i hear you

piercing the silent

clinking of champagne

glasses

with the laughter of a

thousand waterfalls

for my benefit.

"Wala pay sulod atong sako Nay.”*

Sack of rice is empty
Stomach rumbling mercilessly
Mind is hazy, breathing sporadically
Cold porridge is a feast.

“Go home!” says Mama sternly
Frantic, frightened, panicky
Rocks hurled, bullets fly
Blood splatters; running aimlessly

We dodge our way to safety
Cold porridge is a feast.

“I will not,” I say adamantly
She looks at the sack mournfully
Empty. Devoid of sanity.
Cold porridge is a feast.

“We’ll get some soon. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I feel weak, I am crabby
I’m staying despite this misery
Cold porridge is a feast.

Childlike will, piety of soul
Purity of intention, pursuit of living whole

Cold porridge is a feast.

If I had words and rhyme enough to show
That when on thirsty soil my roses grow,
In stinging, ice-wrapped cage my songbirds sing
A lilting tune that ushers in the Spring.
Then such a poem will, of course, prove true
That God has worked His miracles anew
Through friends so dear as life from life renewed,
Such sweetness, oh, such blessedness reviewed!
In mind and heart they’re two: Nenette, Andrew.

Though years of service each have taken toll
On weary shoulders, cares and burdens fall
But Love-lit eyes and smiles keep such as veiled
As fragrance from the heel-crushed violet.

Praise Him who made you both as beautiful
As summer rain.

There is no peace at all for the wicked.

Stinging, ruthless words that pierce through mind and heart
Swiftly, precisely, from lips of clay depart
Arrowheads dipped in green poison find their way
To an unwary target, without delay.

There is no peace at all for the wicked.

The tongue is a sinister, crushing weapon
Who dares resurrect one fatally bludgeoned?
“He deserves my verdict!” Rage seethes in defense.
“He smashed my fortress with the least reverence.”

He is without excuse.

Yet the comely victim-prince says, “Follow me…”
He with the sad, compelling eyes
And nail-scarred hands offered gently, steadily
To a soul vanquished by frantic, chaotic “I”

He whose dazzling raiments from the throne hang
unused
Willfully submits to slight, beating, abuse
As leather sandals cushion dusty, wounded feet
He weeps; Fallen creatures smite head and side–they bleed.

Still the comely victim-prince says, “Follow me…”
Now, therefore, beyond excuse,

Man is guilty.

Moonlit summer shore
Blackness deep waves sing
He walks
A pencil writes His thoughts

Gently touch her, gently care,
For the day may come — swiftly when
That endless cruel knocking
on doors bolted from the inside
Dies down and turns into
gray silence.

She, irksome as it is,
goes round and round in circles
Looking for the missing pair
She wears the other one, anyway,
And sits down in grief.

She says, “I want to go home.
Let me go home.”
“Mama, you are home,” you answer.
Vexation rears its ugly head
And you force each horn,
one at a time, to recede:
To vanish from sight.

Then gaining composure you say:
“Mama, let’s pray.”
God hears, and you are healed. Set free.
Instantly.
Of the agony of bearing about
in your own body
The weight of selfishness
And sin
And sheer ignorance of
what it feels like
To have Time ****** away Memory
From you and those you love.

The stark feebleness of this
bent, white creature
With veined hands and bony feet
Reminds you of your own
Utter helplessness.
Mortality.

(Song for the Genteel Salesman Blocking My Path Each Time)

If only you knew.

Beneath blonde, rebonded locks
Curled extroverted lashes
Cemented titanium dioxide
Plastered patient breathless pores

Lips-wine-red
Nose elongated,
Dark strokes  imprudent
Cleopatric windows to
Sadness of soul.

Maverick femininity in
Saccharine swan-like greeting

If only you knew.

Eden was perfect paradise
She who was crafted
Immaculately from your rib

She was your Soulmate
You were Beloved
Protector, keeper,
Nourisher of her being

If only you knew.

You are treasured by Him
Who fashioned you
Out of mud
Breathed life into your nostrils

From nothingness
You were imago dei.

You were anointed shepherd
Of all that lived
Moved; slid.

You were perfect
Majestic  in Truth

You were imago dei

As you should have been
And can still be.

who am I?

I am not a wife.

for if the grave calls

and my love follows

then I shall cease to be.

I am not a mother.

for if the ground breaks open

and swallows both my infants whole

God forbid—

then I shall cease to be.

I am neither poet nor writer

for if the tide of thought, word,

feeling

ebbs,

and the well of inspired speech

dries up

then I shall cease to be.

who I am:

I am but one who follows

Life, Light, Truth.

I am but one who walks

the dusty, worn-out path

of a good and kind

Teacher.

I am a bamboo reed

bending in the wind.

I am a calf

nursing at her mother’s *******.

I am a pencil

drawing lines on a page.

I am a cluster of rhododendrons

nourished by the canopy.

I am a badger

finding shelter in the rocks.

who am I?

I am but one who follows

Life, wherever He leads.

Petal falls alone
Stem tiredly
withers, stifled
Cry of pain
echoes

Irena, won’t you sing for me
The day is almost done
I see the sun’s long, glist’ning rays
Upon kissed altar stones

They bid goodbye to Daylight’s glee
As Dusk crawls in to keep
My world in constant pace despite
The tasks in mounting heaps

Irena, should you lose your song
Don’t weep, sky-speckled friend
For I have one to comfort me
And croon with Love no end

Like yours, her ballad fills my life
With harmony, pure light
My aging pen is a nightingale
In the deadness of the night.

Red streaks the latest paper
The blood of martyrs splattered on walls
For their faith.
For the whole world to see.

Red blotches a Gentile face
He wakes up to see Jesus
Coming with healing bright
Shingles, white patches
hideous bumps, flaky scabs.
They vanish at His faintest whisper.

He runs into Samaritan darkness
Screaming, Your name reverberating.
Red is what they ate in Eden, too.
Red is being torn from Your side
By smooth connivance with
Reptilian deceit.

Red is how the world looks
To lovely young eyes
Enamored by it for the first time.
Red is their world
And You turn pale
In their sight.

Red is what I feel
When I learn
Your anointing on my throat
lies–almost forgotten
Preciously hidden
Tucked behind the veneer
Of daily pinings for applause
From dim, glassy faces
Made red by stage lighting.

Red is the color of my cheeks
When I realize
You love me despite.

Red is Your sacrifice.
Red is Your atonement.
Red is my ransom.

…You are everywhere.

Every five minutes they come
whirring like copters for war
slashing through immaculate peace
you crave to blanket your day with

Those speeding three-wheeled
gadflies
are kings of small streets and
act like you must pay them to

Extricate you from a cluster of
doomed and dusty eggs and bacon
deliver all that racket

in your head
every time you think
about buzzing
drones

on your meatloaf
in your heart
in your dreams
on your hopes
on your thoughts

about how marriage
should be
a man and a woman
now one soul in
two bodies
living together
committed
fighting for stable
“everydays”

The roses look damp
bouquets of mums
on the kitchen table
you pouring hot coffee;
the mug you took two
hours to pick out
is punctiliously stained.

You are as easy to decipher
as a door-stopper stuck in a canoe
paddling by itself along a sunflower lane

And as frightful to watch
as checkered halls where
flighty frivolous girls in dotted
nylon stockings loiter to

Tease hapless halfwits and
Lure flickering fireflies
Into a gazebo of options
seemingly fun, fab, futuristic but

Fleeting as life
mirrored in dim stones of
consumption.

I float away to safety.

Fjords
Cairns
Blue mountains
Stone hills
Rushing water
Quicksand
Glaciers
Zebras
Coyotes
Grass
Palaces
Empty rooms
Rusty typewriters
Old pages

Are a poet’s palette.

I do not write poetry
because
Great dead men on my shelves
have done it

I must be busy with
something that's mine.

I do not write poetry
because
Birds by the millions fly
north to their own preachers

I must fly to my own east.

I do not write poetry
because
The sun dances in the sky
on a flower-filled day

I must be there to watch it.

I do not write poetry
because
Though the dogs in the yard
Have not bathed for ages

They ask for a hug
and I must give it.

I do not write poetry
because
The wounds of my past
fester now and then

I must be there to bind them.

I do not write poetry
because
The father of my children
is the best cook in the world

I must be there to love him.

I do not write poetry
because
The child wants boots
to scale his own mountain

I must be there to free him.

I do not write poety
at all--
because I live it.

I refuse
         to grow old
              and die like
              most men who
                         only count
                       the downward
                                   steps from
                                          cradle to
                                                  Grave.