"binatog" poems
I was six when we used to play fairy
The unknown didn’t even bother me,
I went along with the rhythm
The neighborhood was my kingdom
The front yard was my palace
And nothing has malice.
We used to play pretends
Along with friends, without stupid trends
Worlds of magic and fantasy,
Flashily, randomly, valiantly, yet on rhapsody.
We made up spells and slayed dragons.
Years later, we had our own battles.
We looked at each other and all they think about is ***
All they do now is flex
Milktea, Sampgyupsal, Iphone X
Everybody now is an object of what's next.
Those things that should be treasured forever,
I wonder if they still remember.
Remember how the cold breeze of Christmas mixed well in December,
How "Ber Months" was welcomed by September,
How happy it was to do trick or treats at November
When celebrations meant for every family member to be together.
People forgot so fast like it was plaque,
No one even tried to be awake.
Kids these days will never understand
The heat of afternoon I withstand
To play "Patintero", "Garter" and "Piko"
How we chased "Binatog" and "Taho"
To have our bare foot at the heat or wet ground
With ignorance at our feet, we had the world as our playground.
All I seen in social media is words,
Words of people who wants likes and hearts.
I guess only few remember,
How good it was when we were younger.
Ignorance was bliss
When did we become like this?
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC
it was raining that morning – so much the effloresce of colors
making their way back into the sky; there were the strangest forms of
clouds, their bodies assuming shapes and geometries, obscured angles
like that of two coiled lovers on a bed, whose bones ache the septuagenarian
but still at ease when it comes to building fire; no birds were out that day
and the busy binatog vendor blared into the streets like an unwanted nuisance,
it was already afternoon when you had your eyes wake up to mine,
your simian jaw curved to a hook of the C in crescendo, your voice the twilight
and the familiar passing of birds, the gush of blood inside of you;
there are such speeds that ultimate a crash, or a fragment – the semantics
of motion do not appeal to both of us, but we ceaselessly exist in those
moments when all of your movements summon, say, the sea, but that is a metaphor
used overtime, overwrought and taken out of its blue – say, your grandfather’s pendulum
watch impaled to the wall on a heady standstill, face to face with a linoleumed wall
that shouted its age – its superficial maquillage falling out of its slenderness
fashioned to secretive ****** something both you and I know, something that does not
come well with age, something that only some shadows choose to eschew in light.
in a faraway place, there might be parakeets but this time, underneath the cusped sky
and the parasol that was drenched by drizzle that we let dry by the doorstep,
there is something about the gnash of rusting metal-work that tells me time has its own
way of claiming things, renaming them, and bringing them back in awry stances nestled
in tight, wrestling nooks of space, dark and dust on ground – keeping us leaping in place,
swift with dreams of wings and aviaries, be it elocutionary with farce
or just keeping it real by the unreal of our imaginations – like birds swell in the sheen
of the sky’s flayed bone, sliding in and out of the fringes of the aureole until such gardens
are flustered with monochrome: this perfect dagguerotype of day.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC