Tila Siya ang Nagiging Musika Sa Aking Munting Mundo
Sa tugtuging Bago
walang tatalo,
ngunit sa tugtuging Luma
ay para bang
binabaon na sa lupa.
Ano pa ba ang ritmo
na gugustuhin pa niya
ngayong ako'y tumatanda na?
Ililipad ba ako ng hangin sa tuwing
oras ay nagdaraan?
Maglalahong
parang bula.. o
mawawalang parang
multo sa kadiliman?
Sa kalagitnaan nitong
gabi'y aking tatanawin,
O malayong abot-tanaw!
Nawa'y palaging
mahimbing itong
aking pagtulog
upang magising
ng tama at wasto
sa araw-araw!—
Nagsasalita Rin Ba Ang Biyolin?
Nagsasalita rin ba
ang Biyolin?
Ganyan naman sila,
pati ang Piyano.
Kung magsasabay
ay melodya lang
ang tanging habol.
Sa mga interpretasyon
lang kung magkakatalo,
sa ganda, at hugis
ng kanilang
mga naratibo.
Gaya ng ulan,
sa kanilang pagpatak
Maingay man sa iba
ay dahil ito'y
parang may binabalak
O Ingay, sa hagod, at kalampag,
tilamsik at bangayan ninyo,
Nawa'y ako'y 'wag
mapaiyak, aking di maaninag na Anino
Hindi pa man nagdaratingan ang mga ibong marikit,
sa sandaling ito,
sana'y malaman mong
nawala ka ng isang saglit.
Photo Credits: Felipe Alves, Pexels.com/a public-domain picture
mount fuji
he misses japan
truly extraordinary nippon
as if an edenic wanderlust that
turns him on
surely every country
have cultural aspects
and social values
and traditional views
and despite all
that has been said
of cultural variances
don't you ever wonder
why they remain
harmonious—
Photo Credit (below): Max Bender (Pexels.com)/a public-domain picture
Georgia stole the drugs in the glovebox
and traded them for passage. I don't
remember Texas. I barely remember
you.
Perhaps it’s because I miss you, the real you
or the thought of you.
It’s not like I know the difference.
There’s a certain appeal to the bruise colored haze at the bottom
of a six-pack. She sits
on the kitchen floor, knees bent
out at acute angles, shuddering shoulder
blades pressing against skin
until the fine human film splits
and she falls – splits down the center
like the bottom of the Colorado mountain valleys we hiked last spring.
The skin of her cheeks would flush in the brisk mornings and I, alone,
learned every shade of tension stretched through her shoulders
when she’d bend
over to wash her hair in the stream.
Like the willow tree bends: graceful
limbs reaching to touch a quivering reflection.
Fear and terror
hopes and dreams
a smile so bright
and aspirations so right
stiching together the seams
of a brand new life.
You linger in the scent of
Midnight...
Soaked in your presence
And absence...
Where you laid left
Lasting warmth...
In these longing arms,
Tender hands...
I wait patiently for another
Morning...
When my soul melts in
Yours like water...
Once again.
I want to be in your arms forever,
Resting my head on your lovely chest
I want to be a baby again
In your warm cuddle and embrace