Huh!?
Come again!?
What were you
asking me?
Ahh . . .
ummm . . .

Your elegance popped
right in the midst of nowhere
Awe's frozen me here.

Uninvited one . . .
You stayed, rooted, hugged so tight.
Strangled life gave life.

The tears that dropped just yesterday
have not yet dried up, lawn's still wet.
One glance, your candle's lit, struggling.
The next, you're gone, the winds have won.
Hijacked in the midst of this storm  
that silently kills, we're helpless
as flame after dear flame flickers
and covid sweeps all who we love
and yes, everything that matters.
Suddenly, life is but a dream.

You’re like a ghost, whatever that is, lurking behind
the dark bushes and blending with the unusually eerie
silence of a brook in one ancient forest.

The seemingly serene scene rolls
and in the refreshingly cool waters,
a harmless creature slithers on its way
to sip and hydrate itself after the tiring day
of foraging in the lush canopy.

Then from one corner near a thick bamboo clump
the king of serpents surprisingly strikes. The gentle slitherer
is maimed and swallowed whole from head to tail.

Yes, you’re like the mythical ghost
that constantly makes me too afraid to go back to sleep.
As I descend through the mental labyrinth,
you suddenly sound some siren at the back of my ears,
just like a firetruck that warns the crawling traffic
to get out of its way along the main thoroughfare.
By the dreaded time your paralysing whispers reach
my shoulders, I’m reduced to nothing but frozen meat -
no way out but to moan aloud as I grasp
at collapsing threads of the delicate rope of life.

I am the helpless, hopeless, hapless victim
desperately seeking priceless sleep elusive
and which you always ruin as soon as I catch
a rare one.

By stroke of Lady Luck, fate wakes me up
and I’m in the middle of a dark midnight
of nowhere. Tired, gasping for precious air,
I murmured the fifth of the Seven Last Words:
"I thirst." Water! Water!

Yes, you're like a ghost, the mythical ghost.
I'm not even sure - do you deserve
to be the inspiration of awakened verses?
And I'm not even sure either - is this really a poem?

Maybe. Maybe Life is but a dream
and Poetry helps me keep one thing
more precious - my Sanity.

Crawled from ‘Coal-bearing’
Outlived T-rex tyrant king
The Humble survives.

Mali ang ginawa mo
Diumano . . .
Nambihag ka ng mga inosenteng tao
Hinusgahan ka agad na isang sanggano

Sa likod ng lahat ng ito
Ang nanunulak sa mga tao
sa sulok na laging talo
Ang mga abusadong amo
Ang sistemang malupit at lilo
Ang pagturing sa manggagawa'y abo
Ang mga kawani'y putik - di p'wedeng magreklamo

Ang totoong nambibihag ay abswelto
Ang taong nagsakripisyo
at ang sanlaksang biktima ng mapang-abuso
- kalakaran sa paggawa'y kalaboso

Ay! Ay! hanggang kailan magiging ganito?

Leaves green and swaying
Bamboos dancing with the wind
Hope shoots eternal.

Seabeds prop Old Rocks.
Plants are shawls of Ancient Walls.
Spell serenity.

Hope was delivered quickly, mercifully,
as the aseptic needle silently, expertly
pierced the anxious skin of my upper arm
bared to its untattooed, obese reality
and scarred deeply with forgotten badges
from islands and mountains and forests
and caves, with souvenirs and tokens
from clingy rattans, unforgiving wasps,
solicitous leeches, and hyperactive biting midges.

Pushed by magmatic desperation, something
imposed by elected incompetence, fudged
as a destiny of an unfortunate nation,
I toed the line of the long queue, hiding
my rhinitis-ruled nostrils and mustached
mouth from the many dreaded arms
of SARS-CoV-2, uneasily shielding
my embarrassed face from sneezed aerosols.

Aging paranoias of undignifiedly drowning
in one’s own phlegm unconsciously fuel
the tired and greying servant. Respite is not
as appeals for help to ease the burdens
of mountains of debt, and so sadly, yet
the beloved, alone, succumbs to death.

We’re all hostages - and the ransoms demanded
by this protein-coated tyrant are costly,
unjustly. Incarcerated by our fears of being
caught within the nets of this pirate at the sea
of our existence, we are, I am, grasping at all
but the last strands of a rotting rope – hope,
diminishing, flickering hope of salvation
from pathogenic damnation. Come messiah!

Likened to Christmas Stars shining bright,
the sages of Science illuminated our dark night
And through the ***** of a hypodermic needle,
Hope was delivered quickly,
mercifully,
compassionately . . .

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 . . .

I best saved long poems.
Silently, one smile just blooms.
The heart hears, Love flows.

Like twinkling drops of hallowed lambanog
that you later called miraculous coco *****,
they remained in the night sky of your shot glass
after you tried to drown the sorrowful mysteries
in countless gulps of your comforting best friend,
anaesthetizing every pain in your fatigued heart.
There your imagined liquor-incarnate compadre
of one comforter spirit friend and brother beside
sitting, hugging your shoulders, in whispers telling
you, you’re not alone, just cry if you need to, crying
as no Jesus or Mary could save your unfortunate soul
sentenced and punished without trial, by sheer strike
of Luck or lack of it. Keeping the faith despite the fate.

Not even a single teasing demon to offer you to pawn
your one forsaken spirit. Gods are deaf. Salve Regina!
yelling to high heavens, growling to the deepest hells
"Eli, Eli, Lama, Sabachthani?” - viral pneumonia spells
the names of maimed friends and silenced co-workers
“in no particular order!” as if finalists in that pageantry,
we call pandemic - worldwide but never world class
- and only the coronavirus wears the crown and reigns.

The roll call of the departed has become as endless
as the river of tears and sent messages of sympathies
and ocean deep condolences and sincerest wishes of
peaceful rests, soul or no soul, expressed. Covid or not,
all the dead are suspected zombies and swabbed; a stick
up one’s nose has taken new meanings. And thinking
positive is suddenly not on, not in, but off – it’s feared.

Life is like the alcohol with which we wash our hands.
It easily evaporates, leaving our skin feeling cold. Like
when Sepsis claimed a dear sister on New Year’s Day –
Anxiety is a real, a dangerous reality. Then colleagues,
mentors, friends, relatives, acquaintances, mother of one
pal, a health worker, front liners, a driver, a poor child,
a teacher, a student, a jobless man, a millionaire, an idol
An aunt passes away, on one unhappy day. Grim Reaper
blindly, swiftly, sweeps the shining sickle, the scythe . . .
and the life that began at daybreak is gone, gone, so quick.
All grains harvested in just a day.
Life. Just one short day.
One day.

Home of ghosts, folks fear
But I find flies, wasps, bugs dear.
Diversity’s here.

They came first for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I am not a Communist

Then they came for the immigrants
And I did not speak out
Because I am not an immigrant

Then they came for the feminists, and gays, and lesbians
And I did not speak out, never shouting out that Love is love
Because I was not a woman, neither a gay, lesbian, nor a feminist

Then they killed the blacks
And I did not speak out
Because I am colored, but not black.

Then they persecuted scientists just like in Bolshevik Russia, Chinese Cultural Revolution, and ignored, defunded them just like in present-day strongman regimes
And I did not speak out, never shouting out that Science is real
Because I live in a democratic state, with advanced science and technology.

Then they killed botanists like Leonard Co and companions
While doing fieldwork in the Philippines
And I did not speak
Because I am not a botanist, and I don’t go on fieldwork in those places.

Then they killed Lumads, and burned Lumad schools
And I did not speak,
Because I am not a Lumad, and I went to a prestigious university.

Then one day, they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me.

It’s the last day of the year.
And like all yearends
of the past awakened decades,
an intricate web of discordant feelings
and inharmonious thoughts
flood the bludgeoned heart
and the superheated mind,
dehydrating whatever little piece
of limbo-bound soul or spirit dwells
in the foggy shadows
and misty corners
of poetic ethos.

I bid the painful memories
the bitter goodbyes they deserve
as I keep mementoes
of triumphs of good against evil
- whatever they are, whichever way
the social judges pronounced them to be -
or enshrine the make-believe trophies
of the victories over obstacles,
of conquests of one’s closeted fears.

Tomorrow the New Year promises
another basket of promises . . .
Against a backdrop of darkness
of 12th hour – the midnight of the past year,
the 0th of the coming one – a small candle
persists with its flickering light -
the eternal oratio imperata of hoping
against hope, the soldier of caring and loving,
defenseless but still fighting
- heroes dying “without seeing the dawn” -
May the flame rage, or if it can’t
May it last long enough till sunrise.

Flying kisses,
        smiling glances,
        heartfelt wishes . . .
Little things,
        mountainous meanings.

Squabbles over scrabble,
Dictionary over google.
Gadgets settle,
Lovers quarrel.

Sulfur mists rising.
The goddess boils her thick soup.
I am enchanted.

Drowned by roars and claps
Lost beneath jungled blankets
I found my mind free.

I thought I saw you smile
beneath the face mask of cottony clouds
hovering just below your scarred forehead.
The distance made your tall trees
dark green and miniature
but their caring crowns I'm sure
were waving hellos to me -
"Come and visit us beshie!"

Yes Best Friend! To go up and see you
has been a desire so ardent
It's been a long, long while . . .
To touch the earth, to be kissed by the sun,
to be blessed by drizzle or dew
or even the sweet *** of plant lice
they all are old friends, always good as new.

When cicadas serenade, as birds played their fiddles
and crickets chirp and little tree frogs tweet,
the butterflies do their pirouettes and pax de deus
some even skip or strut to chorus lines of blue,
and all skinks silently watch in awe.

The fallen leaves are now a thick carpet.
The tiger leeches miss their regular blood donors.
The big-jawed ants patrol the trails but see no intruders,
as termite workers and roaches do their routines
among the fallen logs. Life goes on there.

I wish I could bathe my spirit again
in your clean, virus-free air.

Could writing a poem
inspired by a disease
be or become a crime?
How absurd is it
to find inspiration
out of a dreaded virus?

The emperor rudely wears indecent robes
worse than the legendary one without clothes,
more distorted than a crippled plastic ware
deformed by immoral, pretentious heat.

Incoherent recitations of tongues,
chants but not the solemn Gregorian
Pretenses at smartness of the ignorant
And all worshippers continue to be blind
Defending their King as they the headless
chess pieces are pawned,
fiercely loyally they guard their golden calf,
and all protesting Moseses, the King's men
painted with the yellow mark of wrath.

This nation’s bound to decompose -
of mountains of unpaid and unpayable debts,
of liars who have made lies the accepted truth
of gospels preached that are none but rotten fruit
of thieves and shameless robbers who lead
of nation’s coffers they bleed
of blind beggars who follow
of multitudes numb with sorrow
of misfortunes often told and retold
And all our souls to the devil’s sold.

No Davids to rise and fight the Goliaths as told
The candle in this dimly lit room refuses to turn cold
The candle burns out soon, as history's last page does unfold.

If love is poison . . .
I guess
You are
my antidote . . .

More than a year,
More than one round
of the Earth around the Sun
No Sun whatsoever
No Likes or Hearts wherever
No posting of new Lines with fever

The verses are maimed
The screen just keeps on flashing:
"Confirm your email.
Like Hello Poetry?
Become a Supporter
Please confirm your email address
by clicking on the link we sent to . . .
Didn't receive the email?
Resend confirmation email.

This makes me crazy.
I just edited the last poem I posted.
or is this even a poem?

Tila nga bantulot at pipi na
ang gitarang noo’y kasama
sa ereheng tambol-banda
suot ang katsang sutana
inarimuhunang sako ng harina
meron pang kupyang bao - mapula.

Kinukulbit ng kiming baka-sakali
Di pa naputol ang kwerdas na bali
Nalaglag ang pik sa may pusali
Pinilit umimik ng lumang kudyapi
Paos man ang tinig, pahinga’y dagli
Ang mga ulat at tula’y di magagapi . . .

Your starving legs never got tired
as they struggled and waited for what
you yearned - freedom - so elusive -
from omnipotent hunger - not so much
for you as for your daughters - all six
of them, them, your gems - and your
people . . . Your feet stepping
on shrapnel-riddled pavement
were like baker’s hands
kneading precious dough -

But the place is not one posh
Bread Avenue in one European
paradise - but in Gaza - where
reaching for life-giving bread
can get a father killed - by bombs
merciless - raining from the skies -
not gifts from the heavens
but brutal strikes from drones
eyeless, ruthless - AI-guided
Grim Reapers in one cruel war -
one genocidal war . . .