I play jackstones
to relax and rejuvenate:
I hold one stone in one hand
with 4 stones on the floor,
then I throw the one stone in the air
and before I catch it
I grab off the floor as many of the 4 stones
as I am able to
then catch the one stone too.

Playing jackstones
is the simple joy
of enjoying the agile exercise of my hands
and enjoying focusing attention like meditation
on my hands and stones
instead of focusing on my struggles and sufferings.

While playing jackstones
I am simply enjoying
being alive, and
I am happy.

They had thin arms and basketballs
Jokes and jackstones
I only had my lunch box

They were eating together
I was alone

Across me
A riff of tables and chairs
There were my classmates
Exchanging butterscotch
Their laughter rang

In the white sound, I could not even speak because
Love never needed to talk
It just needed to create sense in my mouth
My mouth was full. Stuffed with the tanginess of gravy
This is why lonely is my bliss
Grow
Fat but I belong

I stand at the very edge of tomorrow
looking back at yesterday.
Holding that moment clutched in my hand,
when night first turns to day.
I can see the sun, the moon, the stars
like jackstones at my feet.
While by the door, time just stands
tapping out a beat.
The universe yawns and stretches
across the vast, dark sea.
Knowing this long, lazy dawn
will last an eternity.
My eyes are drawn to the shuffling sound
of time as he moves on.
Always forward. Always forward.
Always, all alone.
Through the doorway lies the future.
Endless miles of narrow halls.
With windows of opportunity
lining every wall.
It’s here and now that really counts.
For nothing else is real.
The past is dead and ground to dust
under times never ceasing wheel.
The future is a waking dream
we act out every day.
Built on mist and held in place
by nothing more than faith.
Slowly, slowly I open my hand
to the purple, pink, predawn.
Knowing that everything before this moment
is forever gone.

She plays with words
like marbles and jackstones
and she plays with hearts
like jumping ropes and cards.

She holds you inside of her palm
and you can feel the little earthquakes
happening inside her everyday.

She holds you inside of her palm
and when she picks up the pen and writes,
all you can read is

*you, you, you.

At the playground little girls whisper , point and giggle
Boys would reach for the top of the slide , form clicks
according to muscle , tenacity and determination
Shooters and aggies , jackstones , hopscotch
Open coats in Novembers breeze , bright leaves in a
whirlwind , the squealing merry-go-round , balancing on the
roots of Live Oak trees with ***** knees , trading lollipops
for gum , whimsical erasers for big number two pencils
Watching from a railroad tie sand lot border , writing rhyme
in white sand , singing a new song to myself , playing the cello
in my imaginary band , waiting for the white confusion of recess
to come to a quick end* ....

Bouncing, rebounding
on the floor of my memory -
the ball of my elder sister’s jackstones
and the lead washer of my elder brother’s sipa
travelling to and fro
the tops and yoyos
among the imaginary bread doughs
of gathered dust
from that childhood
sprinkled with the *** of yesterday
to bake make-believe
rice puddings
and rice cakes
- they seem to be spoiled now
in the food cupboards of computers
and eventually interred
in the graveyards of cellular phones

In the cemetery of memories
the ghost of poverty still haunts
never, ever unescapable

for every gulp of you
warmly soothes
the throats of scenarios
of all dramas and movies
in that nesting home
now decrepit, debilitated:
          after the day’s toils:
          you helped me swallow the lump of aromatic rice
          - cooked by Mother - the old fragrant stock
          that she loaned from the vendor from Quezon
          not even a piece of dried fish accompanying
          nothing else, only you, my brewed coffee
          nice both as dip and soup.