(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)

He was a soldier in that fight
Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
The stealthy foemen come.

Year in, year out, by day and night
They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
No fife was blown, and no drum beat.

In winter fog, in gathering mist
The gray grim battle had its end—
And at the very last we knew
His enemy had turned his friend.

You have no idea
How much your
Casual inconsistency
Messes with
My heart.

You always say
that I always may
declare creation
in those speech-act moments
when words become action
Thus see me breathe life
into hitherto stiff fancies
See me empowered by verbal magic
that conjures up fanciful shapes
in the image of my inclinations
So I say let there be beauty and wonder
a swallow swishing crazily past
and a lonely dove cooing for its mate
Let there be rustics exuding the rich smells of life
from newly-turned earth with neat furrows and fat worms
wood smoke and freshly-cut grass in musty he-goat odour
Variety is the spice of life the sages from long ago said
So let there be good-time girls and pompous pimps too
and petty thieves and flashy conmen in loud clothes
Let the world sizzle with a menu of a la carte activities -
sooty greasy grime and lurid crime to shock good people
In simple terms let the world be a poem teeming with life
and let its people know their roles in the scheme of things
Let them play their parts to perfection
while I try out a miscellany of diction and imagery
to capture and portray the wonder of another complex day

I'll go through all the things that were packed away.
Hoping I'd find something that would make me stay.
Something that'd remind me,
that being lonely is just a phase.

I'll find the things that were kept inside,
hoping I'd find them before I die.
But they reminded me of the nights,
the nights I cried to stay alive.

I'll stumble upon our memories,
wondering when forever will be.
I'd remember that moment you were free,
the happiness was leaving me.

So I picked myself up,
put them back inside,
and I put them away for another day.

All because our memories,
filled me up with jealousy.

Ang katotohana'y di ko batid kung paano ko susugatan itong papel
Kung aling sandata ba ang gagamitin, itong punyal ba o kaya'y baril
Mithi kong bawat panitik na bibitawa'y mapatakan ko ng sariling dugo
Dahil bawat papel na masusugata'y tiyak unti-unting hihilum sa puso kong bigo

Ang bawat isasalaysay ng taong malapit na sa kanyang dapit-hapon
Dadamhin alaala ng lumipas, na para lang itong naganap kahapon
Umaasang maaklat ninyo ang aral na nais ihatid
Pulutin ninyo ang ginto, ang bato'y iwanan sa sahig

Maraming salamat kung sakali mang makikilangoy kayo sa aking ilog
Kulay pula man ito'y lilikhain ko itong may kalakip na pag-irog
Mula sa susugatan kong papel magaganap ang lahat
Lapis na punyal at baril ko'y nakahanda nang gumawa ng aklat....



04-10-15

mysterious_aries

People like that I speak plain.
They don’t like when poets are vain.
Hope they love this little refrain.
Think I’ll do it, again and again.

Flowery language isn’t always for me,
I keep my verses wandering free.
Simple words do hold the key,
So a sapling becomes a tree.

Paul Butters