Resonating, maimed through the indescribable facets of
Your  forgotten youth.

If your turning backs were bricks to this craving soul
And your eyes not meeting my searching little windows
Then this bed is a twin to China’s great wall.
Enveloped with scorching breeze
colossal reaching, unheard touches.

Where have all the blazes gone
In every skin-to-skin
In every passionate skim.

Has the apathetic snow wafted the glares?

It was the rhythm of the fingers
Running through the black and white keys,
The feathery strum of the hollow guitar and
The beat of the arms that converses with the melodies.

The voice of the soul is not lyrics but song
That slowly lured the tie that has grown so strong.
This poetry’s not aimed at singing the tune
But only to hum the memory that began in a June.

You lit the room where the poet longed for a brother
And lay a hymn to the unsung dreams.
You strike a chord at him not to grieve and bitter
About life’s shrill discordant volumes.

As I stumbled on the pebbled road
I broke a toenail and it left bloodstains
On the humble stones.

“Why did you let me get wounded,” I asked.
A voice from behind the obsequious hills answered,
“I did not,” the voice said reassuringly.
“I desired that you take the other road, but you didn’t listen.”

I trod on. Pained.
I searched for a band to stop the bleeding.
A long black thing lay on the grass.
Serpent!

“Why did you allow that devil bite me?” I cried.

“I did not,” the voice uttered.
“I sent an old man to give you a handkerchief
for you to bind your broken nail but
you said you weren’t crying.”

“Why can’t you just warn me at once?”

“I tried to.”

“You did? When?"

“I called you but you thought I was your girlfriend.”

I shall not fear of parching for your drop or two is enough
Even a tear would quench more than my lip, my soul
Cry me thrice, laugh me once
Leap more, tiptoe less
Break this earthen vessel if you wish
Just don’t leave a love song behind
For it will just maim a hollow tune
Like a broken violin in incandescent moon
Or a lone shell perpetually humming  
The melody of his unmet clam or hermit.

His hair grew as coagulated blood
His scalp perpetually trying to reach his eyebrows
Skin greased and calloused
His eyes soulless
Yet seemed searching
Everybody was not afraid of him.

I gave him food once
I placed it on the ground where
He stood outside the church’s door
He barely moved
He slowly stooped
It was like watching a snail’s body melt
when you put salt on it
I wonder if he has ever uttered a word in his life
Of course I never expected him to say thanks
He was still slowly bending but I knew he
Wouldn’t get it unless I was not in sight.
But I desired to see him get it
I wanted to see if his face would ever change a bit
So I just went away thinking I starved him with my presence
I went back after a moment
The container lay on the floor, no chicken bones.
His eyebrows twitched no more
But the eyes were looking…somewhere.
Somehow.

I was baffled, have always been.
How is he supposed to live?
I can’t always give him food.
The priests might be busy too.
The altar boys might have been annoyed by his stench
So they would not get near either.
My house’s far from the church.
That wounded man would just keep staring at him from up the cross.
I wonder if the ***** ever asked the man to come down from his cross
And give him something to eat.

Or did he ever contemplate on bringing him down?

It came to me one coward dusk
Slithering like a thief
The hissing not a serpent’s hush
But that of disturbed grasses.

The moon, miser of his loaned glow
Glistened in conspiracy
But not a single ray
helped my feet tread on.

The voice tiptoed, I was charmed
To take a step ahead
Then suddenly the whispers of the critters prevailed
The voice hanged in denouement

But I sauntered still as the voice maimed its call
A house appeared in sight
I trembled up the stairs a shadow passed
A girl in black stood by

I screamed!
Her eyes a crow’s piercing through my deepest being
I grabbed her gown and tore it
Mirror!

You stood there beneath the taunting man on the cross
Yet you stared at the stained floor
I was walking in the dreaded aisle unnoticed by the groom
The bouquet left no petal
For the fluttering flies took them as the bell rang
But you remained unmoved.

I was there almost
I even took the veil
But instead of taking my hand
You lit the candle
Then sprinkled water
On to the glass
Then laid a rose on my breast.

Written in blood yet sheds no red
As pen caresses my mighty seed
The shadows hurled the whispers of the dark
As pleasure slithers in the moon of light.
And then decoded in the movement of your lips
You realize all of a sudden this is no paragraph
But fragments of innumerable plights
Moistened with the desire
Of some men.
Now, indelible.