Inside a department store,
Busy day, busy people,
Second floor, sound of floor, sound of leather,
And at the corner, a section
Full of picture frames.
O how we ache
For the shape of rectangle,
Then we start to count the places,
The faces,
As we pose ourselves
The question.

     How do you rid yourself
           Of memories?*

© 2015 J.S.P.

My love is a tower, a stone,
Cold stunner, here,
     I can see you, notice you,
As my sad arms long
     To carry you.

I like your blush at midday
Which are blossoming aptenias,
     Or female flame of poppies.
It does not matter if your friend would giggle,
     But how I long to carry you.

I am a dreamer and my love
Is a tower, the city tower,
     I despair oftentimes for I cannot go with you.
My feet are nowhere near your feet,
Your front door is the closest
That they can get to, as I would
     Slow down near the open window,
A long streak of line,
Of contrast, of vagueness,
     Or disintegrating light.

A dark sail comes in the afternoon
     To take the sunset away,
And how I wanted you like
     Its hunted filament,
Having it in my hand,
     Only that, even just that.

You are no princess
And my love is a tower,
     I think it is quite clear.
I harbor the giant gears
Like a burden, the haunting histories,
My torn being, the dragons
     Of a dying rose.

See, my heart is a tower,
Ever old and ever new,
     And it has lost you.
The song of night hurries itself into being,
     It is not satisfied that I am lonely,
It despairs along with the artistry,
The architecture, the scenery, the cooing
     Of an exhausted bird.

For in this night, and
In any given night, I belong
     Among these millions.
I have a giant tower, and
     I am never low enough.
My soul, blue, bows
     Like stooping water.
The hopeless stars look at you,
Vindemiatrix, Ain, Acamar,
And it is you, solely, that
     We ever want to reach.

The deep night starts to sing to me,
     In lights and memories,
But there is nothing like your voice,
Voicing out the echoes
     On my lips.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Say, a star has the eyes
To gaze at you, holding out its telescope,
     And decide to leave its post to be with you,
Or on second thought, just to get a better angle
     Of your laugh-smile-wink impeccable,
Would it still be foolish
To say, with all profundities,
     That you, indeed, are beautiful?

What does it matter, tonight
     The cicadas sing of hyperboles.
There's a certain cold, sometimes,
     In the wind, as in a heart.
The warmth is in the blankets there
On my bedroom, something
That your sweater will never know.
     Friendship is basic love.
The moon has its own old course,
As shadows, timely, vary,
     Faithful to its better half.

Now, tell me,
Laugh at me, reason with me,
     With those agitated eyes,
Which are foreign to the idea
     Of these mysteries.

Isn't it possible, terribly so,
For one, for anyone,
     For someone, for me,
To fall in love with you,
     My friend?*

© 2015 J.S.P.

There should be no eyes
That could travel with you, these eyes,
     Having seen home in your eyes,
Brows, your doubled moon, pronating,
Both getting a massage, and lips,
Naked like soft fruits, as I think
     Of my islanded country,
Of getting one more
For you. Hands, not
Wanting to let go of your hand,
Its creases, portending love
Or not. And there's so much
Treasure like your chest,
     Undiscovered.

I have been told of them, all of them,
Yet, to have been blessed
     To experience things first hand,
Is a thing of forever. Your heart
Steady things which I couldn't,
This gaze, the lightest mood,
     A ballpoint pen,
Not to mention your laughter,
Unbridled, and free, as I could only
Describe them like the hunger
Or a craving for pandesal,
     This bread of my youth.

You, the thought of you,
Immensity,
Too much, too deep,
Though you only reached me,
     Like a lost pup.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

I can stare at you all day,
Though people say
     That love is blind.
And love is blind for me, for me,
Only for we have faith
     To live by.

I love the thought that eyes can be
Windows, that I’m starting
To fashion an idea
To serenade the feminine soul
     With the chivalrous heart,
With all strings of it,
     Of its acoustic guitar.

Seeing your eyes–
     The daughters of their parent dreams,
How they looked at something
Less prettier than them
For more than twenty years,
How they stared at someone
Much prettier than them
On bodies of water,
And at the face on the mirror,
     And at the very heart of God,
Seeing how their glances at me,
Excite me, terribly, (though having no coffee)
     Into palpitations,

Hunching that their closing
     Are just as equally endearing
As when they are opened,
Smiling, for the love-blind to see,
I realize, I understand, sweetly,
     Why two gaze-bound stars
     Are blinking, beautifully…
          …apart.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Eyes and eyelids,
     Smoke and fire.
Eyes and eyelids,
     Star and sky.
Eyes and eyelids,
     Shell and pearl.
Eyes and eyelids,
     Cat and fur.
Eyes and eyelids,
     Light and blur.
Eyes and eyelids,
     Close, unfurl.

Eyes and eyelids,
     Her eyes and eyelids.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

This better be love for you, a kiss,
A stranded sail you could believe in
     At the far-end of the shore.

I await in the distance as though
To throw pebbles to your window.
Steadfastly, I would wait for signs
That should soon come
     Or might never come.

Dear, I sing winds away to your hair,
And as fingers, to pinch
     Those doughy cheeks.
I am making this
     Most obvious.

Still, if you would take these lightly,
Find it strange that you matter most to me,
     Then pluck among the petals,
Pluck among the hyacinths around you,
     And hear me say: "He loves you",
     As I always say, because I want to.

So this is love,
     Love that can't be measured,
Love that is not bounded
By time, nor distance, unfailing,
     Like new hope,

Like two roses
     Blossoming further
Into full-grown butterflies
That are to meet
     In this lifetime
          Or the next.*

© 2015 J.S.P.