"hundredfold" poems
it's been so long since I've cried
it feels like years
no matter how much I've tried
i could not cry any tears
every pain that I've endured
every mistake I've made
i held it in, safe and secured
i thought my emotions would fade
Now it has all returned
tenfold, hundredfold, never ends
the pain in my chest forever spurned
can't figure out how to make amends
So now my tears flow like waterfalls
and i feel pain but gladness
because everything that my mind recalls
rids me of all my madness
All that is left
is a broken me
but less broken
and ready for the world to see
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 4:46 PM UTC
O days and hours, your work is this
To hold me from my proper place,
A little while from his embrace
For fuller gain of after bliss:
That out of distance might ensue
Desire of nearness doubly sweet;
And unto meeting when we meet,
Delight a hundredfold accrue,
For every grain of sand that runs,
And every span of shade that steals,
And every kiss of toothed wheels,
And all the courses of the suns.
1.2k
let hands speak what mouths
cannot prattle
let eyes dream what sleep
renames with its tranquility
let love undo what
hate has wreaked and
let fingers saunter infinite
strides when feet sojourn
let this quiet bellow
a hundredfold of sound
and let soul dance when
we have departed,
enisled here underneath the
brow of a terminal day,
its numeral tasks unfold
in the night full of silences
and let the world feel the cold
of brookwater when we cannot swim—
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Sunrays peep in through imaginary windows...
The heart of the canopied forest
beats a deep throb of chlorophyllic pulse,
Invisible organisms wait in hiding,to smell my odour
The wet ground tries to take me in...dragging me deep into it.
This place always makes me blurry eyed,
Even today as tears run down my cheeks,
The sunlight refracts against them weaving for me a rainbow of psychedelic hues!
Amber memories hanging by the barks makes me weary of my thoughts...
But just then when I take a step to touch them, I hear footsteps coming behind me...
A quick run and a hide...I see him moving upto the exact spot where I had left behind my candid footmarks,
I feel a tingle when he touches them calling out to me with a cracking voice...
And yet I choose to remain in hiding, feigning oblivion much like the way the oceanic storms do in order to take down the will of the mighty ships.
If only I had sunk deep into the centre of the earth,
I would never had to be the mistress of this strangest potion of a feeling, one that just blends longing and feigning perfectly into one!
Some kind of pains are like the fires of hell
You never want to be burnt alive...
I strain my ears trying to hear him out, the farest sounds return to me amplifying a hundredfold, yet all that lingered in the air was a human silence.
Maybe he had understood my dilemma,
My resolve of not wanting to see his tender face again
The fear that once again my petrified heart would be cast away from the spell... That it would set me free...
All I wanted now was a locked space for myself and my heart.
Once out of my hiding place, I ran, stumbling, up to the place where his footsteps had frozen in a previous time.
Touching the place, I could not contain myself
It was my turn to call out to him, only but in a voiceless language!
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 9:12 AM UTC
Uncertain moves.
Letting instinct choose,
being blind to certain horrors,
that which taint one's prideful honor.
Sister of blades, release my soul
free me of pain, a hundredfold...
take me away, from heart's cold.
Geisha of spades, take my hope,
so I might once again cope,
with the people I have lost,
and left behind..
Mistress of aid, light my mind.
Direction is what I ask,
to cease being blind,
and see past her deceitful mask.
Goddesses of truth, in you I trust.
Do what you must.
The future, I know, will be just.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
You forget to notice
as your memories become museums.
Encased in dust,
your settling or someone else's,
it covers all the photographs you say you need
and all the papers you won't part with.
It only takes so much before
the fond caress of a frozen, flat, familiar face
becomes the hundredfold tracing of a ropelike scar.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
Moment soon the soul whimper,
Hesitate to touch mighty feet;
Lose mettle idle crafty plot hover
And steep mind loyal rational heat:
Sure cling he each bums bend.
By stretching own hands smugly surround.
Neither sophism could impress him;
Nor pile of offerings delight,
Need not hold, pity merge gleam,
His traces are above all bright,
His hideous growl exposes hazard dis-quest
His blessing washes our shabby resist.
When some receive his blessings...
Look hundredfold ideas dense success;
Distrust not life shows dreary happenings
Seem sadden cry in screaming guess,
Haply disturb prudent at perplexity wink
What promotes occult utilitarian ward link.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
silence is a balloon in my hand. an erratic saxophone with notes as blue as doves
strangled in noxious space.
android Jesus, not quite the shadow, verily the toppled light
renaming things underneath its parasol – hundredfold of monikers
and a solitary weight of love.
this is where the blood starts to make sense in its cold shrill:
a dagger making its way towards my back. here are few routines of ablution;
a conflagration of bodies. razed sandalwood. first to go is gravity. last are the bodies
helium-gorged, afloat – there is an immense price for solace.
cyclic spectral cyclic spectral
there’s man in ox but never an ox in a man. can you feel the tenacious drone
of the oncoming storm? can you feel the Sun so sick of its diurnal labor?
can you feel the tantric *** of dew? its sensorial fissures?
butchered serrations of grass are like torrid piles of moist ***** ready for ******
again, here comes the quietus. on the loathsome table lies the shrapnel
of last night’s carnal invitation. a moth not named Marieta circumnavigates a bayonet
of elastic fire. here comes the marauder of quiet again,
in my hand, a round, red, silent balloon – I let it go, in such relentlessly hoodwinked
pursuit towards a god that may or may not know how
to dance underneath the bludgeoned beat.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
here, there is not much to look
at. in this 3 AM tapestry,
the moon cloaking itself
in profound dark, stark and unseen,
stars borrowing their coruscations
from their white mother
in choreographed intermissions.
only a swan-song undelivered
an a dwarf carved in noiseless stone. the bougainvillea casts
its webbed shadow on the concreted canvas. soon, the night will turn
rattling in its black bed, and then clamber back to its resignation
and the identical day of yesterday's inception will revisit
us through interstices of leaves,
forking these illuminations
without allegories nor travails,
just light and its lenient pedagogy.
there is not much to gaze at,
let alone speak to, in this
deepening spectacle. only
this swan-song that remains a secret between i and this indomitable figurine.
the moon stilled in its lulled repose, stars minding their own
saturations, as the day is in close transit, nearly opening the door of this pale fixture, entering with affable demeanor greeting me
through a hundredfold of anonymous eyes heavy with discernments.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
I can only summon feelingfulness like the passing of a dove,
postponing its arrival mid-air, somewhere along the tucked
bramble across Poblacion, starting with metaphorical sensibility
or an insensibly bland space to procure wanted meaning.
Girls prefer roses and their bright foreheads diademed with more
flowers, and boys, their chiaroscuro or lack of a color thereof, seems
to be fitting in this maladroit contrast, and so I begin, as always,
with your very vague and caged memory. Your face, the whiteness
of snowcapped alps. Your strut, my slalom in a treacherous course
of words reduced to whisperings, to flutings. Your voice, though nuanced,
flitters with an overtone of arrogance: if sound was clothed, yours would
be flamboyant ermine. And the line in front of you before I, my arbitrary turn,
assimilates into a picturesque form of waiting somewhere in Cubao.
I wanted to smash myself with train-speed towards the metallic turnstile,
which, would then famish me even so, just as much as I wish to be a car crash
somewhere within the outskirts of your town, heavily vandalized by the swill
of squalor hefting itself like the rest of the world conscious of its viscera.
This is how I start you – like waiting for the sun to emerge by Borobudur,
or the clandestine *** of mildew and grass, a hundredfold of images appear
before me and I cannot choose upon my whims and caprices. Are you a dove?
A spear of Sun? A thunderous crackle of an impending rain? A harlequin?
A moseying cirrus? Or just another by-stander in the crowds where I ultimately
seek your being?
This answerlessness measures my knowledge of star, and my breath snuffed
out of me while I sigh from exhausted penchants, outweigh dissimilarities and symmetries.
A progeny from all superseding conundrums arises: are you a retrogression of a wave
back to its saltine wound, flailing in brine? Or are you just the vast sea and nothing else
on a fine and lucid day where children skip stones and chant name-callings?
I sense the peril in this undertaking, and much to my chagrin, I still
do not know how to end you.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
Let us seek refuge inside the 'windsong' of Boreas on this night , dance across the oceans surface forever by shimmering Moon and starlight ..
As we sail across every boundary laid before us , Alectrona will provide a lighthouse for the love weary and forlorn . Omnipotent constellations command the shadows with all their might , a proud Venus shall direct the mighty flotillas of night . Passions moorings will be untethered , wind starved sailing vessels filled a hundredfold by the breath of Poseidon ..
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
To the people that made me who I was,
To the people who loved me dearly,
Yet hurt me harder.
To the people who made me broken,
This is for you.
I know you are not aware of what I try to say,
I would know because, I'd never want you to.
But waking up 9 o'clock past breakfast,
Waking up to the sight of emptiness,
Made me feel about to burst.
I know you have inspired me to be better.
I know you have inspired me to skyrocket my way.
Yet I also know what you did;
I knew of your words,
I knew of your actions.
I first thought you saw me as a star;
Bright, and soaring,
Now, flashing back the things that happened before,
I felt you saw me as luggage:
Nothing but something to spend hundreds on.
I know I let you down,
But it isn't my fault my lungs can't breathe the same air,
I know I give you burden,
That I annoy you a hundredfold rather than make you feel loved,
Rather than make you feel proud of me.
I'm sorry I fell down on my absolute lows,
I'm sorry if I have always kept what truth I have,
I'm sorry I let the opportunities slip by my fingers,
I don't know what to do,
I don't know what to do.
I want to go back where my world wasn't shrouded,
I want to go back where I gave you smiles and not pain,
I want to find myself again,
But I just can't, you can't understand;
But I just can't, you can't understand.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Pondering the gnarled vineyards of twilight,
It is for these grapes that I hunger,
For they have survived the drought and the blight,
Bearing scars of days when they were younger
The fruits of old love are tender and sweet,
For they've learned to endure sun and shade;
Keeping strong through gale force winds, snow and sleet,
Their true value has been measured and weighed
Old love seeks beauty deep within the heart,
The wrinkled face and the graying hair
Matter not, yet what a sting they impart
To the lonely tangled in Time's cruel snare
Observe the pearl fishers - they're not concerned
With the oyster's shell, but with the prize
That's dwelling deep inside, for they have learned
They might find a gem in cunning disguise
Satisfying are the fruits of old love,
So patiently they wait to be claimed
By soft, wizened hands, gentle as a dove,
Yet displaying passion's touch, unashamed
Love that has withstood the test of the years
Is a love that's worth its weight in gold;
In spite of all the sorrows and the tears,
Old love can still bear fruit a hundredfold
How blessed are we who can see love's sweet truth
Unfolding before our very eyes;
We don't need the exuberance of youth
To yield to love's call under star-filled skies!
Old love has had its feet held to the fire,
And it emerged, still able to stand;
It survived the bogs of life's muck and mire,
What more can be said ..... for sure, old love's grand!
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
It's a fire in the cold
It's brighter than gold
It's a burning sensation turning hundredfold
It's like playing in the rain
in a blazing game
Sunset raging in the glow of the wildfire flames.
It's the thunder of the beat of the summer drum
It's a crazy conversation don't know where it's from.
It's the radiance of the bright blue white light
It's the feeling when two people love
and get it right.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
your home filled with vines does not know
it is alone — it seeks to become a diaphanous fold of trees, a violent vermilion of skies crushed to clay.
its arms hold refuge, a delicate heart.
the formless shadow there and the unguessed sensorium of furniture —
they do not know the touch of ruin.
underneath you, i am.
soil crumbled by the hundredfold of your
weight. in the air singes the burning of days, punching a hole onto me like
a globule of diminutive fire rife to
cull the vineyard of my body.
your home does not know
the dream of its weight. the anchor of its pillars gnash the acidulous trifle of hours.
doors, windows, cupboards still — every aperture gorges itself with the water
of your footsteps.
your home does not know
that it stomps stonily against an earthen fruitage: my body beaten to a pulp.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
this is another form I would like to lose
but what is a man to inherit but the empire of sleep after
being caught in a virulent web of dailiness?
sometimes dreams are as empty as Manila
on a Sunday – requiring things I do not understand,
so as the departure of leaves to bring back the same existence,
the parallel rawness, and the exact hundredfold inflorescence,
a blank synthesis of light is another conundrum
as sidewalks remain steely and squalid
holding themselves up to surrender; when another drone breeds
sound from a distance, one is reminded of how gently songs in themselves
break inward and release fully, a cloud of regret, leaving things and renaming
them loose sobriquets;
and when all else have gone into total darkness
I will sit beside everything else that closes its eyes to the world
and rejoin them in the familiar and see nothing but the rest
of beautiful things ignite to show scars and leave
us all wordless, losing
this strange form of living.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
I inter this one along with his brothers and sisters,
All of them dead, wrinkled, dry, and spent--
Then cover their husks with earth
And wait.
Next Wednesday, here they resurrect in bodies
Nothing like the ones I laid to rest.
But greening life unfurling over that same ground that smothered them
Last week.
Where is the seed? I wonder, and digging shows that
It has been consumed by what it started.
Now verdant growth delineates its forgotten
Shallow grave.
And for some time I don’t recall the humble start
To which my viridescent vine’s indebted.
‘Til autumn, when the flower’s passed and pods can shell out in
My hand.
There, held in dusty palm I meet the progeny of
Last spring’s burial--
How like their father, and how many! Separated by that living vegetable
And time.
“The Seed is the Word” I know. I see it happen
As it plants itself in my soul’s garden patch.
Just words on wrinkled paper, ancient script seems long
Since dead.
But something new grows up in that same spot,
Some living thing that I had not expected
That seems not myself or what had grown there
Before.
It’s not the seed, but somehow hearkens back to my ingestion of
The pages in that dusty tome.
And I forget the exact words that sank into my being until
One day,
When an accusation flies my way--though wrongly hurled
By one who should have loved me.
And my response, unexpected, is not my practiced
Comeback.
What is my deal? I wonder. Where’s the anger and vexation
I should feel right now? Why the
Peace I can’t quite understand, and the total lack
Of pique?
Then I see them in my soul, breaking from the pods, thirty, sixty, and
A hundred: “Great peace have they which love Thy law, and nothing
Shall offend them.” “ Blessed are ye, when men . . .
Revile you.”
The seed I found in age-old text--now separated by the verdure growing
In my spirit, lush and full--is now
Mature and bearing fruit that looks just like
Its Father.
"But he that received seed into the good ground is he that heareth the word, and understandeth it; which also beareth fruit, and bringeth forth, some an hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty." Matthew 13:23
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
having given themselves to loves service
again and again
often forgetting but given all the same
love accepts your meagre offering
and transforms it a hundredfold.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
parachutes and pens, bowler hats and belts
these are our symbols, watch them mean
mysterious to whomever spies on us
ambiguous; to bring analyses hundredfold
breeds pathetick arguments pertaining to
precious, altogether perfect, brimming
hands and books
light and weight, lay and wait
these are our metaphors, see their wavelengths
a weapon, a curse, a turning of the tables
and how utterly beautiful is it that no one
will ever understand them
-c.j.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 1:54 AM UTC
my bones break from the sheer weight
of the imagined moment where
you trill on my bough
like a wan heron
or the immense warble
of a bird
or say,
where the eternal breast of
the shore is touched a hundredfold
by the wave's quivering hands,
where the salt is poised in the bendable
light swaying in the water against
the high noon.
what moves the sea
is what moves the fruition of
my being to where you are,
near or away, still like a photograph
close to my chest, nursing your
warmth in me, like a fire to
a hearth but you are not with me.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
Take one, just one.
Take it far away.
The only thing you had left
The only thing you recognized anymore.
Take just one,
Out of all that you had
Far from everything you knew
It was your rock, your anchor.
Take only that
Which keeps you awake at night
Brings you to desperation
And leaves you feeling raw.
There alone, hanging on
To the last remnant of your life,
Only that one emotion,
When you finally let it go
The others are returned
One hundredfold.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC