Behind Bars(11/11/99 9:34:51 PM)

Slumped behind
cold and indifferent
bars, his oversized
hands are clutching
his face. His broad
shoulders shaking.

Drowning, yes, he
is drowning himself
in tears..

Regrets must have
dawned on him late!
But what brought him
there, only him could
know. Lord, what shall
I do? I don't know how
to save him from drowning
himself in his own tears

Meow

I love cats. In fact, whenever I lose a cat, I cry. I don't know if you can call this a miracle, but this happened when my cat needed me the most.....
Years back, I lost another one. He suddenly disappeared and never came back. I had recurring dreams about him. Finally, I had to let go........

He sits with tears
on his white furry cheeks
His wails calling
dear Mama
His frail body
shaking
Lost
in a new home.

He drinks
the milk
Nanay (Mother) prepared
Then slept
in the shoe box
I wiped away with dust
Tomorrow,
I will show him around.
I sit with tears
on my bedimpled cheeks
He struggles
with his hind legs
Darn, the playful dogs
I hear only a muffled
meow
I pity him.

In tears
I touched
the torn ligaments
I prayed.

Found him
strutting
somehow with a little
limp
Realized
I found
A miracle.

Recto Bakery
(C.M. Recto Ave., Manila)
1989

"Witnesses said my Tito was able to write on
the wall the names of his wife and son with his own blood, in spite that he was already on the throes of death."
Kristine Sendy C. del Rosario

It was around four a.m.
Upstairs, we were all sound asleep.
Tito was already downstairs
kneading doughs of bread.

We were startled by his cries
of help drowned out by softdrinks bottles
and cases crashing to the ground.
Then that loooong, terrifying
moment of silence!

A hole on the floor.
Tears obscuring my eyes, I peeked
thru it: And there he was, my tito lying in a pool
of his own blood amidst shards
of broken bottles and flattened doughs,
scattered like chunks of chopped up flesh...

Then those terrible knocking sounds…
the drugged criminal forcing
the doors open I shuddered in great fear,
made the sign of the cross,
Shouted for help at the top of my lungs
to neighbors who were roused from sleep.

The sirens were deafening,
throngs of people came.
The next thing we knew the perpetrator
had escaped.
Doctors trying to revive the seemingly
lifeless body,
while TV reporters kept on humming questions
I can barely hear.
Then that loooong, terrifying
moment of silence!

With more than 15 hacks
his body had suffered immensely
from the gruesome crime.
I bear the gnawing pain
and still shiver with the thought
that although my Tito escaped
from the throes of death,
the fugitive has remained
unchastised.

Closed Fists (3/26/99 8:53:19 PM)

There are people who tend to overlook life and pretend that life is so cruel to them. But unlike human beings, life does not rebuke us for cursing him, or God for that matter. As a matter of fact, the more we condemn and hate life, the greater the opportunities God gives us in order to change. That’s the ultimate goal of life. It is not about revenge but rest from our earthly charges.

Who said I am alive,
When all about me has fallen cold and dead?
Who spoke of life,
When there it stood helpless at my deathbed?

Who said there is still time
When time has caught me unawares?
Who told that chances abound
When my life has lost its chime?

Who spoke of good things
When everything seems a curse
Who uttered the words easy
When things eventually come in hurls?

I never said I would fight this world
But how would I survive?
I never spoke of tooth-for-tooth
Because I am one blunt knife.

I took to pretending I can grip so hard…
When for a few maelstrom I lose hold
I hid the facts the real me own
For fear that the world would provoke my soul.

But then as I question both faith and morals,
I see a strange look in that Face -
Which projects an indignant, arresting stare -
My eyes really cannot tear a glare.

But then again, as I took a bow
My closed fists I slowly opened,
Reached out my hands to His outstretched palms
Where my name was etched in all its glory and splendor.

a writer in solitude(10/25/99 7:53:47 PM)

This poem suggests that every poet is never without the strong influence of love, joy, tranquility, ecstasy, at times sorrow and pains. Every poem written is a masterpiece and poets are forever proud of their works despite and inspite of the memories the poems capture and seal forever.

I sit here before the keys,
contemplating on things most often felt than seen
I am with my lover once again
he keeps on caressing my head
with words to soothe the dying embers of my soul

he gently sweeps me off my feet
then together we soar high
magical words seem to spread like fire
yes, it is purely divine!

we walk hand in hand
in the sands of time
a few sharp stones pricked my sensitive feet
while the sand stimulated my tired and aching sole

but as we trudge the endless quest
words profusely been granting my request
I didn't know it but it was clear
the moonlit evening was such a calm burrow

amidst the expanse of the night
my lover is as sweet as the gentlest tide
the chilly winds were tormenting
but my lover's caresses were enough to send them away.

I felt it was time to move,
the excitement is tormenting me
where are love, ecstasy, joy and tranquility?
ah, I knew it, they've never left the hands
that finished this verse...

Woman(02/02/2000 8:12:26 PM)

Behind the fragile countenance
Amidst the plaintive eyes
Despite the ponderous load
It's a wonder why she's as gentle and mild

However fruitless the day is
No matter how troubling the tide
When things go rough and turbulent
Would you see her crumble and die?

In instances when a few tears drop
It seems she has nowhere to go
But wait till she wipes off those tears
And go on with life's urgent call

Then again when someone keeps her heart
Ablaze with the gift of love
She'll seek the depths and the ruins
And tenderly give up all that she has

A woman...
She's all there could ever be
No one ever compares to her
She's a woman and I am she.

Asthma

Like a newly-caught
fish brought ashore,
Here I am gasping for breath..

Air sacs in my lungs
deteriorating-
Air must have given up
on me and I am scared!
I never finished my new
poem, never given a bath
to my cat, never told mom
"I Love You," never kneeled
to the Lord for forgiveness.

Not yet.

Flight (10/16/97 4:20 pm)

even without wings
i am free-
to forget what is hurting
to me;
even without wings
i can fly-
to soar above pains

even without wings
i am better than a
hen-
for it is I, stamped
by God with courage and
flight

wish (10/26/99 7:54:07 PM)

Sometimes there are people who can do no more when all about him has failed except to give up. There are moments when people tend to give up easily to life’s wrath, all the criticisms and failures everywhere. But this time, this poem suggests that giving up is not exactly the appropriate term or word to use. This poem may connote giving up, but as you ponder on the words, you’d see the mystery behind the word rest. Rest simply implies brewing strength within the person and that, we ought to look out for.

Lost,
Forgotten,
And searching…..
In this world of make-believe
Who are you to judge the delicate features of my face?
Who are you dictate the flow of my words?

I’ve sought and fought
But lost,
Struggled and fiercely drew the gun
Of life when it was bitter
To me it never became any better

I feel it is time to rest
When all about me has fallen cold and distressed
I can do no more, I am tired
Grant me my rest tonight.

insomniac (11/3/99 8:31:56 PM)

Sleep has become the most sought-after refuge after all the day’s work and all the problems that arise. The bed is the sanctuary of man when all about him has fallen cold and utterly depressing. But when sleep has started to deprive you of sleep, then it becomes more depressing indeed. Here is a poem that tries to urge sleep to be more helpful as life proves to be a constant change.

restless,
tossing and turning,
turning and tossing,
in my makeshift bed

unable to conquer sleep in my head,
it keeps its tail far from my reach
it seem to dwindle every minute of my bedtime hour
it keeps on disturbing my satin sheets

my eyes are foggy,
black lines are visible
but as the clock ticks until dawn
my eyes are wide open all the more

I hear the crickets sing through the night
and the frogs croaking outside
I tried counting all the sheeps there are
even tried counting the stars

Yet as the night passes through
and sleep won’t come the way it used to do,
I cannot help but cry in despair,
after all the day’s work, sleep is quite unfair

Yes, sleep you are unfair
when all about me has fallen in deep slumber
you stir me from my repose
and never let me sleep again

Tonight let me have my sleep
I need you more and more
Efface my troubles and burdens
For tomorrow’s uncertain