Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Jun Lit May 2020
Daydreams neath your crown
There young Tarzan mimics swung
I struck my first gold.
Dedicated to an Indian rubber tree planted in front of the Biological Sciences Building (LB Uichanco Hall) in the University of the Philippines Los Baños, from where I collected the type specimens of my first new species of mealybug.
Jun Lit Nov 2017
Ages indeed are not bases
To gauge or judge a friend's closeness
Through thick and thin, through more and less
We've been through them, we've passed the test.
Translated from my original poem "Salamat"
Jun Lit Jul 2021
The fountain of nectar still flows along the river
of wisdom, way, way beyond when coconut florets
have fallen. We dipped our cups and your words
have yielded the wines you brewed, mellowed
by the years you served head up high, but feet
always on the ground, forever resolved, pursued
the dreams. Strong in will, but still soft on sides
right of your heart. The few defeats only inspired
the lady knight in you to fight the battles in life.
The armor of the soul shines but you still kept
that motherly crown for all of those you cared
and loved dearly. Proudly, I met and knew and
served and was once a friend of that singular,
unforgettable Queen. Our wellspring of thanks
will never dry up for all your support and love.
Dedicated to the memory of Dr. Priscilla Chinte Sanchez (July 8, 1936-July 16, 2021), renowned food microbiologist, University of the Philippines Los Baños
Jun Lit Jun 2018
Among faded photographs piled up
in this grey-haired archive
your faces still shine like the smiling suns
that used to greet me - that little child
you called bunsô, the dawn’s speck
still in these brown eyes -
in the quiet and cold early mornings,
as I stared to the eastern skies
orange above the dearly missed Malarayat
of blues, and greens, and cones, and salakot
and as the last of the kabag bats
- guts filled with the insects of the night -
go home between our roof and ceiling,
the warmth of your call were tight hugs.

Your old picture comes alive -
like the first gulps of kapeng barako encouragements
that drained down the bullied throat of yesteryears
- the old radio broadcasts loudly the silenced tears
as the dozen hens were cackling the latest from the Beatles
and the lone rooster belts the Only You of the Platters
That time I tossed and threw far
the white grains of tattered notebooks to scatter
for the newly hatched chicks to patiently gather
Everything was an Amorsolo-replica, a summer
of joyful harvesting, harvest time, harvester . . .

Hope was the bottomless well beside the mango tree
The pig pens my palace, the chicken shed my tower of ivory
The rabbits are lords- and ladies-in-waiting
I was their prince in a kingdom that I made free
from hordes of aswang, tikbalang, kapre, dwende . . .
nothing to fear, really
but for the hairy caterpillars
hiding among the yellow confetti
of ******* trees, in the backyard
of distant day-dreaming days of dreams.

You made the noontime suns brightly lit
the roads and crossings the three little pigs
of my inner self have to trot,
for the distant future was a pack of cunning wolves
ready to devour all my mortal miscalculations,
infantile indecisions, and immature decisions,
and loud and strong they huffed, and puffed and blew
my self-esteem, whatever was left, beaten black and blue.
A hero plays mahjong, nothing really new,
as my teen life’s pages fell, no Redeemer ever knew
It was like tiles of dominoes - one after the other - on cue.

And yet at the siesta time of this human life,
your guiding photons allowed
this tired body with a ******* soul, yet beating heart
to rest, picking up each of the pieces
and the jigsaw of experiences
now make sense, a rainbow shows
as the skies emptied their jars
of tempting clouds like cotton candies
into a downpour of doubts, of tempests
of feelings of emptiness, of cyclones
of thoughts of worthlessness –
the suns were shining always
after all
behind the clouds
those clouds

In the sunsets of your lives
the rays still shone far beyond
the twilight time and in these humid tropics
your mem’ries are auroras in the darkest of my nights
even in my sleep, the dreams are video clips
always set inside that old Marauoy home
reminding me, there was that child in there, alone . . .

These days, the skies, the winds, remind me
of stormy days in the forgotten simplicity of Lipa,
you tied the windows as the gusts
threatened to grab them,
and then, the warm jackets and blankets
of your reassuring words, “we’ll be alright”
erased the traumas, blew away the fears.
reminding me, there was that child in there,
you dried his tears . . .

That child’s still here inside my decades-old heart,
like a prayerful devotee in an agnostic cathedral,
missing your hugs
longing for your cheers.
Notes on some Tagalog words used in the poem:
bunsô - youngest child
Malarayat - name of the group of mountains to the east of Lipa City in Batangas
salakot - native wide-brim hat, usually woven from palm leaves or fashioned out of hardened skin of gourds; one of the Malarayat mountains is shaped like it
kabag - small species of bats, usually the insect-eating kinds
kapeng barako - brewed native coffee, usually of the Liberica variety
aswang, tikbalang, kapre, dwende - names of feared elementals in the native folklore/mythology, respectively referring to: flying, bat-winged, half-bodied woman that eats internal organs; half-horse, transformable half-human; giant cigar-smoking male being inhabiting big, usually fig or banyan trees; dwarf or gnome
mahjong - Chinese game of tiles
siesta - midday resting time, usually for quick naps
Marauoy - old barrio (village) in Lipa City
Lipa - old town in Batangas, which became a city, the first in the province, after the second World War
Jun Lit Oct 2018
Trapped we’ve been, believers
and non-believers alike, in this dungeon
- a room full of venomous vipers
- a hall that in the not-so-distant season
of economic lepers, here was where a patient recovers
- hope was glistening, hope was a reason
to hold on, to holding on

Honey-cured tongues scooped,
facts fudged and frothed, truth looped
Alas! we’ve all been duped
Instant change, six months quickly pooped
- rights became wrong, right stooped
- wrong became right,
- villains became heroes overnight
- immorality is might
- and quest for justice a seeker’s fright
This side, this race, these islands of many beaches white
- oft said as worth one’s dying for, one’s lonely fight
suddenly plunged deep into this Pitch Black night

Here Dark prevails, dark thoughts are tools
to maim the wise, the good. Pedestaled mules
treat us like canned sardines – fools
who locked themselves jam-packed inside
but left the key mindlessly outside
now Hope is flickering, seems to hide
After all the sacrifices far and wide
Is this all that there is - a place to deride?

Here Dark prevails, dark thoughts are raging bulls
But behind the door, I know the Great Light rules
Peep through the keyhole, see the fire
burning. Just one lit candle in straits dire
Strong winds blowing, to put it out with hate
Rush, before that last flame dies, we should not wait.
Jun Lit Jan 2019
Life is a journey -
the road may be very long.
We need to go on . . .
Jun Lit Oct 2024
Drowned by roars and claps
Lost beneath jungled blankets
I found my mind free.
Jun Lit Oct 2017
Keep
writing,
keep
words
flowing,
keep
breathing . . .
Poetry's
beautiful,
living . . .
I know depression is big and I'm not sure how 10 simple words can help, but I do hope that this will, no matter how little.
Jun Lit Sep 2021
You wanted to catch a bus for home –
You rode a chariot to Heaven, a ray of light?
You crossed the busy Northbourne –
You reached the other bank to River Life.

A mother leaves behind her children
their journeys to go on
A loving daughter of The Father
joins Him where tears are none.

Go! The traffic sign said – they say
Go – you did to the green pastures, your spirit’s hay.
Go – to the Shepherd’s bay
Go – rest from this tiring day.

So long, friend.
27.x.1994, 2330H

I wrote this poem on 27 October 1994. It's dedicated to the memory of Ms. Sonia Castro, then an AusAID scholar from the Philippines taking an advanced degree at the Australian National University. She perished in an accident on the busy Northbourne Avenue, in Canberra, ACT, Australia,
Jun Lit Oct 2017
“I think that I shall never see”
a tree thin as phylogeny,

looks poor, no fruits nor leaves for tea,
Yet means so much as Darwins see.

rooted, unrooted, a weird tree,
well, Nature, too, selects weirdly.

No other tree much affects me,
keeps changing my taxonomy,

splitting-lumping, lumping-splitting,
because more data keep coming.

“Poems are made by fools like” you,
but cladograms, don’t make me blue.
Jun Lit Feb 2019
Amidst dark moments
One brightly lit moon's shining . . .
We're always hoping.
The title was changed in a later posting to "Blue Moon."
Jun Lit Nov 2020
You huffed and you puffed
Howling, blowing all night long.
We’re but poor li’l pigs.
The Philippines just experienced its 21st typhoon this year, from last Tuesday until today, 12 November 2020. Locally named Ulysses (International name: Vamco), it is the 7th in a succession of destructive tropical cyclones within just 6 weeks. Climate change is real.
Jun Lit Nov 2021
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.
Jun Lit Oct 2021
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 . . .
This was written immediately after the author got his second dose of AstraZeneca. It was read by the author himself as a contribution to the Virtual Cultural Concert (VCC) held on 09 October 2021. The virtual cultural event was organized by the UPLB Office of Alumni Affairs, and the Classes of 1971 and 1981 in celebration of the 103rd UPLB Loyalty Day (10 October 2021) with the theme “Bigkisang UPLB at Alumni para sa Matagumpay na Pagbangon Mula sa Pandemya.” [Strong Bonds between UPLB and Alumni Toward Victory in Recovering from the Pandemic]. The poem is dedicated to all UPLB Alumni, especially those in the Sciences, Medicine, and allied fields in the frontlines.  In Part, the poem is also a thanksgiving to Science & Scientists.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0aQv-ZpRqyY
Jun Lit Aug 2017
isang buhay
labimpitong taon
dalawang magulang
tatlong bala,
maraming pangarap,

Apat na taga-tarato, negosyador:

Magkano?
Bagsak-presyo!
Mamilì kayo –
Ibebenta nyo?
o . . .

Buy One – Take All!
          karakter
                    dangal
                              kalayaa­n . . .
Translated into English as "What's the Price of One Life?"
Jun Lit Dec 2024
Defenseless they say
Small, unarmed. Ah they know not
That strength in numbers . . .
Jun Lit Oct 2017
one life
seventeen years
two parents
three bullets
many dreams, ambitions,

Four negotiators:

How much?
Great price drop!
Pick your choice –
Sell it?
or . . .

Buy One – Take All!
          character
                    honor
              ­                freedom . . .
A translation of my poem "Weekend Sale! Magkano ang Buhay ng Isang Tao?"
Jun Lit Oct 2017
Verbosity
kills
Intimacy.
Hugs
deliver
care.
Hearts
talk,
Kisses
­translate.
Experiments with short (10w) poetry. Personifications of thoughts and feelings and . . . so on.
Jun Lit Aug 2017
Ask
my
Heart,
not
my
Head,
why
my
Love
persists.
Jun Lit Sep 2018
[musings on a frustrated submission]

Were they “really saddened,”
as much as I was,
when they informed me
“that my works (hmm not I)
were not selected
for the current issue?
And did, they say to me,
apologetically,
perhaps to appease me,
(as if it were necessary):
“We have read
so many promising pieces
that we are unable to publish,
but that does not lessen
their beauty and worth.”
And then, tell to my aging face:
“However, we encourage you
to refine your writing
by joining campus/community-based
writers groups that foster
constructive critiquing
and applying for regional
and national writers workshops.”
The hell! I am too old
and too busy to attend those,
And there is no special session,
for seniors and late bloomers,
And I do not intend to win
the Nobel for Literature
nor the Philippines’ Palanca.

Take my pick?
“The piece didn't "grab" the editor.”
- We’ll I never intended it to.
“Some (or all) of the lines were too long for the site's formatting.”
- So Walt Whitman’s won’t be a thing.
“The poem read too much like a prose paragraph.”
- Much like the best free verse the ancients mocked.
“The piece had numerous simple grammar errors.”
- and Percy Bysshe Shelley will not pass your course.
“The piece was overly derivative or unoriginal.”
- you mean somebody else was thinking for me?
“The piece contained copyrighted material not owned by the author.”
- Of course, my poems are mine! I’m quite sure of that.
“Limited space in the schedule.”
- so, why then call for so many entries?

Appease myself?
Why do I write poems?
To win awards? No!
Put my thoughts into words? Yes!
Express my feelings? Yes!
Happiness? Mine? Of others? Yes!

Are these poems? Is this a poem?
I don’t need you or anyone to call me a poet
but this is my poem.
Who defines what a poem is?

Many a box
                         can
                         inspire
                         poems . . .
                         But
A poem is not

a box.

Poetry

is

freedom.

Freedom is

Poetry.

Poems are free.

My thoughts are

free –

f

r

e

e –

free.
Jun Lit Sep 2024
A friend I call Sister Shawie silently sobs
And all of her children’s hearts’ knobs
are plugged with mics noise-cancelling
and bluetooth earphones desensitizing.
Old mixed emos - can’t relate, how brute
- worse than real deaf or numb or mute.
Their sympathetic eye implants blue night
and smiling chrysanthemums yellow bright
selectively blind. Their once flawless derma
now pock-marked with socmed anesthesia.

Beneath the optical cables of glass sublime,
the umbilical cords are cremated in time
as the much sought wifi signals reach prime.

The cyber world defies ethics and all logic . . .
A mother’s milk is replaced just like magic.
Jun Lit Oct 2017
Beyond
promises
poems,
vows . . .
Love
binds
you,
me . . .
. . . us -
beyond . . . . .
#10w

— The End —