My jacket on my shoulder,
flapping with the winter night wind,
my ipod whispers a sad love song
and Jack Johnson goes:

    “It feels right
    It feels wrong
    It feels like when you have it,
    then it’s gone
    I want more
    More and more…”

I flicked my cigarette
as the bus approaches
And pulled a dirham
out of my pocket

    “…And if you steal the fire
    Give me some
    Cause the sun
    Disobeys while it waits
    for a friend to arrive
    from the past…”

I stepped in
glancing at the five people inside
all weary from
a hard day’s work

    “What holds us around, and around
     While we wait…”

Found myself a seat
next to the window
and closed my eyes
thinking of home…

The scent of mom’s freshly cooked
Pancit canton in the morning
Father’s jokes at lunch
and the fabled Pulupandan sunset…

Ten more days, I told myself,
Ten more days to spend
In a cacophony of keyboards
and phone calls.

My reverie was interrupted
by the speakers of a mosque
we happened to pass by,
beckoning the faithful for the Salah.

“What holds us around, and around
While we wait…”

(Damn! I missed Pinas…)

Switch off the lights
I want
to fall asleep
into the darkness
of your gaze.

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.

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.

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…”

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)

“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!”

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 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…)

… 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)