#ella
Sa kanyang himig ako'y nahahalina
Magkasintunog ng mga ibong malaya
Umiindayog sa puso ko't pagsinta
Misteryosong dilag, sino s'ya talaga?
Sa tuwing napapanood 'y anong ganda
Mata'y matimyas na tala sa umaga
Tanglaw sa daigdig na puno ng hiwaga
Liwanag sa bukang liwayway 't hiraya
Manipis ang labing kakulay 'y makopa
Malamyos ang tunog ng bawat salita
Halik ng anghel ang dapyo ng hininga
Halimuyak ay buhay, di nawawala
Kahit panlalaki ang gayak at porma
Na kanyang ginampanan sa prima donna
Munting lawiswis na lupaypay 't mahina
Nang lumaki'y diwata sa encantadia
Ang isip ko ay kinabig 't kinawawa
Ginapos nang mahigpit ng kanyang drama
Madalas ay namumugto ang mga mata
Kapag nasisilayan s'yang lumuluha
Huwag sana pabugso bugso't pabigla
Ang tibo niyang pangungusap at banta
Sapagkat nababagha't natutulala
Damdami'y pinamumugaran ng kaba
Sa kumpas ng mga kamay ay humahanga
Isang paraluman na ang kiyas 'y siga
Hudlum sa kanto na mahal ang pamilya
Pinakamatapang na lahing Claveria
Sa likod ng pagganap ano nga ba s'ya?
Sapantaha ko ay magalang na bata
Binibini at dalagang Filipina
May puring Perlas ng Silangan ng Asya
Lingid sa kamalayan nang napahanga
Sa kanyang angking galing bilang artista
Dagdag pa ang sayaw n'yang mala-prinsesa
Sa makabagong tinikling, siya'y reyna
Araw 'y nakahilig sa katanyagan n'ya
Harap 'y pangarap na sinasalubong pa
Hiyas s'ya sa mundo na walang kapara,
Kumikinang at nagbibigay pag-asa
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 11:09 PM UTC
<•>
***for all the Ella's of the world,
who wonder
"what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun."***
<•>
one day when you arrive,
visiting, at my isle,
of Where Shelter,
(with signed parental permission slip),
resting upon weathered worn, Adirondack non-slip covered thrones,
in the official Poetry Nook,
a seashell throw from bay and dock, where the seagulls
thrive and dive, in between pooping, pollinating, and
rest up after day trip visiting the town dump
then,
together we will write a poem about
what the seagulls talk about all day long
having employed them long time as co-conspirators,
editors and a test audience (assayers of my essays),
sadly must report they
occupy themselves in mostly matters culinary,
local gossip of my neighbors and other avian interlopers
(geese and osprey)
hoping this doesn't disappoint,
but know this,
it was the sand, the breeze, the trees,
the moon and setting sun, the waving waters,
animals of all kinds,
that together, taking years,
taught me to write like this:
<•>
*the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its morning glory reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature
recall that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
but!
its childlike insistence,
while stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world, insistent,
"write of me, attention must be paid!"
the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection
a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow tonight will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance
in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure conception
my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now,
suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to la vie en rose,
our wine glasses, ****** the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling, tippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice
to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of inviting,
dying rays of setting,
answering the question, at long last,
a finale,*
***here,
here is shelter!*** ^
<•>
so be quietly patient and never
write in regret,
for you are but sixteen years old,
and could teach to this old grandpa,
(who, by the by, has an Ella-all-his-own that is
of your proximate age,)
how to write
with the simple grace,
and the fresh wisdom,
of being
sixteen years young again
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
hello, you -
tucked in soft covers,
your head on fluffy pillows,
your name in the prayers of lovers,
your light dancing in willows,
hello.
you can't see it,
but you paint the sky
every night in lush silver.
you can't see it,
but every lonely eye
every solitary sigh
looks to you for comfort.
blue moon,
your light cups its fingers
around so many sullen chins,
you, a night vision,
dance on so many fiery skins.
blue moon,
you're making a joke of distance,
you're making night blossoms bloom.
blue moon,
now we're no longer alone.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 2:58 AM UTC
A butterfly floats,
Among flowers of Spring.
Her crib lays empty.
~M. Pierce
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Ella y Ello,
Yo y ser o ser y yo,
Saber y Decir,
Los malos o Los Libros mal pensados,
Las palmas o las piernas siluetadas,
Saber Ver o Ver sin saber,
Problema o Mas querer.
Ojos o lagartijas esperándo el sol,
Nervios o espejismos,
Secuencia rota, o inesperada,
Idioma de locos o acciones en estaciones de tren.
Querer o mas bien sanar,
Los mato o un chiste barato,
niñas anunciando o gatos callados,
No lo tomes o date un baño con piedra puma,
Podrías enseñarme o
Lo que te queda.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 8:10 AM UTC
Anoche lloré mientras te recodaba
Y recordé las noches que pasamos juntos
En las que no tenía que atraer al gato, que ya bastante me odia, hasta mis pies para no tener frío.
Anoche recordé también la noche en que dijiste que te irías para siempre y lloré desconsolado.
Luego vinieron a mis ojos las lágrimas de aquella otra en la que regresaste,
en la que te ayudé a cargar tus maletas,
en la que juntos acomodamos mi espacio que se convirtió en nuestro
y las palabras dulces que dijimos optimistas sobre el futuro.
No pude detenerme hasta recordar todas las noches que despiertos o dormidos pasé tranquilo a tu lado,
en las que reímos,
en las que bailamos,
en las que gozamos,
en las que nos conocimos y reencontramos.
Las noches en las que te besé,
ésas fueron las mejores por sobre todas.
Y al final me quebré porque esta noche,
como las que sigue, estoy solo.
Y me quedo repasando todos esos recuerdos y lloro,
te juro que lloro.
Pero has de saber que entre lágrimas se escuchan también risas,
porqué si hay algo que me hace enteramente feliz,
es amarte,
es recordarte.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
I am from piano keys
from steel strings and sticky wood.
I am from the sheet music under the stairs.
(Crumbled, torn,
it felt like old age.)
I am from the vinyl shelf,
The stack of cassettes
whose voices I remember more clearly
than my own.
I’m from van Gogh and Klimt,
from paint spills and ink stains.
I’m from sketchbook enthusiasts
and color pencil hoarders,
from More contrast! and Less lines!
I’m from stacks of canvas
with pastel faces
and a charcoal line to connect them all.
I’m from Grandpa’s radio and Grandma’s paint set,
vanilla melodies and citrus colors.
From my sister’s hands over my own
on the keys,
on the brushes with bent handles.
Between my fingertips are a
slew of eighth notes,
an abundance of contoured figures
to slip in my mind.
I am from these things—
painted and composed through—
a casualty of family art.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer,
The headstones thicken along the way;
And life grows sadder but love grows stronger,
For those who walk with us day by day.
The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower,
The courage is lesser to do and dare;
And the tide of joy in the heart runs lower
And seldom covers the reefs of care.
But all true things in the world seem truer,
And the better things of the earth seem best,
And friends are dearer as friends are fewer,
And love is all as our sun dips west.
Then let us clasp hands as we walk together,
And let us speak softly, in love's sweet tone;
For no man knows on the morrow whether
We two pass on--or but one alone!
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC