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Into a place far away but too familiar,
I push open the rusty purple gates,
Inhale a lungful of the province air,
Kick away blue pebbles on the dusty ground,
And then
Mano my lolo, my tito
Beso my lola, my tita
And give my cousins a nudge on the arm,
A pinch on the cheeks.

I squeeze between four people
In a rickety wooden bench and
Pass around plate after heavy plate.
I fill my banana leaf
With spaghetti too soft too sweet,
Almost like pudding,
With crispy chicken dripping with oil.
I wash it off with a cool glass of gulaman,
Chewy beads and gems in sugary water.

Fathers talk about basketball, boxing, billiards;
Mothers browse through photo albums and magazines;
While we children argue about Superman or Batman.
Our laughter fills the humid air
And goes up, up, up to the ears of the neighbors.

In celebration of the time we have together
And a nice sunny day
We devour our meals
And go ahead and
Climb trees and
Get our faces sticky with sweet fruits,
Lick chocolate ice popsicles,
Chase each other in the weedy playground,
Bike around town,
Pick colorful flowers,
Wrestle with each other,
Play badminton on a windy day,
Scare around chickens and guinea pigs,
And play patintero under the dull orange street lamps.

We nervously creep inside the back door,
All sweaty, bearing bruises and scratches
But still with wide smiles on our faces.
All is futile though.
An angry grandmother awaits,
Scolding us for
Coming home past sunset.

More and more stars glitter the sky
As the night gets deeper and deeper.
The gentle evening breeze whistles a note
As it enters through the window.
The karaoke blasts grating voices
Interrupted by hearty laughter.
Playing cards and corn chips litter the table.
We children exchange jokes and ghost stories.

And then,
We bid our goodbyes,
Sharing hugs and kisses
Stained with discontent and sadness.
Our hearts about to burst
In excitement for the next
Reunion.
A typical Filipino reunion looks more or less like this :)

"Mano" is a respectful gesture done mostly to elders wherein you hold a person's hand and make it touch your forehead. "Beso" is something usually done by ladies wherein you brush cheeks with each other. "Lolo" means grandfather. "Tito" means uncle. "Lola" means grandmother. "Tita" means aunt. "Gulaman" is a popular drink/desert. "Patintero" is a kind of outdoor game wherein a team must prevent the other team from crossing over to the other side of the court by tagging them, it's really fun!
His eyes
Pressed into her with the pull of polarity
A haunting indication of an impossibility too beautiful to protest
He looks
With a longing he has hidden deep in his sock drawer
So no one can tell him he’s wrong or irrational
A locket only to be worn round his pulsating mind’s mannequin
But she wears on her sleeve what he’s trying to leave
And dressed like a nightingale
In feathers so free
Her eyes with a fire that waves like the sea
Closer they crawl
Past night’s shadowed humans getting drunk off doubt and betting on beauty
Past the scratches on stools once straddled by sorrow
And Isolation, his lover
Who lost her last words somewhere under the covers
That they shook out in morning
To shake off the mourning
But the streets crave a sweep
For the ashes are thick and catch on their tongue
Reminding the runaways to stop feeling young
And as they both draw so near
With the friction of fear
And the whip of a wish
And a harsh hit of hope
For the call of a kiss
Her hairs stand on stilts at the nape of her neck
An impatient frenzy that’s waiting on deck
But the lights left her lonely
A bubble-bruised brain
And he left her only
The promise of pain
As he grabbed another hand and rushed out the door
She smiled a sadness that left her lips sore
And gathered her hollows
And the last of her trust
And took to the streets with the ashes and dust
Somewhere in the darkest corners
Of a speck of land
Shadowed on a world map,
There is a girl who still believes in wonder.

She is childlike faith vacuum sealed
In pint-sized hope
A revolution craving to be lit up,
A breath of fresh air to anyone who has lived through dirt and pollution,
A livewire of well-kept new ideas.

She is a book.
A good one but a closed one.
A book that sits on the front shelves at bookstores
But nobody dared to read between her lines.

But other than the galaxies of impossibilities she has sketched up in her head,
She is nothing more than short of perfection,
Small
Flawed
Misunderstood
But
Her hopeful whispers needed a microphone.

She believes in the hustle and bustle of success in her little speck of land
Impossible, it may seem
as she IS a speck
in a sliver of land
in a country that is almost always forgotten by anyone who has browsed through a map,
Disregarded by other countries
Abandoned by its own people
But forget the size on a scale of the earth.
Little as she is,
to her, her speck of land is big enough
Big enough to fill with all the love a person is capable of.
Big enough to fill with hands that held each other tight enough to be called unity
Big enough to be filled with more confidence in the country
than pride in personality.
In fact, the word "big" is too little
To describe the way she sees things.

She believes in herself
But she also believes that she is small.
And insanely enough, she believes she can be both
That her individuality for a stand out country
Could not be limited by
A weak immune system
Or the amount of inches she grows in a year
Or the color of her hair.

Yes, when the world gets tough,
And when everything larger
Turns against her
Pressing her into a cage of painful pressure,
She helps herself
By sticking her hand out for the very people who make her weak.
Because courage turns into cowardice
If it is not used to stand up for others.

And though she is small,
That only means she could make her way through
The narrow roads
In a tricky path called life.
Bending when branches of trouble swept above her,
Crouching when the rain poured,
And slipping into deep spaces.

But more importantly,
Overpowering all her beliefs,
She believes in something higher,
In something much stronger than the strength of her imagination,
In something that could turn her plans into a reality,
And the best part of it all is that this "higher force"
Is a He
And He believes in her
Much more than she believes in Him.
She holds her plans for this country in a teapot,
But He is the One who pours it over us
Until this cup, this country, overflows.

She believes this country is ready.
And as for Him, well,
So does He.

But no matter how wondrous she makes the future of this country seem,
We are still everything she didn't say we would be.
So, scavenge your heart for the truth,
Dig around for treasure and hope,
Seek high and low for even the little shards of faith,
Because one day,
We might just find her
In you and in me.
"How can young Filipino Christians demonstrate leadership and contribute to nation building?"

This poem was my answer in the finals of my school's spoken word poetry competition.
No, I have failed at this.
Failed, at loving you.

Your twice remembered lines,
So precious, the first time,
Have grown still.

I won't be loving you again.
Won't be loving you.
 Nov 2013 Sofia Paderes
brooke
I'm sorry I stopped talking to you for eight months
but If I had stayed longer I would have become the
type of person I never wanted to be, because back
then i was so malleable despite what you may have
seen otherwise. I am stronger now and i know that
is no excuse, just plain, solid, light-as-day fact, may-
be you wouldn't have done it the same way but we
all do what makes sense to us.
(c) Brooke Otto 2013

I'm not sorry for wanting to know who i am, though.
 Nov 2013 Sofia Paderes
brooke
i remember
all your scars
even the ones
on the inside
the ones you
tried to hide
(c) Brooke Otto 2013

i've been avoiding this poem.
 Nov 2013 Sofia Paderes
Jedidiah
I cry in desperate need
As I fight these battles inside of me
These wars that never seem to end
A hopeless fight it seems to be

I am a warrior (A weak warrior)
Struck down, beaten up
But still desperately fighting
Bringing out the very last of my strength

To even last for a bit longer
Even if it lasts
Just for a bit
A tiny bit

I am a warrior (A weak warrior)
Without an army
But a sword in my hand
And a shield in the other

I cry in desperate need
For someone to fight with me
For this war can not be won
With one man to fight alone

Give me courage
To overcome my fear
Give me strength
For I grow weary, and tiresome

When days seems to grow dark
And my eyes can not see
Guide me
For I will be fighting blindly

Give me fire in my eyes
That burns deeply within
Fire that will never be put out
A fire that is ever growing

Provide me with allies
That will never turn their backs
Allies that hold the same fire
Infused within them

Sustain me with everything I need
Because I have vowed to myself
I will win this war for you
And only for you
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