You left without a word - no goodbyes nor hints when you’d allow me again to savor that restful slumber with a thousand snores. When was that last time I slept so well? You just left. Nothing said. Nothing.

As hardly as you set off the ticking clock and made me wait for you to sniff the consciousness out of my head, while I count stars so bright or dolly sheep after sheep so white, so was the speed of your departure. I haven’t even had the luxury of precious minutes to ask whether the sheep I was counting had any wool and was there anything wrong with being black for a sheep, and I was too shy to ask the twinkling stars what they really are.

Like a quick scene in this melancholic one-act play in this old stage in the silent theater of memory recalls or the soft fragrance of white lacunosa wax plants on moonlit nights, I hear a loving mother tell her young son to pause his game and take the afternoon siesta on the mat spread on the cool bamboo floor relaxing amidst the dry days of the Lenten season. He just feigned asleep, eyes closed and then open again. I must be dreaming. How I wish I could tell him to relish sleep. For now I want sleep, even without dreaming. Even without dreams. But sleep seems so hard to get.

Sleep has become an elusive dream.

Tila namanhid na ang babahaang landas
walang patid ang agos ng luha, habang walang habas
ang malupit na lilik-panggamas -
patuloy ang tila nag-aamok na pagwasiwas.

Kahit mura pa ang uhay
ng nagbubuntis na palay
Namúti na ang katiwala ng mga bunso't panganay:
Walang sinanto ang pakay
ng aninong sumalakay.
Sinimot pati ipa. Ang imbakang burnay
tuyung-tuyô, tila balóng patáy.

Ubos na ang mga ninuno sa Purok
Ang mga inanak at inapo, tila mga but-o ng kapok
nangalat na sa malalayong pook
Hindi na tumalab ang mga erihiyang tampok
Ang lamping ibinalot, balót na ng usok.
Ang binalot na kapirasong pusod, bakas na lamang ng balok.

Karipas na ang binatilyong habol ang mutyang pailaya.
May baon pang pagkain, pagsasaluhan pag nagkita
Ngunit mabilis na napawi ang tanawing kasiya-siya
Ang natapong lomi, natabunan na ng aspalto’t palitada
kasama ng mga bakas nina Utoy at mga kabarkada
sa ilang dekadang araw-araw na pagbagtas, nakasipit at gura
mula sa Baryo Balintawak hanggang Lumang Baraka.
Di na makilala. Wangis ay mistisong pilipit. Ay! Ay! Lipa!

Slowly,
             slowly,
                         slowly, like one
lonely white cloud in the wide blue
sky we thought was heaven watching
over humans - We never asked
as young children how a good god
could not be bored doing guard jobs,
day in, day out, and night shifts too.

The Inquisition comes out late
and ties us down like captured pigs
with aching backs, sore joints and chest -
maimed cries of those rusty machines
which we now call aging bodies –
but holy texts willed and thus said
Behold! - ‘the Temple of the Lord.’

It came to pass - imagine how
sacerdotal frustration great
that the high priest so self-righteous
in his deep-stained mental frock white
arrives here at scene of the crime -
The Sacred Temple covered in slime.

Hitherto, video clips appear
at the bottom of my sad cup,
and every time I finish one
shot after shot, of laughing friends
as once we were a team working
together when – Oh! When was when?

But wines may warm the frozen cold
that in the few moments we shared
mem’ries abound, like old pictures
in an album, we call, once, life.
Feelings muted.
                            Musings silenced.

Slowly,
             slowly,
                         away,
                                   away
Above the waves a bottle floats
the sealed message remains unread
The mind’s non-stop.
                                     The heart is deaf.
The soul is lost.
                            A story starts.
A piece of wood that stays adrift . . .
Slowly,
             slowly,
                         away,
                                   away . . .
Slowly,
             farther away,
                                   each day . . .

Somebody in the neighborhood
cut the red comb of Rooster Good,
and the overgrown wattle too;
whoever did, nobody knew.
What’s sure is that the spritely stance
is now lost in his courtship dance.
His dawn tenor arias so proud
now low pitched and hoarse but still loud.

Perhaps those hands that held the knife
Hated that ***** enjoy free life
or had eyes burned on seeing red
or pinkish plume on bloodied head
A rooster’s form must do conform
with all rules of cockfighting norm.
Humans dictate how chooks should look
I should have asked their Holy Book.

And so dear Old Rooster’s de-crowned
Has lighter head, a king dethroned
beard-like wattle, like rouge wisdom
swish swings no more like pendulum
The pride is gone like in folks’ tales
as more mates follow full-combed males
Now fewer hens his harem hosts
mean fewer eggs for breakfast toasts.

They slapped your face.
                                             And you said nothing.
          Crying in silence –
                                             That was your comforting friend.
     You seemed to implore –
                                             Humans are by nature, good.
But the flowers of cosmos
                                             that you plant each day say otherwise.
           And your kindness
                                             has not prepared you.  
Battles happen everyday.
                                             Sometimes you really have to fight
     even if you know that
                                             Love is the ultimate weapon.  
Defend the coast, the cause –
                                             You can, you should.
And I fervently wish
                                             that you win.
We win.

Malambot ang kalimbahin,
talulot ng bulaklak na rosas,
tamang-tama sa pagpapagaan
ng masakit na pakiramdam
ng puro pasâ at bugbog-saradong lila
ng sugatang puso ng isang bansa -
sinugatan ng mga taon ng panggagahasa
ng mga pulitiko, at panghahalay
sa ekonomiya at lipunan.
Nagpapagaling ang kalimbahin.

Tamang timpla ang kalimbahin
ng matingkad na pulang dugo,
inialay ng mga bayani, nag-aalab sa banal
na pag-ibig, pagnanasang lumaban
para sa kalayaang tila napakailap
sa lahing puno ng kasawian
at ng dalisay na puting diwa
ng mga duminig sa tawag ng sambayanan
di alintana ang sarili, busilak tulad ng papel
na walang sulat, na sa ibabaw n’ya
ay mahihiyang maglapat ang isang makata
ng mga talatang sambay-bakod kumbaga.
Masaklaw ang kalimbahin.

Maliwanag ang kalimbahin
litaw na litaw sa tila itim
ng gabing pinakamadilim
sa ating sinalantang kapuluan,
at sa malabo, lalong kumukupas
na pangungunyapit ng bughaw-lilang kalangitan
subalit may sumisilip na’t nagpapalakas-loob
na sinag ng dilaw na araw muli, nababanaag
ang bagong Pag-asa ay binabasag
ang nakabalot na karimlan,
nagbabadya, ibinabaybay
ang ating kaligtasan
bilang isang bayan –
At kalimbahin ang kulay
ng bukang-liwayway.

Pink is soft
like rose petals
enough to soothe
the sore, the pains
of the black and blue -
a nation’s heart wounded
by years of political ****
and social and economic abuse.
Pink heals.

Pink is the right blend
of the crimson drops shed by heroes
and heroines, burning with sacred love
to fight for freedom, so elusive to a race forlorn,
and of the pure white spirit of those who heed
the people’s call to serve, selfless as a blank
sheet of paper, on whose face a meek verse
from a struggling poet is too shy to burst.
Pink transcends.

Pink is bright
against a backdrop of the now fading black
of the darkest nights in our ravaged islands,
and with faint, fainting faith of sky indigo
but encouraging tinge and peeping rays
of yellowish sun anew, we see a new day
breaking. Hope – a new day spells
our salvation as a people –
And pink is the color
of that dawn.