A View Of A Lady

A feast for the eyes
   Or a lamb meant to slaughter,
Respected not with respect to
   Mother, wife or daughter;
Regarded as criterion used
   For measuring machismo,
Or a way to exhaust
   A fleeting need of pleasure.

Slice Of Life

When Ego, with his narcisstic sense,
   Wants to be held high in regard,
He uses brickstones of Self-confidence
   To build himself a tall pedestal
         —that others may see
            there on top he’d be.

But the pedestal totters precariously
   So to Ego’s help comes Humility,
Who wedges Retribution in to aid
   The equilibrium, instead it breaks
         —hence, Ego comes down
            crashing to the ground.

Humility dashes quickly to the side
   Of Ego, so badly bruised and battered,
And makes him drink the draught of Pride,
   Which, though prickly, must be swallowed
         —draught that kills pain,
            kills the drinker all the same.

Aborted

Contained in what’s so fragile, could break,
   And soaked to preserve its state.
But why prevent its being defaced?
   It was wanted dead, in the first place.
Defenseless, it was so deprived
   The right to choose, to live, to die;
Borne, by fate, by whose heart was stone,
   And dead before it was born.

Epitaph

Every one that has come
      and gone in my life
   are just passing acquaintances,
for I am sure to have made
      the same number of enemies
   as much as I’ve made friends.
I’ve not so much as touched
      the lives of those I’ve loved
   —my greatest regret, this is.
So should, by chance, today
      I pass away,
   Sadly, I will not be missed.

Loving In Sin?

I know a man who is in mourning
   For cruel Fate has kept him pinned
Forever on the side of losing
   When falling in love is living in sin.

The Bride is soon to wear her ring,
   Her house already has a host;
Desire can not bring to a standstill
   Yearning what’s forbidden most.

Someone will win, someone will lose;
   Whose happy end the Bride will choose?
It matters not, it matters most;
   Both endings ask a heavy cost.

Two Portraits of Love

The flower and the soil

   ‘O, flower, if you’ll be
rooted to me firmly,
you’ll be standing proud;
I’ll not let you fall.
I’ll nourish and nurture you
till Father Time calls,
and wilt you and wither
into just a memory.

The nest and the nestling

   ‘O, little one, as long
as you’re in my care,
protect you, I will,
from the perils of life,
till it’s time to move on
and you learn to fly;
it’s enough for me that
I once was your shelter.


.

The Ballad of Jeremiah Macabenta

The King hosted a feast,
   as it was his custom,
to once a year, feed the least
   blessed in his kingdom.
So the ragged came in flocks
   and in the courtyard gathered,
hushed in anticipation
   of, finally, a warm supper.

All the King’s men guided
   them, so it will be orderly
along dozen long tables
   arranged conformingly.
The guests then sat, food was served,
   each with equal servings;
a plate of veggies, a cut of meat,
   rice and corn soup steaming.

Among those who supped was
   Jeremiah Macabenta,
perhaps the most haughty glutton
   of the millennia.
His infamy was that, amongst
   vagrants, he could
eat in one meal what
   normally three men took.

Though he was looked upon
   as comically fat,
his life as a rat
   was tragically sad.
—having no means of living
   at that—
so to the King’s dinner, an
   invitation, he got.

Back to the feast, 
   after servings were done,
Jeremiah called for one of
   the servers to come;
He said, “Look at my plate:
   of meat, it has none.
Only veggies, rice and soup!”
   So the server gave him one.

Just then a cat with fur
   shiny and black
—which, according to myth, is
   the cause of bad luck—
suddenly jumped onto an
   eating lady’s lap,
who then shoo’ed it away,
   to the table it leapt back.

Landing in chaos upon
   Jeremiah’s place,
exposing two pieces of meat
   he hid under his plate;
caught red-handed, he’d only
   sheepishly grin,
while the King’s witnessed this,
   much to his chagrin.

The King then ordered Jeremiah
   banished from the tables,
of controlling his anger,
   he was barely able;
shocked that this tramp would
   abuse his charity,
when he most wanted to
   treat his guests equally.

Now this is where it’s not
   clearly distinguished
what truly transpired from
   only just gossip;
for it was manifested that
   Jeremiah was punished,
but the story that spread
   was incredibly horrid. 


It was said that Jeremiah
   was chained to a rock
and into his mouth, food was
   endlessly stuffed,
till he choked and gasped
   and breathed his last air,
while bits and morsels trickled
   down his nose and ear.

(And to confound the story
   of Jeremiah’s end,
after the feast, he was never
   heard from again.)

Perhaps the moral is this:
   we should never take advantage
should the kindness that is
   shared to us we acknowledge,
lest we fall into the pit
   of Jeremiah’s plight
—in gluttony he lived,
   in gluttony he died.
 

 

The Rose

Of all creations, is
   The epitome of beauty;
Red, pink or peach,
   ‘Twould still be as pretty.
But if petals be torn,
   To you, would it still be
Looking as much beautiful
   As it is to me?

The Simplest Joy

A treasure more precious
Than gems or gold,
And paid for by most
At any price,
What rejoices the heart
A hundredfold
To see on a loved one’s
Lips a smile.

May Rains

Behold, across, the window scene,
   The falling sky, a low, aging gray;
The pregnant clouds appear to burst,
   Heavy with the rains of May.

Looking out the window
   At the prelude to a storm,
A man awaits the torrent,
   Hums a choir’s dirge alone.

Growls of thunder, bolts of light,
   Storm’s above, storm’s his mind,
Clouded with collaged memoirs
   From sadder than sad times.
 

Travelling At Night

I wish to see the summer green
Of rice and corn fields ripening,
While carabaos on grassed-patch graze
Beneath the sky’s blue shade.

But Night deprives of my desire
With crypt-dark, moonless skies;
She hides the plains in velvet drapes,
Not a blink of light in sight.

Nothingness slips swiftly past me,
That maddening sea of black,
While I gaze out the window blindly;
Of sceneries, this travel lacks.

My Vice

Once I ran after a robber
Who snatched a lady’s purse,
Then after a few short strides
My lungs seemed to burst
 
   —yet I kept on.
 
Then faced with a hundred steps
Upon a flight of stairs,
While I so laboriously trekked,
My chest burned and flared
 
   —still I went on.
 
Walking now seems so deprived
Of what once was leisure,
With all these needles pricking inside
My heart has to endure
 
   —but I carried on.
 
Then it was one rainy night,
My wife threatened to leave;
She said,
   “You made a chimney of our home,
      and I can hardly breathe!”
I am a man, but I can’t last
A life lived without her,
So I knelt down and made a pact
To both of us was fair;
As long as she won’t leave, I’d try
My very darndest best
To quit what she has hated most
And lay it down to rest
 
   —and that was when I stopped
      smoking cigarettes.

Emile

When he came into the world,
   The child that came too soon,
He had nothing but his innocence
   And was blameless and so true.
         But he never felt the warmth’s
      Supposed to nurture someone
         Of as young an age;
That was life to him,
   Sad as it may seem.

Pain tattooed on his skin
   Designed as bruise and scars,
Too harsh a punishment for acting
   Like the child he was;
         And to think it’s only been
      Just four years that he lived
         Within the world he knew,
He had to end it all,
   He had to leave so soon.

Oh, father and mother dear,
      He’ll never understand
   Each searing heat stubbed in his skin
         Or each cracking leather slap.
Yes, he had to cry a tear
      To soothe the pain all through,
   Like a fading candle’s wicker
         Slowly burnt out into soot.

Now I say to you, my child,
   May Peace now be with you.

 

One October Morn

The presence of serenity lie
Naked by my side,
With hair like wildfire spread
   on the sheets
While she sleeps her dreamless sleep;
I watch her bosom swell and ebb
With each slow, languid breath.
And ever so lightly I trace a finger
Along her bare shoulder
—that smooth, porcelain feel.
How my enthralled heart stop still
What with beside me, I am sure,
The fairest amongst God’s creatures.
My spirit celebrates with delight
At having my Dream spend with me
   the night.

Unconditional

To trust one’s word,
      And that alone,
   Is gambling entire riches;
For a thin line
      Does separate
   Having faith and foolishness.
To share one’s self,
      Enough, not wholly,
   Is a word for the wise;
Easily learned
      But not heeded—
   Having faith is being blind.

Closure

Where once I could only taste
Sweet as sweetness should be,
Now there is only but
A sense of hostility
Towards me.
Perhaps you should but could not;
I say, “please,” but you would not

Say goodbye.

Now you say it is not over
And that I should wait;
So I do so,
But is it in vain?
Like in slow motion,
Falling in mid-air,
Faster and faster;
Till the ground meets me
And my body shatters and breaks.

It’s been so long since I last saw you,
My heart is now cramping in ache;
But the ground has not yet met me,
So as you say so,
Here I lie and wait.

I miss you,
And shall keep missing you,
Till the time comes
When I will miss
Missing you.

The City's Wild

There, in a place, where air is sparse,
   Smoke is thick, and light is scarce,
Scattered colors that flash and shock
   Lend but little visibility in the dark.
The door up front the large man protects
   Is where the last of conscience is left,
So what’s taken in are intentions lacked
   Of morals; flesh is the absolute want.
With luscious lies, favors are gained,
   And shows of affection realistically feigned
Through silken touch and tight embrace,
   And minimal dresses of satin or lace.
Ladies and gentlemen both lose inhibitions,
   Civility’s neglected with reckless abandon;
Sensual cravings are satisfied
   When Love’s a commodity—

      —that can be bought at a price.

Hopeless

What you are to me,
What you mean,
If you could see you through my eyes,
Comprehension would come clear.
All those times we were together,
Every single second
And every little detail,
I remember.
When you cried streams of tears,
Or was too drunk to stand still,
I couldn’t find the resolve
To walk away.
For your company,
Even if you do not speak
      —the sparkle in your eyes,
   or the slight smile upon your lips—
   that already is happiness.
Death need not come to find Heaven,
Because Heaven is you.

And you must have found Heaven, too,
In that person that you loved.
If you could see you through my eyes
Each time you speak of him
      —the sparkle in your eyes
   and the slight smile upon your lips—
You define happiness.
How he took care of you,
And loved you,
And how he managed to make you smile
Even at the darkest of your times;
Every single second
And every little detail
That made you love him so much.
 
Oh, what I’d give to be him!

 
Perhaps ‘tis time to find the resolve
to walk away,
And rejoice in the knowledge
That once in my life
I found Heaven
      —in the sparkle in your eyes
   and the slight smile upon your lips—
Every single second
And every little detail,
I will take the memories with me to the end.

Appreciation From A Distance

I am, to her, today,
The present.
And I wish to be her lifetime.
But I have no chance of being
   her future
If I cannot out-do her past.
But she, being human,
Only has one heart,
One she has already given
   to someone else.

But I have said my prayers,
And I pray not that I be
      the one
   she spends a lifetime with,
But just her to be the happiest
   whoever she ends with.

From A Sleepless Night

 . . .and I begin these thoughts
Again.
My mind’s a haunted place,
Inhabited with ghosts;
Phantoms that I,
Myself,
Conjured then be scared of.
Insecurity’s a beast
That eats me like so much meat,
While I waste away
From sickly lack of sleep;
And this beast I feed
And nurse with fear
That I never
Ever
Measure up.
Then I begin these thoughts
Again. . .

Dilemma

Why do I torture myself with illusions


     that she will be mine someday?


Though my wants are not always


     what’s right,


Still she fulfills my dreams.


And desires.


For she has ways of making me happy


Without her even trying to;


Or is it all a test of faith?


Fate always right wrongs using pain.


Me?


I welcome the wrong things


     and the broken heart.


In the end, she will always be


     a special part of me.
 
And she doesn’t even know it.

The Dance

Illumination comes only


     From the far side of the room,


A faintest glint of yellow


     Amidst the blackness and the gloom.


No thoughts or feeling left


     Except anticipation so pure;


Let the music play—


          Whilst they stand now,


     Dance, they shall, soon. 





His touch on her, a delicate caress


     Upon her skin;


Cradled, she is, gently


     Like a fragile figurine.


And as she lay her head upon


          his chest,


     He held her close;


The circle closed by their embrace


     Became, to them, the world. 





The first of many notes play on,


     A song from long ago,


A lullabye of broken promises


     And bitter loss;


So soft, and yet it scratched the scabs


     Of wounded memories,


And flared the pain of hurts


     She most not want to reminisce. 





He raised her face, to his surprise,


     Tears welled from her eyes;


The most sincere and honest gesture


     In a place of feigns and lies.


Should he, could he comfort her?


     —no, she pushed away,


Mumbled an excuse, as if ashamed,


     And left in haste.





A mystery of life, up to this day,


     He can’t digress,


How he found admiration


          —attraction?—


     in that moment of her weakness.


Is it compassion? Is it pity?


     Is it love that’s doomed to fail?


‘Cause if it is, oh,


     the consequences it entails. 





It’s closing time, last call for


     Goodnight kiss before they part;


Tomorrow comes to sell love


     To another’s waiting arms.


So in a day or two, what’s been today


     Won’t ever matter,


For when the music stops


     Then the dance is truly over. 

A Prayer

I am no poet;
I just mimic one and pretend
That I could make a ballroom
     of words dance
And entertain an audience.
But my choreography earns no
     applause
Because there is nothing special
     about it at all.

Boasting of this ability
     is but
An exercise in futility.

But You,
You are the Creator of Words;
You are the farmer and I am
     the soil
On which You patiently toil.
And all these verses
That come out of me
Will not be if not for Your seed.
So from now on,
Though un-special they may be,
Every finished poem,
These ballroom of words,
Shall be dancing in praise of
     You.