A pine forest is the hand,
The soul of the palm fans out in fingers
Like the clayey striations of the sun.
The forest has no sound but the bonebreast
Wandering round of a similar hand,
All but shut now except for the unspoiled nest
Of browning needles and the ancient realmless mound of love.

‘Aren’t you afraid of my darkness, my dear?’ Hades asked with mischief in his eyes.
‘No.’ Persephone replied, ‘You haven’t seen mine yet.’

Up above the tree
Of courage and bravery
It fell down lazily
To burning trash underneath thee

Then a beast to man a bestfriend
Came by as if to defend
This twig from being churned
In order to be mend

From stone the twig was gone
Going elsewhere for a run
With its host like an Olympian
As if chasing the sun.

-04/16/2012
(Dumarao)
*for Crim. poem in Salingsing Issue of 1st Sem., AY 2011-12

If my mind could
stop only for a moment.
To catch its breath.

I don't think this
would be so hard.
Breathing in water has never looked so fun.

But I digress.
For I am just at a crossroads waiting to get my guitar tuned.

In the wrong place.
At the right time.
The wheel of misfortune has changed its course.