"jerome" poems
In Nero’s private stage,
Disaster was
His audience. Rome mimics fallen Troy in play.
What was reflected in Nero’s eyes
when he sang of the swirling patterns
of fire? When Rome was caught burning;
When conspiring led to its fall.
Fire engulfed Rome with fiery teeth.
The clouds hide or faint into black smoke.
The skies bleed heavily with rust
Its brassy color mixing with the
*** of burning seas, like oceans melting
Could you not feel the sun’s weight?
Now it is incomparable to
Molten seas and softened lead!
Blood spilt from sea-point, waves wallow the cries
Of the fallen. Like a bellowing sound marching
Against caverns of ears, Copper soldiers
Melt into clouds oozing with emotion,
Shattering their now empty metal hearts,
Hollow hearts that outlive the muteness.
It is awakened when
Spark and light is absent.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 26, 2009 - Alabang)
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
Sir
Jerome
Mrs
Michael
Miss
Lucy
Mister
Wendy
Ma'am
Kate
I hear all these names at once
I hear all these things at once
I can hear everything
A glass just shattered
It was loud for them
It was louder for me
Don't be rude!
"I need to get some more raspberries tomorrow-"
"Remember Harry's anniversary is next week-"
All these words combined
Making me lose my mind
"I need to get- Harry's anniversary is next week-"
" remember- some more raspberries tomorrow-"
I'm shaking
I'm being stared at
I can't see
But I know they're staring
Don't take pity
I'm used to it
There's a woman touching me
She's touching my shoulder
She's speaking in a 'can I help you ma'am?' voice
But I can't hear what she's saying
It's under-
"Get a chair!"
Water
I see her again
She's rubbing my back
I think I'm screaming
I can hear screaming
I don't know if it's me
It doesn't sound like me
But it also sounds like me
"What's up with her?"
"Don't be rude!"
The room blurs.
It fades.
Everything fades.
Then I'm outside.
The woman is still there.
She's still speaking in that stupid voice.
I wanna tell her that I'm not a toddler.
But I do appreciate what she did.
So I decide not to be rude
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
Half man, half tree:
Describe limbs with leaves
And when the reader reads, looks only at
One part: wood
but not sees
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / 2010 - Parañaque)
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC
The Albatross
Lone de-odorizer of the toilet
Its smooth contour covered in a clear blanket
Wrapped around with cheap plastic,
Adorned with cheap silk, the semi-lucent plastic
Like unwrapping a yema
It smells very sweet. Very, very.
You seldom notice this white bird
In your long hours of comforting, brooding
Hungering for attention beneath the swollen toilet
Asking for unwanted pleasures
The toilet asks "why must I feed?”
The Albatross mums in its silent reprieve.
Still you didn’t notice the wounding
Of your smooth oily toilet
In long comforting hours of sleep;
No, only excretion is wanted here.
The albatross takes away the scourge
The scourge beneath your noses
And still you didn’t notice
The glory in its inexistence
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 28, 2008)
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
It no longer exists.
The wind; a passing gale sweeps
my laurels.
The desert is filled, too many
my voice.
Origin, a return to birth.
A sword of blazing fire, winged
halts me.
Where are you Eden?
I look and look,
the desert is filled with voices too many,
which is mine or do i have any?
The sun no weeps, I sing.
Myself, I find, thick of leaves
I carry, it sings no longer green.
Winged fire sword ablaze,
use I, leaves dry. Outstretched,
brown, my arms, fail to sky
afire. Feet my burns, I no walk longer.
Stiff, I root my tree to flower.
Fragrant white flowers, settle.
Pray I to you, of hope I joy.
Bring life to water, Frame of sky
Bring, Abba, Father.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal - February 1, 2011)
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
She visits us every time
The building needs repainting
And every time she visits us
We ask her:
“When will you be back?”
You say you will only be
A jeepney ride away.
We sing; the choral chimes with the wind.
Dry leaves always settle down
Where the wind stops.
Only it does not. But, it settles, and always
Wherever the wind leads them to grow
Apart.
Maybe that’s the purpose of apartments.
Always seeming to leave, to stay only
For sleep, not rest.
We kept talking every time
How our phones ring each other.
You answer questions, always you do so
Not with a no, it was difficult for you;
Nor a yes; but always you say:
“I’m right here”
“5 minutes”
passing through regular public commute;
you are always nearby,
always stuck in heavy traffic.
I can even see you every time,
Always there,
And always smiling.
The last time we smiled together
You told us:
“I am always here – a whisper away”
Only you are there
Not here.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / July 25 2013 - Parañaque)
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
The gods of fire and storms seem to call.
Do you not hear that his end is near?
The deep is swallowing up the light.
Skies burn, winds drip emotions.
But unlike Fishes, multitudes of clouds
Dissipate like crowds, oceans
darken with grief as sun seems dulled.
Stars move with the procession
Of boats with floating lamps.
Fishermen’s vessels cross, slicing waves
underneath, spraying salt water on eyes.
Crisscrossing nets spread
Like wings of dove.
Overbearing waves heavy with boats
answer call of coming
School of fish.
Pained hands blister the night.
With Eyes that flicker like lamps.
They Be still and know of Sun’s
promised light.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 25, 2009 - Alabang)
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
So should a seed
does grow must leave
its home:
Earthly walls,
empty shells
he covers himself with.
In nakedness
must Adam gather up
sewn up leaves.
While surrendering
into the dark
and foreboding earth:
Miles wide and miles deep.
Alone, into the sweltering
and blistering heat of the sun.
Armed with but
a leaf for Mercy!
cries his clothelessness to the wind.
So must a flood pass
once, twice, over and endure
in callousness and tenderness.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / August 5, 2014 - Bulacan)
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
I say it the ocean
that it runs
deep. But water
it is not,
quickly swept up
by the wind.
Nor is it driftwood
that rides the tides
undecided. I Say it is
the rudder that steers
the ship. Not the sail
that the wind does blow,
but the ropes
which carefully guide us
to which direction
we choose to go.
It is the rope
that binds us not
against our wills,
but that of which we
hold on to
in the darkness
of our minds
where light does not
our eyes show
nor in winds
that tell us No.
For M.D.R.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / 06/10/14)
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
at a pool party to celebrate no drownings
one hundred lifeguards, laughing and gloating
water was splashing, music was pounding
until they noticed jerome moody floating
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
I talked to an 77-year-old man who was washing the windows at Pizza Hut today.
He was young and so happy.
He was kind.
And wise.
He was rich.
He had no money.
He had nice eyes.
He was going blind.
He had a beautiful smile.
His teeth were rotten.
His name was Jerome.
And all he wanted to do was help people.
He taught me so much in 6 minutes.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
This little squirrel Quill
He lived over the highest hill -
He pined all day with nuts to collect
To protect for long winters.
Quill climbed the tallest
trees and still he
hid from large eagles till
He knew he could safely return home
burrowed in his log.
Mr. Squirrel Senior Quill warned
"Don't be long, it's nearly dawn!"
But little Quill amused himself
and ate acorns to meet his fill.
He didn't worry or scurry home -
He took his time,
He sang a rhyme
He made a friend: 'Jerome' the gnome,
He sang and sought a new way home.
Mrs. Squirrel Quill, she drilled and drilled:
"Where were you? what happened?!"
Her mother's voice shrill.
"I, uh, I was ill!" said Quill, "terrible case
of Squirrel's fill!"
Hiding the nuts, he smiled wide;
He was happy, little Quill -
Free and filled.
(C) 6/1/15
Courtney L
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
And here you are
Child, come to me.
This. What it used to be.
The entrance to your
Marble home.
The pillars.
the four corners that held
your baby clothes, old toys.
Like a wicker basket
In flames, now blackened
And covered
With the thick vines
And mired in green.
Nothing withstanded
The once and Great war.
The nights lit up
like fire-flowers blooming
in summer. Every thing
Burned away. Nothing
sacred was left. Doors and
Walls no longer stand.
You touch what is left
Grazing your fingers
On the roughness of
This old, old skin. Tired.
Now.
Only the stairway
Is left.
The only portion left
Clothed with marble
Not carved away
by scavengers.
It looks sad
now that it leads
nowhere.
It led only to sadness
If you try to remember
What is no longer there.
With finality
You pick up your things
And go.
Content with the past
That it once held you
In its brown,
But now white and bony arms.
For Nick Joaquin
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / Augsut 12, 2014 – Bulacan)
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
Jeremy Duff woke up as he usually does on a Tuesday morning.
With the alarm clock blaring he lifted his right arm from off his wife's chest.
He stood up, covered his wife's bare torso with the purple, fuzzy, comforter and walked to the bathroom, naked.
He turned on the sink so hot water would begin to pour out.
After completing his usual morning routine of shaving, dressing, smoking, and eating, respectively, Jeremy began his walk to work.
It was, on a typical day, and this was a typical day, a twelve minute walk.
He lit a cigarette the moment his feet hit the sidewalk. It was the first of, on a typical day, thirty-eight.
Jeremy worked on the 27th floor, which he thought of as funny as he pressed the "27" button, as he did on any typical day. His job was to edit spelling on essays before they would be turned in for final inspection. Then, as his boss put it, if the writers were lucky, they would see the essays in the next issue of Story Magazine.
He sat down in his office, lit his third cigarette of the day, and looked at the large stack of papers in front of him. If he was lucky, Jeremy thought, he could get halfway through the stack and take his 10 early, to see his wife. The first one on the stack was entitled "The Young Folks." It had a blue sticky note on it reading "Vignette, Salinger, Jerome David, 1,794 words."
Jeremy read it, purely aesthetically, looking only for spelling mistakes. Finding none, he put a quick check on the blue sticky note. Mr. Duff lit his 5th cigarette and read the story again. It was phenomenal. He read it a third time, while smoking his 6th cigarette. Jeremy finished the first half of the stack and lit his 9th cigarette. He grabbed the story by Salinger and began his walk home. His wife greeted him at the door with kisses. He showed her the story. She read it, read it again and told him it was great. She just didn't understand, Mr. Duff thought.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Don't listen to me, I'm a copy too
I'm nothing that should be considered original
I'm nothing worth building a statue over
I'm nothing that can't be replaced
If I get hit by a bus
Just pull someone else of the street
Put them in my clothes
You'll hardly notice the difference
I think my parents will like someone they won't have to feel guilty towards
They ******* me up
They know it, too
My brother'll like someone that's not trying to put him down all the time
I'm still in the process of ******** him up
He knows it, too
You could all just throw my dead, stinking, toxic body in the back
Feed me to the dogs
Let's mosey in the other extreme, let's say I'm unique
Or you are
They won't let us be different
If the commonwealth start listening
They'll **** us
Out of fear
What else they can do?
If we threaten them with consciousness among the masses
We got to go
It's nothing personal
I'll never have a Swan Song day
I'll never have a woman that I love
I'll never get to die peaceful in bed
I won't get to see the kids I never had grow up
But I'll have the benefit of having the memory of a fresh life
Doesn't sound like we have much of a choice, does it?
Conform, jump through the hoops, sell our soul, give yourself up
Or you live your life not giving in
And they decide you can't stick around
You're given the people funny ideas
I'm sure they'll **** you or me
If we're too free
They already got rid of Bobby, John and Martin
I guess that's why Jerome went into hiding
He gave too much hope and courage to people
You can either rot from the inside
Or you die young
Because, maybe one way or another they get you
I like to believe they don't though
Imagine this, as you lay bleeding from the three holes in your chest
With that last word of hope or love or divinity or whatever you want to call it on your lips
You sit and you think
It was all worth it
I don't regret anything
Because
Unlike them
I can still taste her lips
Unlike them
I can still hear the music
Unlike them
I can still see the endless fields of rye, the forests, the amazons, the rivers, the mountains
Unlike them
My eyes still smile
Unlike them
I laugh
Unlike them
I dance to my own music
And as the blood that retains it's anima leaves my veins
I smile
Because I'm not like them
And I realize
So I'm grateful
And I notice
All the little scared people look so cute in their mislead, unshaped, self-righteous indignation
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 1:15 PM UTC
Last night
you breathed on me.
The grass
reminded me
of the faint color of the sun
on your skin.
I remember,
how we treaded lightly
on folded grass;
a reminder
of how we stayed behind
for each other.
"Like friends"
We would say together.
How our own weight
carried
our sentences
to each other
almost touching.
For T. S.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 8, 2011 - Parañaque)
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
This October,
the rain speaks pebbles
like the sound of static.
Watch the patterns the wind points out:
the drifting rain,
a question marking a crossroads path you keep
asking to yourself.
"if the rain keeps pouring,
will our questions only pile up and up?"
Gathering huge puddles
under our doorstep
reflecting an expressionless sky, or
a sudden murkiness in it.
how the rain touches the roofs
of old gray houses sitting in silence.
watch as a huge puddle gathers all
other puddles, gathering minutes
the seconds even, lost in counting.
the rain starts drifting faster and faster,
see how counting no longer counts,
we feel a certain disconnection, again
the sound of falling pebbles.
Still, the rain keeps pouring
its numerous what if's
how it pins needles to our heads
you ask and you only hear
the long 'tchsssssh'-es
filling up the empty spaces of
my mouth, of our long silences
that still count, to me.
You slightly move
your hand above your hair
in a futile attempt
to lessen the question of rain.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / October 1, 2010 - Alabang)
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 7:30 AM UTC
She reigns above the grimy thoroughfare
where Gun Hill Meets Jerome.
A school house made of yellow brick
serves as her earthly home
It was built by Italian immigrants
with plaster Brick and stone.
It comforted the Irish Micks
when they felt all alone.
A sculptor found the beauty
contained in a block of stone
and carved an inspiration
for her people far from home.
The faces at her table change
They hail from different climes
The words and accents differ
in the liturgy of time.
Our lady stands as guardian
where the human meets Divine
Her school, a testament to faith,
in difficult turbulent times
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 9:28 PM UTC
I found a way to make it painless, to make god good, to make myself good, to make myself god—me—Joshua Jerome Hutton, sound familiar?
God I hope so.
I found a way to make it painless in the checkout line, while the bleary-eyed maidens of South Moore, one in front, one behind, talk 3 a.m. rallies and resurrections right through me.
I found a way to make it painless at the eternal stoplight, watching the eternal Vietnam veteran in eternal rags holding eternal cardboard, summoning crumpled bills from anyone other than me.
I found a way to make it painless during the photo shoot, a way to place my chin so thoughtfully in my hand, a way to look into the middle-distance, a way to imply self-deprecation, a way to find near perfection—only under ample light, of course.
I found a way to make it painless in the soup queue, amongst my fellow unshaven, shamed naked, shamed to the bone, shamed pure, shamed to one flybuzz drive: I must consume.
I found a way to make it painless, to make it to the center of the white space, to suspend, inking out the worst parts of me, an all caps ATTRACTION, impossible to pinpoint, all for the review of books and the cabal of the slowed-down and insane still reading the review of books.
I found a way to make it painless by never breaking eye contact nor speaking a word as you talk yourself deeper into what you hate about yourself, and I stir my drink with a black cocktail straw, and I clear my throat, and I hahaha to myself, and I say these little issues just seem like problems. Just wait. You just wait.
I found a way to make it painless, to eek out of my own borderlines, to meld with the air and chemtrail across the sky, to observe from a holy distance the tightrope walker, the controlled demolition, the desperate young men lagging five feet behind the elusive loves of their lives, firing every clever phrase, hoping for one to land, to glean one little pause, a moment to catch up, and here, I must admit, it gives me great relief to be this removed, this far gone, this far god.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Clouds overcast;
Light of sun
Seep out.
Atop this hill, us
Below a height
Of canopy-sky.
Thought dreamt.
It drank long
And deep
in sleep.
Sun folds
into a blanket
Of glaring eyes.
As if the stars seemed
To question me:
"Where have you been
In this long dream?"
Always, we have been here
Watching trees grow,
Letting summers pass,
As if waiting
For something.
The folded grass
Reminds us
Of familiarity.
Salt, grass, mud,
Water, earth, air.
The wind
whispers these things
With a steady hand,
Brushing the grasslands
With water. Gently
Leaving its fingerprints
In us.
The shallow pond;
The way it mirrors the sky
Kept us pondering.
Perhaps the sky meant for us
To be more than just lions.
I look into it sometimes to think
how I was unable to see
the stars that night
we drank from it.
Maybe, i'm just not thirsty.
Outside our hill,
the winds
from the White Mountains still blow,
Singing their last verses.
I am starting to forget
the thought of us
being more
than just mere lions.
For T. S.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal - 01/11/14)
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
the ruffling of
wet leaves, dews
dance on rain wept
petals, or on ground
-bore-earth. In her
rootedness
they sought, in her
peace
they found
Solace.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 24, 2009)
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 7:01 AM UTC
as the rain slides down
the window pane
and the moondrifts from
cloud to cloud
i remember my first
flatmate...
Jerome,
who tooks his smalls
home to be washed by
his mother,
who was fastidious about
trimming his ginger...brown
beard, but not so fastidious
in cleaning the sink...
the owner of Muffin, the budgeriagar who survived
being vaccumed up once,
but not twice....
Jerome, full of gay angst
and closeted pride...
who taught me...
love is not an animal
that can be leashed
but is a thing,
of wild untamed beauty...
Jerome....who gave love
in buckets and bunches
of floppy daffodils...
i lost him as a friend, many
years past......but some nights drear and dark
he pops by....to say cheerio
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC
*I wonder what he hides
behind those smiling lies
and the warm creeping blush
that shades his eyes
I wonder if he knows
that I can see
I wonder what he sees
when he looks at me
the flushed cheeks
and hesitant goodbyes
quivering lips
from wasted lies
I wonder what he sees*
© Priya Patel, 1/29/16
The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.
~ St. Jerome
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:59 AM UTC