Sometimes I look up at the skies and wonder
Is there really someone up there?
Or is it just a feeling.
An eye in the yonder
Or just the trust of upbringing
Is there really an almighty power?
 Or just your conscience.
A voice telling you right from wrong
Is it the voice of heaven ?
Or just a quiet song?
Is it the almighty that brings blessings?
Or the love of thy neighbour
Are we puppets of the divine ?
Or is that a mask under which we cower
In the name of God many battles we have fought,
Many martyrs have we slaughtered
Is it God who divides brother from brother?
Or is it man's intention to divide and conquer
Is it religion that teaches us to slay a brother?
Or is it man's hunger for power
To answer these questions is an endless battle
A sword which has seen many deaths.
For answers we look in the books and scrolls of old
Though in the humbleness of a child they hold
For what is religion? The toddler does not know.
But with all his might goodness he  shows
A rebel am l to say this but what I say is true -
With age the true meaning of life we subdue.
The sacred bond of family we break
And in turn for love, we ache.
For in our race for money forgotten have we
The mother of all religions
HUMANITY

A glorious midday is upon us
The sun dripping in our palms
Like water scooped from a crystal clear lake

Watch me fling it out, watch the ripples on the surface

Ripples like rocks that you skip into the ocean
Flying from your hands, gracefully leaving a pattern until it sinks
Washed away by the constant motion

Back away from the waves that you created
Right into my waiting arms

And as the sun melts into the horizon
A memory washes over me, quick as a wave
Of our hands, desperately scrambling to catch mere drippings of sunlight
While the stars' light washes over us.

Numb to the winter
Numb to the sun
Numb to the pain of a lost loved one

Numb to the laughter
Numb to the cheer
Numb to all the happiness i hear

But perhaps not numb;
Just simply cold
Please oh please warm up my soul

Give up, don't fight
**** myself tonight
It's not what I want
It is how I feel
I don't like to tell ya
But I somehow gotta deal

But maybe
It's the other way around
Cause at this point
I don't really know
What I truly Feel
If I feel at all
What I really think consciously
Conjure up at will

Put a pen to the paper
A keyboard to the screen
Post my poems online so I can finally be seen

I crave connection
Like all humans do
But as someone like me
I crave solitude

Get up, no spite
Safe myself tonight
It is what I want
Kinda how I feel
I really need to tell ya
To finally make the deal

To talk of gentle love and me,
Seems something of an oddity.
Yet to speak of angels as muses sing,
Used to come so naturally.

A somber sonnet of the soul,
Would ease the pain of heartache's toll.
And bring with it some great delight,
Yet now that gift has taken flight.

I cannot find the words once more,
All left behind on battered shores,
Of love and loss and life now gone,
I've lost the strength to carry on.

No words shall leave this shaking hand,
Of light and hope and love once grand.
And soon shall I then fade from view,
As my words have after you.

A broken angel on borrowed wings,
To teach of love and what it brings,
To show there beauty at its best,
And lay a wild heart to rest.

To teach of pain then born of passion,
And mark the soul in subtle fashion,
To linger there in memory,
Forever bathed in agony.

Take this then, my parting gift,
A simple thing which I will miss.
My pen and heart belong to you,
Goodbye my love and gentle muse.

My country is an old book with a crumbly, dusty cover;
original and valuable
Like a book, you don't judge it by its cover.
What's inside it is what defines it.
Gently open it;
Read each word with heart,
Uncover its uniqueness
till it brings delight.
Find the book enjoying,
You'll never wish for it to end.
You'll read it one more time,
You'll show loftiness to it.
Oh, fellowmen, we're proud of our country
Even if we're not;
Our mouths say we are, but our hearts deny.
Oh beloved country,
We discerned ourselves
through judging you
because of our own fault.

**© Frank Lloyd Manalang, 2014