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I say it the ocean
that it runs
deep. But water
it is not,
quickly swept up
by the wind.

Nor is it driftwood
that rides the tides
undecided. I Say it is
the rudder that steers
the ship. Not the sail
that the wind does blow,
but the ropes
which carefully guide us
to which direction
we choose to go.

It is the rope
that binds us not
against our wills,
but that of which we
hold on to
in the darkness
of our minds
where light does not
our eyes show
nor in winds
that tell us No.

For M.D.R.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / 06/10/14)
She visits us every time
The building needs repainting
And every time she visits us
We ask her:

“When will you be back?”

You say you will only be
A jeepney ride away.

We sing; the choral chimes with the wind.
Dry leaves always settle down
Where the wind stops.
Only it does not. But, it settles, and always
Wherever the wind leads them to grow

Apart.

Maybe that’s the purpose of apartments.
Always seeming to leave, to stay only
For sleep, not rest.

We kept talking every time
How our phones ring each other.
You answer questions, always you do so
Not with a no, it was difficult for you;
Nor a yes; but always you say:

“I’m right here”

“5 minutes”

passing through regular public commute;
you are always nearby,
always stuck in heavy traffic.
I can even see you every time,
Always there,
And always smiling.

The last time we smiled together
You told us:

“I am always here – a whisper away”

Only you are there

Not here.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / July 25 2013 - Parañaque)
Last night
you breathed on me.

The grass
reminded me
of the faint color of the sun
on your skin.

I remember,
how we treaded lightly
on folded grass;
a reminder
of how we stayed behind
for each other.

"Like friends"
We would say together.

How our own weight
carried
our sentences
to each other
almost touching.

For T. S.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 8, 2011 - Parañaque)
From the far cry of a hawk caught in mid-flight
Recalls a voice of awakening:
Your dreams of flight hover in the distance,
The ever so distant call of the sun-eagle.
The ripples of golden waves,
Mounds and mounds of it piled up.
All these add up to your helplessness.

Do clouds always move with such impassioned grace?

At nighttime, he dreams of flight. It is the moonlight now
That casts its veiled form, her voice in the distance.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / September 27, 2011)
Draft Entry, Draft Title, no title yet
You come to me as a goat
among flock of sheep. You
offer words I do not understand.
I neither welcomed you
Nor offered any reply.

Words.

They scare us. I will not offer
Anything except what the  poets,
Juvenile writers of love want.
A forced smile for something
We do not want nor have
Any interest for, an awkward
Conversation where we tell you
“Profound! Profound! Profound!”
And pretend that all this is
Heart felt.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / December 20, 2012 - Pasay)
A note to my younger self. It's an expression every poet knows, that look from people with "do we have to comment?"
It no longer exists.

The wind; a passing gale sweeps
my laurels.
The desert is filled, too many
my voice.

Origin, a return to birth.
A sword of blazing fire, winged
halts me.

Where are you Eden?

I look and look,
the desert is filled with voices too many,
which is mine or do i have any?

The sun no weeps, I sing.
Myself, I find, thick of leaves
I carry, it sings no longer green.

Winged fire sword ablaze,
use I, leaves dry. Outstretched,
brown, my arms, fail to sky

afire. Feet my burns, I no walk longer.
Stiff, I root my tree to flower.
Fragrant white flowers, settle.

Pray I to you, of hope I joy.
Bring life to water, Frame of sky
Bring, Abba, Father.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal - February 1, 2011)
I...I think of it as a prayer. Read it line by line, each line a pause at the end.
*Title renamed from 'Finding Eden' to' Garden: Eviction'
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