Finding Home

Memory of quiet,  rustle of trees as we tread  on broken branches and dead leaves Memory of ravines, Memory of tell me again, why did we come here? Memory of where is the end? Memory of how far? Are we there yet? Memory of relief at the sight of a clearing  small enough to fit five people Memory of the sound of the wind,  the feel of it like a cold cloth on our burning skin. Memory of fog, a gentle song closing in. Memory of a four-winged creature  fluttering up the trail with us. Come with me, it seemed to say. Come, sit, stay, breathe Memory of hands touching earth,  gripping tree trunks for balance,  heel digging,  mud on clothes even after an overnight soak, Memory of heart pounding out of one's chest, Memory of knees shaking, legs heavy,  temper flaring, silence. Memory of finally arriving Starving, feasting, story-telling, more laughter And then, Memory of "Yes, I will come back for you again." Lake Janagdan Brgy Cabintan Ormoc

Sailboats, again? You asked me Smirking, Eyes all knowing, rolling. Of course. Don't ask why but I will tell you Remember when I drifted to you? I did not know why either, I just did. You at the time, smiled Or was it a smirk? Needless to say I steered my oars In your direction, The pier was free I disembarked and saw your door was open You bade me with no words, "Come in." I knocked, you opened. I spoke, you responded And we laughed A million laughs Did we weep? Don't even ask. Even as we speak or not Days, weeks or months, I still drift to you with words, I miss you, My friend. Sometimes we laugh. Most times we ponder. Other times we weep. Several times we reveal and recant. And then We set sail again. So of course, sailboats. We go where the wind takes us. When the time comes to dock, we do. Drop down our anchors, Walk to the pier, knock on doors,  and just like that, our arms wide, We say, "How are yo

Morgan Round cheeks Small eyes that grow large once in a while Hands gentle hold mine Garret Face angled to the sun, moon and stars singing Fingers long flick, touch my face softly like wind Morgan wordless yet intent spills this morning, he sits beside me says, "Mmm- mah," and then none Small eyes grow large Hands gentle touch my arm hold my Heart Garret in the dark head rests in the crook of my arm scant words says, "Aaa-peee," I bring him close my Heart sings.

Wide open spaces Four lanes of eternity Two on the sides For lovers on bike rides Politics plastered everywhere A clamor for change The heat, God, the heat And yet, trees Rows and rows of them Mangroves called "Pagatpat" That looked like Nangka Smoke-free zones, Lots of them, all of them The mellow tones of Dabawenyos The lovely nuances of their language The "ehls" in their tongues easily rolling off like lollipops sweet But without the sugar "Wala", "Balay, "Tulog" The intermingling of Tagalog and Bisaya "Magkain", "Magpunta" Ending each sentence with "Ba" As in, "Gigutom kaayo ko ba", "Grabe na kaayo atong nasud ba." Describing the wonderful as "Gwapo" The handsome as "Pogi" Change for your purchase as "Kambyo" Fever as "Kalentura" I went in April. In the height of Summer Now it is June. The clamor has been hear

"Pilok na lang ang dili sakit." Days like these are coming more and more frequently. Dark. Somber. Anything but light. Empty ones. Like a can of pineapple juice opened, its liquid poured out elsewhere, the can placed outside where weeds grow. Where a drop of rain blares like An echo. The one you make when you shout in a cavernous space. Whatever it is-- room, hall, hill, the world, your heart, your life. For a moment you smile. It seems you are not alone. But then you realize It's just you.  "Pilok na lang ang dili sakit." "Pilok nalang." "Sakit." Until there are no words left,  just your fist thumping on your chest Telling a story you can no longer tell, Does it hurt everywhere?"  "Yes."

Five in the morning The birds nesting in our orchid trees, placed east, Begin to sing, welcoming a new day. And it is as if the sun waits For their singing before she rises In full glory Bursting through our jalousies Waking our sleeping bodies The blue of our curtains turn translucent white  Even the darkest dyes on linen and cotton Could not contain the light. Five at dusk, The birds return home Perching on the wires Hanging tangled above our gate facing west. Twisted from the havoc of Yolanda, That nobody from the telephone and cable company Has dared to repair. Beyond the convoluted reminder Of the devastation of November eighth, Is a vision of sunset, skies transforming into night, Baring her robe of colors --brilliant blue, russet, Saffron, magenta, purple, neon. Beautiful. Overwhelming. It seemed the sunsets have avenged the sorrow The skies wreaked on That Day. And as if such beauty is not enough, The birds sing their aria as they do in