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 Jan 2014 Sofia Paderes
Jedd Ong
The deeper you stare into
The flotsam,
The clearer our origin stories
Become:

We are shipwrecks.

Islands
Bro-

ken Like bread and
Doused in
Salted wines.

We are cupbearers,

Slaves
With rusted chains
That dangle
Loosely
From our ankles,

Shrouding our skin from the harsh
Freedom

Sun offers.
From a harbour, not a beach. More your story than mine.
All lives end.
Even the plants and flowers
that once danced in the summer winds.
It's easy to say
One year
Two years
Three years
Is enough time to
Heal heartbreak,
Mend broken bones
Shattered by sticks and stones;
To clean an old slate.
But all it takes
Is a breath of familiar air

To spark a thought

To open wounds

That maybe,
*I still care.
It’s that time of the year once again,
The time to tear down the worn out pages of your old calendar,
And replace them with brand new ones.
The time to tear down the mistakes you have committed,
To forget about them,
And to throw them away,
Because they won’t serve you any good anyway.
The time to buy yourself another chance.
The time to start life once again.
The time where we flip over that hourglass,
And let the sands of time flow,
Like the rivers up north,
flowing through each day that will come to pass.
And we, riding on rafts,
Will somehow navigate through the rocks that block our path,
And reach the end goal,
Which is a year where trials and challenges,
Mountains of doubt and discouragement,
Never stood a chance against us.
Happy New Year.
A new year,
A clean slate,
Another chance to get life right.
Happy New Year :) Let 2014 be as great, or even greater than 2013.
You are my
December because you seem to
     emanate a golden glow,
          quite like of parols swinging from tall streetlamps
December in how you
     brush through my hair like a cool, gentle breeze
          brought by the northeast wind of
               clear blue skies and fair weather.
December also in the way you
     wrap your arms around me
          tightly, it
               reminds me of my favorite warm, woolly sweater that
                    my dear grandma knitted for me.
        You are my
December in how you
     light up my eyes like
          the Christmas lights that twinkle on the Christmas tree
No, actually, more like the
     fireworks that set fire to
          the midnight sky on New Year's Eve
December because
     you are a great gift
          like the secret surprises tucked under the Christmas tree
     you are a sweet treat
          like a gingerbread coated with colorful sugar,
               freshly baked and toasty
     you refresh me
          like the much needed break that lasts for two weeks
    You are my
December because
     you leave me melting
          like the mini mallows sprinkled  
               on my hot choco steaming
     You are my
December because

  
I love December
A parol is a Christmas ornament in the Philippines that's shaped like a star. Just google it; it's pretty.
I know that it's January already but Christmas in the Philippines lasts until February anyway so here you go ** ** Merry Christmas!
You asked me where
My home was and
I explained to you that rainy night
That my home wasn't a place but
A time in my life
When hope was around
Faith still here
The gun wasn't loaded
And I wasn't filled with fear
 Dec 2013 Sofia Paderes
Jedd Ong
The trot of kalesas,
Temple shack stores and
Hastily scrawled calligraphy—

Fruit cartons
And rice sacks
That litter
The clay streets
Itching to emerge from
Asphalt skin—

Browbeaten Angkongs shivering
In the December chill,
Decked in hawaiian shirts
And worn sandals—

Dirt-tinged air
Which goes down my throat
About as smooth as grandpa's beer—

Bitter but clean,
Swelling my chest with pride—

It tastes like home.
I've been meaning to write about Sto. Cristo for a while. It's where I grew up, see. It isn't perfect, but home has always been one of those places that's hardest to really capture. It's the farthest I've gone so far.
There are over a hundred ways
To capture a moment,
To freeze time for a split second,
To remember.
Others paint pictures,
Sketch memories.
Art is a good tool for reliving.
You can hear laughter through paint strokes.
You can cringe at the anger pencil marks can so vividly create.
And even subtle color choice
Can send waves,
Tsunamis,
Hurricanes,
That will wash
every last trace you have of today
And push
you back so deep into yesterday.
Art is an illusion.
But my sister liked to take photographs.
She was able to grasp with two hands
That maybe cameras
aren't too different from paint brushes.
Capture
Moments.
Capture
Memories.
But while art sheds off illusion,
There was something
Terrifying
Hair-raising
Heart-pumping
about the wholeness
of reality
photographs blew.
My sister captured images of me.
And even if you could see me
Laughing,
Snorting,
Wallowing in every form of happiness,
My sister could never really capture
me.
Something always seemed to
Go beyond the frame.
Photographs showed the world
The way I like to twirl in summer dresses
Or the way my hair looked like tumbleweed whenever it decided to imitate the wind
Or how I was always more comfortable smiling
With teeth.
If you stare hard enough,
You'd see that, yes,
I am an ugly laugher,
And the
Awkwardness
of my buck teeth flying everywhere
would distract you
From what I was laughing at.
Photographs are not the bigger picture.
Photographs can't show you
how I love indie music
Or how not-so-great I am at playing the ukulele
Or how I always save homework for later.

Seeing is believing, they say.
But don't ever
Not even for a second
Accept me
Wholeheartedly
With arms wide open
For who you see in the photograph.
I imagined this as a Spoken Word piece. I have no idea when I can recite it, or if I will ever, but this poem was begging to be written. This poem is about me, no strings attached.  :)
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