"unbolted" poems - Hello Poetry

Muelle de Binondo Street, Barangay San Nicolas, Old Manila. My dad's fate Will always be muddled With nostalgia: The mid-afternoon Traffic of fruit vendors, The toothless strains Of my grandfather's voice, Bouncing off The warehouse walls Like folding cardboard, The ceramic gallops of horse- Drawn kalesas taking him From school to My grandfather's offices, Every day and back, Up and down The cardboard box river To Tondo. There, he hurriedly Buys ten Asado buns From a stall across the Street from their School - a voracious Schoolboy Forever late for class, forever Putting on basketball jerseys Too wide for him, Basketball shorts too Short; body Always too gangly, Too long-limbed, wide eyed And fleet footed For his dreams to catch. He once could dunk. He is still a baby boomer - Scared of firecrackers, Weird penchant For popped collar shirts, Pointed shoes, and Sequins - he, was an avid Lover of stars - his old Dust-strewn bed posts Giving way, I imagine, To iron bars caging The luminous starry night, Floating high above The sewage And the freight trucks That weigh him so. They sang to him. In the tune of My mother's voice - The only album He ever possessed. Song set from His favorite band. "Apo Hiking Society." His favorite word, Was "leap." A disciple Of MJ, Dr. J, And Magic, Samboy, and Jawo, Icarus on hardwood And leaping From the free throw line. "Son," he once told me, "You gotta leap "If you wanna live." He was always afraid of heights. It wasn't until 41 that We made him ride a roller-coaster, That he had even seen a roller-coaster. "You gotta leap "If you wanna live." I think my favorite Memory of my dad Is still him wringing my fingers At Space Mountain with Eyes so tightly shut That we forgot Our fears, And screamed instead: So. This, Is how the stars look like When unbolted By folding cardboard, And iron bars.

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Mar 22, 2015

Mar 22, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC

jedd-ong

Dad

Muelle de Binondo Street, Barangay San Nicolas, Old Manila. My dad's fate Will always be muddled With nostalgia: The mid-afternoon Traffic of fruit vendors, The toothless strains Of my grandfather's voice, Bouncing off The warehouse walls Like folding cardboard, The ceramic gallops of horse- Drawn kalesas taking him From school to My grandfather's offices, Every day and back, Up and down The cardboard box river To Tondo. There, he hurriedly Buys ten Asado buns From a stall across the Street from their School - a voracious Schoolboy Forever late for class, forever Putting on basketball jerseys Too wide for him, Basketball shorts too Short; body Always too gangly, Too long-limbed, wide eyed And fleet footed For his dreams to catch. He once could dunk. He is still a baby boomer - Scared of firecrackers, Weird penchant For popped collar shirts, Pointed shoes, and Sequins - he, was an avid Lover of stars - his old Dust-strewn bed posts Giving way, I imagine, To iron bars caging The luminous starry night, Floating high above The sewage And the freight trucks That weigh him so. They sang to him. In the tune of My mother's voice - The only album He ever possessed. Song set from His favorite band. "Apo Hiking Society." His favorite word, Was "leap." A disciple Of MJ, Dr. J, And Magic, Samboy, and Jawo, Icarus on hardwood And leaping From the free throw line. "Son," he once told me, "You gotta leap "If you wanna live." He was always afraid of heights. It wasn't until 41 that We made him ride a roller-coaster, That he had even seen a roller-coaster. "You gotta leap "If you wanna live." I think my favorite Memory of my dad Is still him wringing my fingers At Space Mountain with Eyes so tightly shut That we forgot Our fears, And screamed instead: So. This, Is how the stars look like When unbolted By folding cardboard, And iron bars.