We will grow old,
You and me,
Grow back in time,
To where the bicycles
Were lopsided
And the streets very much
Old brick road,

With the oil lamps
And quiet nights spent
By candlelight,

With the weeping parchment
Blown to dry,
Scratched meticulously
By a dancing feather, oh

We will grow old.

And come back to the little
Park bench where we used to
Sit. Count the cracked, granite
Pillars that paint the
Pathways of the Champs Elyseé,
Or Bagumbayan,

Dance alone,
Along the Great Wall,
And sing, you and me,

With a Grand Piano and
Giant mandolin and everything.

And we will wear coats and ties
And flowing skirts
And hike our way down
To the cul-de-sacs of Venetian Manila,

Where the bridges are still
Shores of sea, on which
Young lovers, friends, students, artisans
Still comb for pearls,

Yes, indeed, we will grow old.

She was one of those girls. Easy to love, bright, but when the season changed she was full of rain and overflowing gutters. I could get an umbrella, even a small boat to ride her waves, but she would always sink me. Just before I could drown in her waters she would give me CPR in the form of Spring kisses. Rays of sun shone through her eyes.
For two years I managed to survive through her storms just long enough to bask in her ever flitting warmth. Our one year anniversary threatened to rip me limb from limb, she was a tornado that day. Flowers and home made pasta blew away her storm clouds, just barely.
When two years rolled around I must have looked like a weathered sailor, knowing the exact moment to pull the sails, or when to just hang on and ride the rolling seas. So when she sat down one day and said,
“I can’t do this anymore.”
I just froze, caught completely off guard.
“I love you like…a brother.”
I started taking my ship into shore, to retire, maybe become a mountain man.
“I can’t talk to you…”
I pulled into the harbor, turned around, and set my vessel on fire. No more storms for me, no more blessed, tropical trips either. As the tip of my ship’s mast sank into the water, I let out a sigh of relief, shaved my beard, and disappeared down the coast.

I will run away from my Young Nature
due to the lack of human interaction.
I cannot speak, for nothing comes out
‘tis my struggle to interact with this generation.

Until the sun sets I am left alone
with my thoughts and feelings.
Then comes the realization that the
Only Treasured Interaction I had was fleeting.

They can see and hear
my hints, ever so subtle
but They is they, now
there are new Others to Juggle

Moving is not my way of escape in fact
I’m running towards my Source of Pain, not away.
Nevertheless, through this I’ll surely grow
Through pain, need, and desperation every day.

This plan will **** the life from my chest
As the old one hit the fan and went awry.
This’ll be for the best; for the new, future Others that
I'll never again be in a position of needed/permanent goodbye

my heart explodes with joy
as I flutter my wings

I will never fly as gracefully
or as long as the other birds

but when I am in the air
even for a moment
I feel free

my broken wings lift me up
to where I do not know,
but somewhere etched in my heart

a strange thing happened when I
started singing songs of gratitude
for learning to fly with broken wings

other birds with broken wings
started to gather around me
sharing their experience and hopes

I am free as my heart sings joyfully
my own hopes and dreams
as I share my experience
to help another bird with broken wings
to journey a little closer
to the place etched in their hearts

and somehow I am exactly
where I am supposed to be
flying with broken wings

The best love of all?
Is when you both
Found it at your worst
Because,
Through all the flaws we see
The beautiful truth.


Erennwrites

Your name filled up the three diaries I have kept— the only diaries I vow to create.
Each of them written from cover to cover.
I penned your name in ink: permanently etching the smooth planes of my notebooks.
Like a **** that turned into a scar.

Your name:
Written over and over and over and over and over again.
Until my hands tremble with weakness— tired of your name.
But my heart still whispered. Then screamed.
My heart still cried out, Begging, and Begging for release.

So my hand wrote till it memorized you. Every curve and crook of your name.
My fingers laced through every tangled lines and placed them carefully side-by-side.
Oh so carefully… so that your name would be spelled out perfectly.
Until the pen I hold, against my own will, scrawl you on every piece of paper I touch.

And with your name came the pain. My poems.
With your name came the tidal wave of emptiness.

I wrote and wrote your name, over and over.
A repetitive chant, an old cycle.
I wrote, caressing your name as I did.
With my whole being.
Heart. Mind. Soul.
Body.
My hand and mouth simultaneously verbalizing your name.

As if by doing so would make you love me.

Native in the hearts of your children you are.
Embedded deeply in their soil, spawning fertile seeds only to bid farewell too soon.
Your roots firmly rooted,
solidifying your solid stance. Imprinted your features in all of us, all just sketches of the you you used to be.
They tell tales of an antique casanova who once was,
a man who loved dearly for an eternity that lasted a few heartbeats.
I used to draw you in the margins of my notepad,
pretending I remembered more than your smile.
But I was fond of the man who took part in my creation,
the man whose name I carry with pride,
the man who gave me a family,
the man my mother fell for.
Words I never uttered come close to mind,
I'd mean them if I said them out loud.
But here, among bent, wilting trees you lay, forever.
We're standing on the ground reserved for souls bygone, transfusing memories of you in one beautiful picture.


We love you,
I love you


Here's to you, father.

**18/02/1961--01/10/2009