Switch off the lights
I want
to fall asleep
into the darkness
of your gaze.
For Her…
For Her…
for the early morning smiles she showers me
and the late evening kiss before I sleep.
For the way she looks at me
with those bright eyes
and the way those lips crease into a smile
and climaxed into a laughter
after each corny jokes we share.
For that certain scent
which enchants me
and inspires me to write this poem.
For the way her arms
gently fold and lock
into a warm embrace.
For the days we spent
and the nights we shared
dreaming of a life,
of a future,
together.
For her,
yes, this poem is for her.
Soon He Will Forget Her… (a.k.a. William’s Blues)
The setting sun
will kiss goodbye
to tears
and the waves
will carry them
to a place
beyond memory’s reach…
The mockingbird
will stop singing
songs that remind him
of her
early morning voice.
Her scent in this bed
will leave this room
through the slats
of his window blinds,
carried by the sea breeze…
The stars will shine
again tonight.
But unlike the previous
nights before,
they will not
remind him
of her eyes…
He will pick up his pen
again at night.
But not to write
sad love poems
or a “why?” poem,
or an ” I want to die” poem
or an ” I want you back” poem
But a “Goodbye” poem.
And, unlike the other poems,
this one will end with a period.
Not a question mark…
And he will not use
the same words
in his previous poems
for her.
Words like:
“come back”
“I love you”
and “please”.
This is his poem.
And this time,
he will not mention
feelings of pain
or anger.
Nor will he hold back his tears.
Yes, he will cry
for the last time.
And let the tears
flow and drop
and leave ugly blotches
on this paper.
But he will continue writing…
He must finish this poem,
his last poem for her
And, unlike the other poems,
this one will end with a period.
Not a question mark…
his last poem…
Because…
Soon, he will forget her.
Unanswered Questions
Driftwoods on a river,
you said we were
that fateful day…
I was lost in confusion
between my stubborn belief
that it will always be
you… and me.
and that the “Goodbye” you whispered
was going to be your last.
“What went wrong?” I asked
as you paced away
into the sunset.
Another question…
added to a thousand more
that were unanswered.
and as the chill of the night
embraced me,
I cried.
With tears of bitterness,
I cursed that moment
and drowned myself
in anguish.
I died that day…
Seven years.
I saw that familiar face again.
“How are you?” you asked
that sunday morning at the park.
What can I say..?
Things changed.
People changed.
and before I could even utter a word
I gazed into your eyes.
Once brown and full of life,
were now mirages
of your broken dreams
for your hollow self.
What can I say..?
I can not muster enough strength
to even smile back
or tell you how hurt I was that day
and how much I hated you for that.
What can I say..?
What can I say..?
You left me with a thousand questions
and a “Goodbye”…
But that was before.
I turned around
and walked towards a wife
and a son playing at the park…
“Why..?” I heard you asked.
Your question.
Not mine.
and my one thousand
unanswered questions
didn’t matter
when I said “Goodbye…”
My “Goodbye”.
“Cyra”
“Cyra…”
This, I heard her say
yet…
her dew-laden eyelids
and crimson pouting lips
etched their way
into my thoughts,
fogging whatever left
of my memories…
I reached out
to touch her hand
but I was too weak
to even move my fingers…
My thoughts ran wild,
my trembling lips were dry
and then…
I realized
she has already left.
Oh Cyra… Cyra…
(inspired by a dream)
The Number 30
“What?! You’re 30 and still single?! Why?!”
There you go, the most common question I face nowadays. Not that I dread it though. It’s just that I keep on hearing the same thing over and over again. And the sad fact that the frequency of instances where this question pops up is increasing steadily.
Yeah, i’m a 30-year old bachelor. Big Deal.
Next topic please.
“By the way how’s that business of yours going..?”
“I heard your wife’s pregnant, congratulations.”
“What..? Uhmm.. yeah I have a fiancee.”
“She’s fine.”
“Remember those days when we used to skip school just to go watch movies..?”
“haha.. Uhm yeah, I met her in Dubai.”
“Waiter, another glass of beer over here.”
“We used to work together.”
“Hey, how’s Ronel? Any news from him..? Someone told me he got married already. That’s great news… huh.. uhmm well, maybe in a couple of years…”
Ahhh! It’s easy to get annoyed by situations like that but what people don’t realize is how lucky I am to have been able to reach this age, enjoy the life, have a blast, and importantly, stay “off-the-hook”. Hey, a married man can’t just go out, party till the wee hours, and if he’s lucky, get laid, or get ass-drunk and drags himself home. And add to that the fact that you are financially independent. I mean, I won’t be able to buy that latest pair of Levi’s jeans last week or this 3G Iphone (men, we do know our gadgets!) if I have a baby to feed, right?
A great career. I thought that was enough. Nakakasawa rin pala even for a late bloomer that I am. Before, when I was studying, I promised myself alot of things before settling down. I toiled with my studies hoping that one day, I will be reaping the fruits of my labor. Indeed, how sweet it is to finally be able to buy stuffs and do things independently.
Growing up in a family with 10 uncles, I can’t help but be the subject of their jokes when we are drinking. Being the first man in the family to reach 30 and still a bachelor. I can’t honestly say i’m proud of it, though…
I vowed to myself to finish the renovation of our house before I get married. Something to show my appreciation to my parents who never gave up on me even though I felt the world was on my shoulder at times. It’s a promise I kept and proudly fulfilled.
Looking at our house while taking a sip of coffee one morning, my mother approached me and..POP! the same question goes again: ” So when are you two getting married..?”
But before answering that question, I have to dig deep into myself if I am ready for this. A lovely and loving wife, one or two kids, a house to call my home… sounds good to me. Why not? Even if it means less night outs and more diaper nights. Believe me, the thought is scary but compelling. Hey, I even think it’s kind of fun!
Yes, I’m a 30-year old bachelor. And it’s been one helluva ride so far. Not that I chose to stay single for long, just that the search for the right woman took me a while longer than most of my friends.
But, I must say:
“She’s well worth the wait!”
For My Father
The look in his eyes
is not the same
as the one I remembered
five years ago.
This one has that trace of pride
over a son
who found the luck
he spent all his life searching for.
Not the same look
he gave me on the front porch
of a house half finished,
like a symbol of his struggles.
I still can remember
his words that night
after six bottles of beer.
he said, and I quote:
” find your self.
your life is being wasted
one day at a time.”
and I, drunk and crying,
swallowed my last swig of beer
I almost vomitted.
For between me and this man,
there weren’t much words spoken.
We were so alike.
That’s why we don’t agree
on a lot of things.
His stubborn pride
enduced by the experiences
he endured
and my own selfish pride
struggling to find my own way
so as not to be identified with him.
But I am his son
and he, my father.
Few words…
but they weighed
far more than I could
possibly put into this poem.
Growing up,
I discovered
how so much alike we were.
and I honestly hated that fact
so much, that I vowed to do things my way
only to discover
he did the same things
during his time.
I hated it.
But I am his son
and he, my father.
The arguments between us
over dinner
are now just memories
of how opinionated
we both are.
I laughed at the thought
of how stupid I was
during those times
failing to recognise
the wisdom in his words.
But I do now
and I thank God
For being his son
and he, my father…
Now, as I stepped down from the plane,
I saw the man
and saw how age has etched lines
on that familiar face.
We hugged.
Not so much words.
Just like old times, I thought.
But I knew how happy this man is.
I feel him. He feels me.
I know Him. He knows me.
‘coz I am his son
and he, my father.
We reached our home
and there she was,
waiting in the same porch
full of memories,
the mother and the wife
who has witnessed it all.
She was God’s messenger
to these two souls
the son,
and the father.
The night that followed
saw us drinking
with our friends
(yes, we are so alike
that we have the same
set of friends…)
and hearing him talk
about me
is a feeling
I wouldn’t trade for anything
in this world.
Five years
and a lot has changed.
The house, nearing completion.
But me and my father,
still with very little words between us,
share this bond
forged by countless bottles of beer.
Looking at him,
I realized how he loves people
and the company of friends
(as much as I do…)
and how I would look like
twenty years from now.
I smiled at the thought
of how blessed I am
to be his son
and he, my father…
A Nocturne Trip
A tide of warmth
creeping up my neck
into my face
like a plucked rose
crying out silently
against the invasion
of sadness
…looked at her
with eyes like flooding rivers
of tears.
Girl,
I found myself
drifting…
into the nebulous, cushiony limbo
between awareness and slumber
Your eyes glimmered
in the harlequin play
of colored lights
… I went to bed
but the excited clamours
of my heartbeats
made my night sleepless.
My lips tremble
to tell you
these words.
When…?
tomorrow
(if i ever wake again…)
Death of Amatheus
… and a bell tolls
this dry mid-afternoon
a soul departs
from its mortal flesh
as a leaf falls
from its bough
kissing the ground
and withers to nothingness…
His body lies in silence…
Waiting for the wind
to carry his soul
to placid rest…
…farewell, my friend.
(written for a friend of mine)
“Surreal”
An empty can of coke
stands defiant
amidst a table
full of cigarette butts
like a sergeant
commanding a platoon
of battle-weary soldiers
to stand their ground
as a bottle of vodka
hovers overhead
in the eleven o’clock
blackness of the night.
Soon…
This glass will be empty
like the soul of a curbside poet
searching for words
inside a trashbin
only to find the grime
of a treacherous world.
And with every single word
added to these lines,
the ashtray choked
and told the poet to stop.
Stop.
