Hindi pala matic gaya
ng kotse o anumang makinilya
ang pag-ibig.
Para pala itong pagsasaka.
Sinungaling ang nagsabi ng, “Kung ano
ang itinanim ay siang aanihin.”
Magbubungkal, maghahasik,
magdidilig ng dugo’t pawis
pero ang bunga ay depende.
Hindi pala matic, parang
si Siri o Alexa ba balang-
araw mababasa ang isip ****
nagdududa. Sa akala kong
matic, hindi pala.

she opened her handbag and
tipped the contents onto the floor --
a pack of gum, a lip gloss, a torn
wrapper of a Used ******, a gun --
a .38 stub nose --
my purse! she gasped --
all her night's earnings and a doctor's prescription,
Gone!
she gave out a huge -- sigh --
how can one never win even for at least
once. once!
her infant cried. she carried her
in her cold arms, as she cried with her in
short sobs.
she Cursed
under her breath

Sa unang kislap ng apoy
hanggang sa maliit na baga

ang usok na mula sa dulo ng
pangako, ikaw ang nasa isip ko

hinithit ko ang usok,
pumikit

ibinuga. lumabas sa labi sa ilong
ang pangako, naging usok
at upos.

Ilatag mo na
ang bagong kutson
sa sahig ng malaking silid
na may kisameng
abot langit.

Ipaghehele ka ng ugong
ng nagdaraan
at bulong-bulungan
ng palabas na
ikaw ang minsang pinagmamasdan.

Ibulong mo ang iyong panalangin,
pasasalamat o paghihinagpis,
na nawa
sa pagsikat ng araw, magkatotoo na
ang panaginip.

Ilang beses ka na bang pumipikit nang iniisip na hindi na sana muling didilat pa?

Dearest C,

I always thought my love
for my best love
should go recorded through
words.

Once I was a poet with words
so easy to strung. I was
writing letters and stories and poems about love to
people who did not love me back (or was I hoping
for a love greater than what was given?)

I always thought my words would suffice, and words do
melt hearts, shape minds and
chart uncertainties.

But I grew tired. When I met you
I was lost for words.
I was a writer
no longer and
my words are just plain.

But it was in you that I realized,
words sometimes have no meaning, that words were often left
unspoken. I was no longer a poet
but you loved me anyway.

Now, I wish to write you poems and letters and stories as a symbol of my thanks.

I miss you.

Always,

A

For a very long time now,
I couldn't muster to write
a string of words. Even these don't even rhyme.
I have devoted myself to capture beauty in verses but
since I met you I've found my paper blank,
my pen futile.
I guess this is how it goes for one who's met real beauty,
real Art.
I cannot write anything
as nothing is more beautiful than the person right in front of me.