My poems, more often than not, embrace the tone of grit and angst. My poetry Muse is definitely cringing to death at this moment with this mushy poem, but forgive me---these days, I’m just a pile of pure slush. ;)

For you

are the crisp air

after a summer afternoon’s rain,

the awkward silence in between,

when words are not enough

and emotions are overflowing,

the hyphens, the pauses, the new narrative

in my writings

the peaceful stillness of my Friday evenings,

or Sunday mornings,

the ride home

after going away for a long while,

For you 

are the okays, 

and the thank yous, 

the chuckles of amusement, 

the twisted jokes, 

the uncomplicated words, 

the quiet, and yet, warm emotions,

For you 

are the quiet beatings 

of a steady heart, 

the plans, 

minus the well-planned checklist 

that random smile

in the middle of the most monotonous of routines,

that one prayer before bedtime, 

silently uttered for years.

Reclaiming My November

Amidst the dancing biraho grasses, 

she gathered the strength to claim

that she was in fact wrong,

that her November definitely extends up to now.

The only thing that changed is that her 

November extends no longer for him.

Waiting, stopped

being a dreadful thought, yet again.

It was fitting, she added,

that these grasses flourish in the cruel winter,

for she too, celebrates the winter chill even though she wasn’t built for it,

not because these grasses love the cold,

not because she loves the cold,

but, because it was cold, 

these grasses are a sight to behold in the glistening winter sun,

but, because it was cold,

she can fully embrace the warmth.

---Petchaboon, 19 December ‘13

#For that day, I celebrated the reasons for writing <you>, and the many reasons for stopping to. ;)

Updi Ko Bala Sulay sa Ulan!

Kun gusto mo mabal-an
kun ano nga klase nga pagtipig
ang gina-buhat ko sa sining
balatyagon ko sa imo,

lakat ka bala upod sa akon
kun mag-ulan sang mabaskog,

indi ko ya magsinggit kag
magdasig-dasig lakat para mangita
sang malapit nga pasilungan

indi ta man ka pagbaya-an
kag mag-una ako lakat
para indi guid ako ma-umog sing basa

indi ta guid ka pag-guyuron
para magdalagan sing madasig
asta maka-abot kita sa aton kaladtuan

indi

pamati-an ko lang ang tiyempo sang
imo pagtikang kag sundon ko lang
ang ritmo sini

huo

malakat lang ako sing mahipos
upod sa imo,

pabay-an ko lang nga mag-alagay
ang ulan sa bilog ko nga lawas

ang importante, ara lang ko galakat
sa kilid mo

kag  ang maayo sini kay
bal-an ko nga daw malawig-lawig
ini nga laktanay...

teh, gusto mo guid mabal-an?

lakat ta 'to bala kag magpa-ulan.

Panaghoy ng Isang Anak Na Nasa Kabilang Ibayo Nang Manalanta Si Pedring

Dahil hindi pa tuluyang naghilom ang 'yong mga sugat, ngunit heto na naman....

Kumusta ka na inang 'pinas?
Dinig na dinig ko mula dito sa kabilang ibayo
ang iyong pagkagulantang nang bigla kang dinalaw
ulit ng isa na namang nagsusungit na tagapag-singil


Subalit sa pagkakataong ito, hindi na si Frank o si Ondoy
Siguro ay napagod na ang dalawa sa pag-usig sa 'yo
nang 'di mo sila nabayaran kaagad-agad sa ilang 'di
mabilang na pagkaka-utang sa kanila ng 'yong mga anak


Ilang puno ng nara at akasya na din ba ang hiniram, pinagkakita-an
 na at lahat ngunit 'di pa rin naibalik ang kapital sa dapat na pagbayaran?
O 'di kaya ay ang pagpapakasasa sa mga ilog at kadagatan na animo'y
isang malaking party ground tapos ay nanlilimahid pa na iiwan?


Kaya sa pagkakataong ito, iba na man ang pinadala
si Pedring, bagong delivery boy at messenger , at kagaya ng mga nauna,
napagod din siya sa pagsuyo at sa pakiusap na siya'y bayaran na ng
maluwag sa loob at nang siya'y mapayapa nang dumaan at umalis kaagad


Ngunit gaya ng dati, ano bang mai-aalok mo sa kaniya inang 'pinas?
Ano kaya ang maipambabayad mo sa gabundok na pagkakautang
ng iyong mga anak kung sa nagdaang pagpapasakit at pagkakastigo sa 'yo
ay lugmok ka pa at ang 'yong mga pasa ay nangingitim pa?


Hindi mo na makaya, alam ko inang 'pinas, ngunit pilit mong iniinda.
Ngunit 'di kagaya ng mga nagdaang pagkakataon ng ika'y malakas pa, ngayon ay
hinang-hina ka na kaya hindi mo na lubusang maisangga ang 'yong buong katawan,
kaya inabot ng galit ni Pedring pati ang 'yong mga anak na pilit mo sanang ipinagtatanggol.


Ilan kaya sa kanila ang giniginaw ngayon, walang makain at walang masilungan?
Ilan kaya sa kanila ngayon ang magpapalipas ng gabi sa taas ng bubungan?
Ilan kaya sa kanila ngayon ang pilit na maiidlip at nang makalimutan ang pitong
buhay, pitong anak, na sapilitang kinuha mula sa 'yo ni Pedring bilang pambayad utang?


Kaya ako na isa mo ding anak, nakatanaw lamang mula dito sa kabilang ibayo
habang patuloy na nananalanta ang isa na namang maniningil ay lubos na nananaghoy,
dahil wala ako upang dumamay sa muli mong pagkakasadlak at ang tangi kong mai-aalay
ay panalangin na sana, dumating ang araw na maghilom din ang lahat ng iyong mga sugat,
at mapatawad mo ang iyong sarili sa  ilang buhay ng 'yong mga anak na ipinambayad utang.

.
*Photo courtesy of yahoo.com.ph

It's Going To Be My Pink Pyjamas Tonight

I'm a little bit lonely,

and on the verge of being too nostalgic

I'm a little bit crappy,

and a whole lot aching for home

I'm beat,

and probably too dead-tired

I'm putting on a brave face,

and on my heart is a faint echo, just a faint echo

I drank two cups of warm tea,

and my senses won't just calm

I'm 23 years old (imagine that!),

but tonight it's going to be my "cry myself to sleep" scene,

aching so much for my mother's lulling me to sleep,

which I definitely couldn't have

So it's surely

going to be my pink pyjamas

tonight

Kay Man

...Kay man may mga dalan nga makapahanumdum sa akon
sang mga adlaw nga nagalakat  kita sa idalom sang kati-al
sang init sa udtong adlaw, pero daw wala ka lang kabatyag
sang kagin-ot ukon sang pagtulo sang imo balhas kay man ang
imo paminsaron ara sa imo kamot nga hugot nga naga-kapot
sa akon, kag sang akon buhok nga ginahampas
sang mainit nga dapya sang hangin padulong sa imo nga abaga

...Kay man may mga tanom nga  nagapahanumdum
man sa akon sa kun paano ang imo mga kamot hugot nga
naga-kapot sa pisaw agud bungkalon ang lupa sa palibot
sang ugat kay siling mo pa, "para makaginhawa man ang mga tanom",
kag kun paano, ang ini man nga mga matig-a nga palad, nga ginpatig-a sang
pagtipig mo sa imo mga bonsai, cactus kag orchids
amat-amat kag mahinay nga nagapikpik sa akon kapoy
nga tiil 'asta ako makatulog sing mahamuok

...Kay man may mga hinugyaw sang mga bata nga
daw nagapanawag sa akon nga magbalikid kay daw ginahambal
sang akon paminsaron nga daw imo guid nga tingug ang akon nabati-an,
daw imo nga tingug nga nagakadlaw upod sa akon kag
nagapanghagad nga "lakat ta bala day, updi ko 'to ay"
kag kun paano nga ang baho sang nagsamo nga init kag balhas
nagpabalik sa akon paminsaron sa mga sirum nga
nagapa-uli ka sa balay halin sa taguri mo nga paghampang sa bangi

...Kay man ang kahumot sang mga ginabaligya nga streetfoods
sa kilid sang Chatchai Road, ang alagyan pakadto sa amon apartment
nagapahanumdum sa akon sang mga hapon nga naga-tambay kita
sa kilid sang plasa kag naga-pamasaw sang fishballs kag kikiam
nga may kaupod pa nga coke kag pagkatapos sina, masalakit
ang aton tiyan kag indi kita kabalo kun tungod ini sa sobra nga kabusog
ukon sa sobra nga hangin sa wala pugong-pugong naton nga pagkinadlaw

...Kay man kun kaisa gakalipat ako nga malayo gali ako sa balay

...Kay man may mga tini-on nga indi ko mapinsaran nga sa abroad gali ako

...Kay man tungod sang kamatuoran nga gakalipat ako nga naga-isahanon ako,
 malayo, sa abroad, may mga tini-on nga makibot na lang ako
 kun magsulod sa paminsaron ko nga
"San-o na 'to siya mapuli diri halin Bacolod man?",
 "Ipahilot ko ayhan ang kapoy ko nga tiil kay nanay?",
"Ay daw tingug man 'to sang utod ko",
"Hala, kahamot sang ginbaligya ni manong o, kaso wala na ko upod magkaon",


...kay man sa pirmi ko nga pagkalipat
kun kaisa gasulod na lang sa paminsaron ko ang ini nga mga tinaga,
Maka-abot ayhan ako balik sa balay,
kun lakton ko lang 'ni?

Paano ni man?

Raej, nalipay lang ako
kay ang akon pamangkot
sang kagab-i lang,

amo man ang
imo pamangkot
sang subong guid lamang.

Gulpi ko na lang
napanumdum
pareho ayhan
ang dalagan sang
aton paminsaron?

Kaso, kay natak-an
na 'bi ako sang pirme
pamangkot na lang.

Kakapoy man gali,
ikaw ya Raej wala ka man nakapoy?
gani, pabay-i na lang ina.

Kay basi ang pamangkot 'ta
man lang ang pareho
pero lain-lain gali
nga sabat ang aton ginapanumdum.

Why Poets are Often Labeled as "Suffering"

I love poetry but there are moments when I intentionally take a respite from it, to be temporarily detached. Because frankly speaking, poetry can become too unbearable.

Why?

It's because when you're writing a prose, it's like exposing and baring your soul inside out. But when you're writing a piece of poetry, it's like taking your soul out of its life system and ripping it piece by piece, fragment by fragment---sometimes at an instant, but most of the time, gradually.

That's why.

One Mute Celebration---- 1389.6 Miles Away

Where did you get the idea that it's only the downs in life that should be shared, huh?




















In between the brief silence of

the monotonous, dragging sound of

the clicking of the keys…

In between the minute spaces

of the letters of “U” and "n” for “UNIT”

in my unfinished syllabus…

In between the predictable

ticking sound of the worn-out wall clock

at the strike of each second…

In between all of these and all 

that does not allow (supposedly) of

respite for fond thoughts...

You always,

always,  spot (without your knowing) the spaces and the in betweens

to stir my emotions

knowing that I should just put these happy

thoughts and words (for you) to sleep,

knowing silently that

you will never understand, not ever-----

that it’s not only

the "downs" in life that should be shared,

but the "ups" as well……

The Yielding of the Narra Tree and the Fact That You Never Pursued

(to you, who never gets to read any of the numerous poems which are supposedly for you, but who instantly left)

Been listening to the cacophony

of the mechanical saw that

sadly, defeated the narra tree

that have seen many summer days,

defying its scorching heat

with its minute yellow blooms

that often replace the duty of the wilting grass

to give color and life to the embracing earth

at the front side of our yard.

The sound which bores itself

into my ears, moving inwardly,

drilling into my brain,

threatening to shatter it,

is in fact,

a blessing.

For this day which is meant

to be spent lamenting over

the fact that you came

and left as a shadow

(which I just realized the other day)----

that when you found out that

you're not yet about to lose yourself into the intoxicating smell

of the opium that is my emotion (and yours as well)

but to first, break an ivory tower,

cross a bridge, ride the roaring waves,

crash among the stars, you left------

was spent instead to bear the galling sound

of the saw machine, and distracted

me from tending and nursing

my bruised pride

(good, if it's just really in fact my bruised pride).

So along with the yielding of the

narra tree to the traitorous claws of

the saw which bruised and ripped not

only the fibers of its trunk,

but its quiet dignity and almost a decade of history,

I am quietly rejoicing,

for I was spared from yielding

to the pains of the claws of your retreat

which actually bruised and ripped out

the quiet dignity of my apparently,

unrequited emotions (for you) and

more than a decade of our assumed history.

16th of April

364 days, and I wonder how

some one and 1/2 day less

than a year

could be enough...

how could it be enough

to still the yearning to gaze

into your eyes,

and trace the maze

in your head

how could it be enough

to still the hunger

to rub against your mind

and hold every ideas

you've ever had

you have no idea about

the times when in the midst

of the silence that we waged----

you really have no idea

about the times when

I wished that the sky would

just give up

give up, and let the

stars come falling, crushing,

spinning down

and never stop

yet my voice of reason

would always laugh

right out at me....

and maybe it should

but still, it would not

have mattered

if you asked

me.....

if you asked me,

to leave my usual painfully straight path,

to fix your bleeding face,

to bring you back some grace

it would not have mattered

if you asked me

if I have seen your

honor somewhere

to let me take you into my bare arms

and make you whole

to let me break the curse

and make you well

I would have done that

I could have held you altogether,

broken pieces and blasted pride

and all

if I could just break my own bubble

of fear and heal your own fears

then I could make you know

how much i  have needed you...

needed you to finally,

allow yourself to

lean

on me.

Sirum

 'ya hinugyaw ka mga

balhason nga bata nagpuno sa

kagina lang, mahipos

nga gawang,

nga gulpi man lang

gin-lamon kang pag-agi

kang mabugnaw nga huyop kang hangin,

kag gin-islan kang sagitsit kang mga

sapat-sapat sa ibabaw kang puno

kang akasya

samtang 'ya adlaw nagtugro

kang ana urihi nga

haruk sa lupa,

kag gulpi ginpilas 'ya ana nga dughan

agud magsabwag

kang tam-an kapula nga

dugo, nga hinali nagbuhi

sa kagina lang,

tigumatayon nga

panganod.

2 o'clock of today (...and the rest of the 2 o'clocks in a lifetime)

Trample the soft-winged,

butterfly that flutter

past the sun-dried Earth

'til its satiny feel

meshes with the

cruel raggedness

of that not so long ago,

life-giving clump,

which death has found

through the scorching kiss

of the Sun

Add on the weight,

crush 'til drops of

pigments from the

dried-out veined wings kiss

the vastness of brown

lending, surrendering

the reds, and yellows, and greens

that once glinted

in all majesty with the

very kiss and golden touch

that betrayed it

to death

and once there's none

to squeeze in any more,

scoop the wings and the Earth,

no longer separate,

not anymore different entities,

no more distinct character,

but tightfully clumped

perhaps, eternally meshed

in which one's end is the other's own,

one's texture is the other's own sense of feel,

in which the other's beginning is both's start

squeeze, 'til the scent,

intoxicating in its pureness

extends into the seemingly inexistent air,

'til both color and scent,

and texture diffuse into the

air's vast expanse---

'til there's no more, 'til every part

and everything that defines both,

vanishes, gone...

but very much, equally,

particle by particle

fills the seamless expanse.

Remember the last time you flew that paper plane?

To pre-school and elementary teachers and also to HIGH SCHOOL TEACHERS WHO HAPPEN TO TEACH IN THE LOWER GRADES ON THEIR FIRST YEARS OF TEACHING. Mine is in BIG letters. =)

The steady, subtle grinding sound
of the old air-conditioning unit
was like that of the blaring of a horn
on my already overly sensitive ears.

The sound, on normal occasions
would be totally unnoticeable, but then
blame me, for it's like a repeating ancient
mantra----bringing my senses into overblown sensitivity.

It's below 20 degrees, and yet sweat, slowly glides on my brows,
trickling down to the sensitive spot in between the shoulder blades.
The discomfort only heightens, for beneath the well-manicured nails
are hands which become damper and clammier by the minute.

A smile is forced, pasted, for without that extra force, the painted lips
would be left to shiver, and the unsteady jaws would lead to
a set of chattering teeth, ready now, to impress
with the well rehearsed speech from last night's wake.

It's going to be our first day... together, so there's no room for mistakes,
ready now, let me break out the words first,
that would bare my soul to you,
one ( a second ticks), two (let there be two), and...

Puffed out that long held breath, that almost made
my nails turn blue, from lack of air (how can I even forget to breathe?)
This is the perfect time to utter those first words, and yet...
a paper plane on the loose, a cry, crayons on the floor,


The fact that it happened at that perfect moment, made me rethink about my luck.
It altogether broke my hard-earned focus,
A shout from the back, and the screech of the poor, battered armchair,
the perfect and pristine scene, now turned into shambles.

Was I suppose to keep mum? Or project that timeless stern look?
What was it again in the books? Hey, I already even forgot the principles!
Blood rush. Now, I already know what it feels.
And I wonder, I just truly wonder...

I'm boiling, my insides are stewing.
Can you even see the smoke puffing out from my nostrils and ears?
Can you even spell red? For that is the present color---scarlet red,
not only of my cheeks but of my nose as well.

I'm a living chimney, a volcano about to erupt
when out from nowhere, a toothless grin from you was like
that of a thrust of a pailful of water
on a gnawing flame.

And I wonder, was that a glimpse of a 7-year old innocence,
or a charm so cunning, that was perfected at such an early age?
If so, then I'll have to prepare for our days together ahead,
It's not going to be a smooth one, there's a battle to be waged.

For four years of burning my butts in studying the books,
Mastering the principles and rules, that's where I'm good.
I have learned several tricks, not just one or two.
I've perfected that tight upper-lip act, reserved only for sages like us.

But how am I suppose to maintain the composure?
When your world is a 180 degrees away from the way I live mine.
Your own version of a line, is not the straight one that I expect. For you say,
isn't a straight line way too boring, when a squiggly one could be more fun?

Remember, I kept on repeating, a frog is either brown or green,
but you colored yours pink!
____________ forbid, in all my anatomy and zoology courses,
no professor ever mentioned about a frog that is pink.

But how can I point at it as ignorance? When, with your
all-knowing eyes you said, that in your story books, there
are yellow, violet and even red frogs! And what fun would that be
for a princess to kiss a frog that is brown?

You know, sometimes I think it's just your astute humour,
'til I look at you and see that edgy seriousness.
I once clearly said that some plants cannot be eaten,
a very good example is a cotton plant.

But you raised, not the left nor the right, but both of those arms,
saying you know one edible cotton plant.
I squeezed my brows together, without words,
hoping mentally I can channel these words: “stop now, or forever be sorry”.

But I can't bring you to a halt, before I know it
you said: “But cotton candy. Yes, that can be eaten ma'am.”
I was about to give you a piece of my mind that would black those big brown eyes,
but I bit the words back the moment I saw the quiet determination in those very same eyes.

You always keep me on my toes, so I'm always ready in case you ask
“Why is the sky blue?” or “Is there really a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”
But I was nailed on the floor, when you asked from out of the blue :
“But how about the babies, how are they made ma'am?”

If you were in my Bio class, I could have easily given you a detailed answer
from the moment of fertilization to the mixing of genes, till you claim “I'm having a brain freeze!”
But how will I explain it to a 7-year old kid, yet you saved me when you said,
“Oh I know now, babies are made out of love ma'am.” How can I argue any less?

I taught you honesty, I even said to speak your mind.
And there were several moments when I realized
I did not only taught you to memorize the concepts of honesty,
but to live with it day by day.

Remember when I curled my hair, and you had a first-time glimpse.
I was walking along the corridor, when you shouted,
“Oh, are you wearing a wig ma'am? You're really wearing a wig!”---I wanted to duck in a nearby table
You just spoke what's in your mind, so how can I tell you to just shut up?

Or the moment I cut my hair so short, and amidst a mob
you said: “Oh you cut your hair! You look like a gay ma'am!”
Isn't that honesty in its pure innocence?
But what's amusing to accept is that, it's at the expense of my sanity.

A lot of times I would have cried my heart in front of you,
when you can't explain a topic we've discussed a million times,
Or the moments when I already know the feeling of wishing to be swallowed by the ground,
when my lungs would run out of gas, and still you would go about in the classroom to tap dance.

I also get jaded, you can't blame me, I'm human
though sometimes you would think I am superman.
At moments like this, I would look back...
you, who brings me so much pain, are also the one who can take it back.

The day when my hands were caked with chalk dust and ink,
why, you looked at it intently, saying what beautiful hands do I have!
Then you went about, got your colored pens
and marked your hands just so we're the same.

Or the day when I got mad at you, and gave
you a piece of my mind or two
You ran to me, near to tears, declaring you're sorry
telling me, you love me just the same.

From the blind idealism, the years spent thinking that the
world can be changed and be brought to perfection,
'till you realize the fact that it's actually not the case,
that the world can take care of itself.
But it only takes a toothless grin,
or a wandering paper plane
and it's your life that would be changed
while the world perfectly stays the same.

Ang Pagbiya

Nagtarabo ang yab-ok
sa aragyan nga aton gina-panawan
Ang maramig nga hangin ka Nobyembre
nagapanalupsop sa akon tul-an.

Ginpirit mo guid takun nga maadto sa taramnan ka tubo,
Hambal mo, palantawon mo takun ka mga biraho.
Sagad mo kabutong ya akun alima,
Ginpirit ko man nga magdasig-dasig panaw.

Kanami gali kananda lantawon!
Hambal ko pa, daw snow sanda sa marayo.
Nag-utoy-utoy timu ka kadlaw.
Daw naham-ut ka guid sa ginhambal ko.

Ginhangkat mo takun dayun nga maglagsanay.
Nagdalagan man ko eh, parayo…parayo.
'ya mga biraho nagaharapay,
Gindasig ko pa gid, 'ya pagdalagan.

Nag-aralay dun 'ya akun siki,
Duro dun man 'ya akun nga gasgas
‘hay ya matarum nga dahun ka biraho
nagasag-id sa akun panit.

Gin-agwanta ko lang ya kahapdi ka akun mga pilas
kag 'ya pangaralay ka akun siki.
Sagad takun ka dalagan parayo, ‘pay sirum dun, waay ko man
lang angud nakit-an bisan 'ya landong mo nga naga-lagas kanakun.

Samson

You struck the lyre
drowning me in the
depths of brown
and tints of grey….

Your music as
always stirred
ghosts, memories
...nostalgia


I clung to your
distant hum
like a forlorn lady on
the seashore, waiting
for my warrior lover
to come home after
years of voyage.

I sway, eyes closed
with my diadem
made of garnets
and sapphire,
my flowing robe
of silk, clings on
my naked, sunburnt
skin.

You struck the lyre,
with intensity,
beguiling me to dance
faster,
sway faster,
unleashing music
with you.

Stillness…

I tore my gaze away
from the depths of
your glittering brown eyes,
almost black.

The strings of your
guitar broke,
music stopped.

Your eyes now, pleading
dance, create music
with you.

I could not.

My soul is burdened
with words, instead.

Pabaylo-baylo

Hakusa ako,

kag sunod itikwang...

Ano guid man bala?

Nalamigan ka
guid man
ukon nainitan?