"barters" poems
Lush mango groves
where the musky scent of mango blooms
once wafted making the
bulbuls sing in ecstasy
from morning till sundown
are reborn as gated communities,
where grim seriousness parade.
In sun drenched vineyards,
shadows of dreams,
wanting to dress up as IT parks, spread.
Bangalore barters its medley of colors and smells
for prosperity in terms of greenbacks,
as people learn to be 'smart' players,
and more and more get 'Bangalored'*
from around the world.
Corn fields that danced to the tunes
of the songs of toiling farmers
go missing within days.
To match with the new mood,
nature, in this green paradise, till not so long ago
shamelessly wears the unnatural with style.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
A poet is daydreaming – contemplating,
Stale is his entire mind surpassed;
An accomplice confers his realization,
Neither to suffice the fool – disillusioned.
That poet daydreams, dismayed in trance,
‘A truce!’ he barters, on a fitted fray.
Frailty of his core seems definite in stance,
‘Tis anecdote… apparent of dismay.
The poet daydreams of the one he loves;
Severs the sympathy by egoism and contempt.
Scalar quantity of a breaching throb,
Under the tutelage of an infidel attempt.
The writer’s words are never dull, always honed;
Unyielding cutting edges fit for the crockery.
Elusive as emotions – tender as the blade of words sliced,
Thus cuts through the flesh, mind and soul like mockery.
Thus the poet’s mind can never be measured,
Nor does the ability of a man can overcome;
For both come from the Divine – Oh, highly favored!
Poetry of prose, so unique and unstrung.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
I wear a crown invisible and clear,
And go my lifted royal way apart
Since you have crowned me softly in your heart
With love that is half ardent, half austere;
And as a queen disguised might pass anear
The bitter crowd that barters in a mart,
Veiling her pride while tears of pity start,
I hide my glory thru a jealous fear.
My crown shall stay a sweet and secret thing
Kept pure with prayer at evensong and morn,
And when you come to take it from my head,
I shall not weep, nor will a word be said,
But I shall kneel before you, oh my king,
And bind my brow forever with a thorn.
1.6k
as an audience anxiously awaits
an adequate answer
an admittedly artificial
academic administration addresses action
and announces afternoon activities available
at an auditorium all asleep,
absently applauding away.
barry's basketball bounces back behind
by blueberry bush
bound by belief baseball's better,
barry barters, begs basically,
blindly balancing between *****
baseball or basket
but barry boasts both.
city civilians cross carefully,
crowded, cold christmas crosswalk
counting countless cars
casually, cabs crammed close in clusters
constantly coughing chemicals
citizens carelessly creating catastrophe.
dusty dreary downtown dallas diner delight
dreamy desert delicacies delicious, delightful
dan danced decisions deciding, daring
diner downpayment deplete dollars.
don't ding **** ditch dan's diner door
drop by, drool on dan's delicious delicacies.
even enormous endangered elephants
eat everything entry-level edible.
entire eons erasing, each era escaping
eventually enough endangered
easily enters enxtinction, ending everywhere
entirely empty encounters.
even empires entertain enemy error.
friends, families, fixate in front
for films favor favorable focus.
fancy film fastival, foreigners fill first
filmmakers flock, finding familiar faces
facing forward, feeling fairly fortunate.
"five, four" finally flash
fear fades fast.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
the worst thing is the realization
you have nothing to say.
the worst thing is
a collision of words spinning
deaf into a vortex of irrelevance.
you finally understand.
you are like the rest of them.
you have nothing to contribute.
silence is cancer
deaf and dumb metastasis.
it happens to giants and dwarfs
locksmiths and astrophysicists
mathematicians and short order cooks.
it happens to saints and serial murderers.
silence so deafening
it barters with suicide.
maybe that’s
why they invented
television.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
walk side streets
alone - headphones.
zones of melody
channeling canals
deeper than all
the billboards basted
by bad barters.
must’ve been mistaken.
although their dressed
up, they’re simmering
thin - acetaminophen.
finished, drugged bugs
cling strings holding
last lines of defense.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Pandering for untruths
Like for like
Follow for follow
A thousand people who don't read
A thousand people who don't care
The occasional polite word
There is no satisfaction in falsehoods
One heart given out in truth
A word to show connection
One real follow over thousand barters
To touch another in honesty
To help another feel
That is the beauty of poetry
It breathes in those who read
A gift from soul to soul
Yes, that is
The beauty of poetry
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
The rain;
Flogging our roof’s heads with sound.
‘Tchssschschschchchcshshcsh…’
like unplugged cable.
Smudges our screens in monotonous tone until
wire is cut, or lightning struck.
A veil of silence
envelopes eyes, off-color.
We stop to think of what might happen.
To stare at endless possibilities
of rain falling
to a stop.
Unless the flood comes uninvited,
Offers things for sale; usually you’re left
without a choice.
Barters a few Armani clothes or a few Dolce & Gabbana
For a sack of rice and a few cans.
Sometimes the flood throws you freebies,
like exotic pets bigger than a cat
Or throw in a few Pesos and get a broken tire.
But mostly they just give you mud and dirt. Mud and dirt.
They fill you up with it
and cover your eyes with it too.
And if you get lucky, they’ll throw you
the essentials like refusing to take your children,
The recovery of a dead faith and you start praying again,
Or they give you an orange boat.
Sometimes the rain comes in to see if you’ll sink
Or learn to walk again.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / September 13, 2010 - Alabang)
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
Mother me in this maze
Blood transfused in your gaze
The flood is high in confined quarters
your eyes shimmer like coins on dying days
The passage through unknown waters
The light reflects white through our barters
My hand extends to a friend, briefly
we make amends with the alignment of lines on our hands
Bull and battered man combined brute force with a weak mind
but even your unkindness inspired warmth in my eyes
Tears tear holes in maroon silk
Blood red rubies fall from the slits in our faces
The salty seas add insult to injury
transport power from poor workers to hungry eyes
We are mere travelers blessed with wooden cognizant hearts
Secretly teasing the embers of life to ignite our hearths
There is more to see than raging seas of empty flesh
Crimes of passion and tears of possession are weaved and liquidated
Run after the river of your ancestor's pursuits
Bright and beautiful lights bouncing off the mirrors
Enticing secular exchange in specular reflection
The same mistakes are made for eternity since antiquity
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
my mother's jaw
for it
to become
my mother's jaw
for it to fit
both hoof
and hell
had to drop
not in awe
but dead
and demon
as a sack
of sticks
in a hunter's
heart
and for the deer
to free itself
that womb
of glass
had to bridle
its hoof
that human bit
with which
it barters
now
and limps
past small men
touching
stick to stick.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 1:55 PM UTC
It is only fair
that life
takes time
away from me
and barters it
with
moments
I visit
in my mind
from time to time
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC
I'm blindsided by her ambience
I'm overthrown by a lover's mutiny
My reflexes have grown slow to react
As I delve deep into her symphony
Harsh words between lips and tongue
Cold summers between spring and fall
She strokes my ego to veil intentions
Travels by sunsets to watch me crawl
Her pupils glisten as they savor me
Her hourglass, I trace with brittle hands
All hail the euphoria she brings
To quench the uprising of ***** demands
She barters for my soul
With riches found under lock and key
These dungeons reek of deadly sins
As she puts what remains of me on the marquee
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Feel the green, feel the blue
See the different hues.
Feel the everlasting pain running swiftly through your veins.
Wind, water, sun, trees,
What are these but words and tangible fees.
Find the hope and the fun as we run barefoot through canyon’s gun,
Water there, wind here, hair everywhere.
Listen and pull up a chair as I tell you the story of blue sky’s and green waters,
the story of jumping cliffs and sought barters.
Who knew a bit of trees could be enough to make one bleed?
Who thought lemonade and a bit of sun would be all we need?
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
*You cannot drink my stones.
you can only hate me the way you do.
your loud flowers
have their steam and bees
as my glum trumpets bark fog
valentines...
and
blooms.
This house is on fire.
This house is on stilts of clay
and brick mist.
This house is in flames
that have no devils to accuse
only hell's breath at rest
in our mouths
and the joke
true.
This house
in on fire, my love... so -
long live the thing that expires
for no reason
save weakness and bald
fate....
This house is truant
and too mean -
to sustain a lush
despair.
It barters no
heaven's
gate
for the one
that pleads abandon
but rather
comes undone
where our knees
creak
from unanswered
prayers -
that our gardens
mock
with sheer beauty
and Nothing.*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
They bore thee not in ease, but in crucible flame,
Nine moons of tempest, no laurels, no fame.
Mood-swung maelstroms, spine cleft by steel,
Yet she bore thy breath no barter, no deal.
Anesthetic hush, then blade’s cruel hymn,
Scissor-born silence, backache grim.
She sits not in solace, nor lies in grace,
Her vertebrae chant thy name in trace.
Father, the silent steward of coin and creed,
Barters his breath for thy school-need.
He eats last, dreams less, buys none but thee,
Yet thou trade his love for a boy’s decree.
We, the heirs of sacrificial lore,
Sell legacy for lust, and ask no more.
Hide truths in shadow, veil hearts in guile,
For a fleeting flame that lasts a while.
Doth he thy paramour, thy fevered muse
Know thy soul’s ache, thy silent bruise?
Will he rise at dawn to fetch thy cure,
Or vanish at dusk, love insecure?
Parents primordial poets of pain
Are cast to margins, cold disdain.
We rage at their rebuke, spit at their plea,
Yet kneel to a lover’s tyranny.
When mother weeps, we turn our face,
But for a boyfriend’s silence, we lose grace.
We beg, we bend, we break, we bleed
Yet for our parents, we sow no seed.
Shame be thy shroud, betrayal thy crown,
Where womb-born bonds are cast down.
No lover’s touch, no whispered vow,
Can match the love they gave till now.
So let this verse be thy dirge, thy flame,
For children who forget their name.
Return to the roots, the sacred tree
For none shall love as endlessly.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 10:30 AM UTC