Finding Home

One big universe And here I am One minute insignificant speck of dust One blank canvass A Tabula Rasa The dust grows into a desert storm The canvass is filled The lines come forth Words overflow Brush strokes move across Rising and falling this way and that One unmistakeable image, abstract like these words that reveal nothing and everything Confined in my mind's blind spot, Unseeing, yet all-seeing Hearing acoustic strings being plucked so beautifully by a tone-deaf musician Telling a story Creating a mystery Eternally concealing the protagonists Singing an aria of longing and renouncing Undecipherable The middle of nowhere and everywhere The tug of war transformation of day into night and night into sunrise Forbidden corners emblazoned by light Lighting my frigid night And safe shadows comforting my excruciatingly bright sunlight Life's wondrously bitter ironies Like

The heavens are thundering weeping for my eyes that cannot cry The skies are loud Rebuking, remonstrating like cumulonimbus clouds without the silver lining angry for the muted warring voices inside wildly beating drums that is my heart Rain falls trickling down never-ending Sweet relief albeit brief like a hymn the song of the winds that sings, serenades a question whose answer cannot be bestowed upon for now at least cannot be fathomed deciphered unencumbered like the depths of the violin-shaped body of water of Lake Danao And the question? Why this life?

Beethoven's Appassionata Sonata Filling, encompassing the room Overwhelming Commanding , demanding Declaring, imploring Going on and on Do not stop Because if you do It may be the last of you Like reading Coelho's story Page by single page Ravishing, consuming Every subtle nuance of its Devastation and creation All at one time Every second grasped Every minute tightly clasped Every hour shackled To the veins of My heart Like writing verses Formulating lines that Mold the curves of Infinity like the Gold orbit on your index Blinding me, binding You to impossibility Like my life's story Stamped, carved Permanently immortalized In stone Your face is contorted Impassioned Your eyes wild The beads of sweat On your forehead The strength you Muster on those Black and whites With the force of A million universes Expelled merciless The adamant press on Those gold levers That resonates beaut

Every once in a while, out of the blue, something happens that make you confront your own demons again. How many they were. How deep they wounded you. How unfathomable they seemed. How it brought the age old ache that rips just about all your nerve endings. How you never think you'd reach a point of no return. How blatantly stupid one can choose to be. How absurd, impossible, unbelievable. But real, frighteningly real, it scares the whole life out of you. The questions. Ask them, face them, confront them even if the winds cut your face. Because there is really no getting out of this place. No other way but through. One unforgiving truth comes out-- you have never been merciful to yourself. Not even a single bit. I mean do you really have to? You buried it deep enough under mounds of earth the same earth you thought you'd already be buried in. Is there no redemption from this place? This place that you hoped would be your home. Where you would feel the most safe. But then even

Here and now Rain falling Coming in merciful torrents Dissipates all pain Dispersing Unimaginable heat Its sound like Flat notes on a Piano Andante, moderato With hints of Staccato delicately, deliberately plunked By a solitary soul comforting, imploring, "Close your eyes Breathe deep All that is good Remember life And all its miracles Hold on to hope Find that joy Excavate all That is not and just Let. it. Go. " Then repeat.

You just get used to it. Eventually. That ebb and flow of expectation and disappointment. Sooner or later you begin to memorize the script by heart. You even know when the attempt to change begins. For whatever good intention there is you still find it in your heart to appreciate it because you can't help it. And then you wonder could it be true? The road to hell is indeed full of good intentions. So where are you off to? To hell? Or a heaven of intentions? But again it really is a matter of how much a heart can hold. It's amazing how quickly and slowly a heart can heal. In one instant you feel as if the wind has been knocked out of you and all you see is the world spinning, and in the seconds that follow, that familiar acrid acidic process in your insides, at the pit of your gut takes place ever so slowly. You fail to identify what it is until you realize, "oh its you" --your natural ability to adapt, accommodate, adjust your perspectives and ultimately your expec

Poetry Readings A sacred haven where boys Became men And men turned Into craftsmen Artisans Of words and Emotions The very language Of your hypothalamus the very function Of your left brain Exploding Like Katy Perry's Fireworks Unashamed Unfeterred Unapologetic you hear them Articulate Throes Of sorrow Desperation Of lost loves Of happy endings Of musings That speak of The chaos In their mind Taboo almost And yet it is Taboo That makes it All the more Beautiful Euphoric nostalgic eternal Where women Reveal How cold a fire Can turn And how the heat Can emanate From ice Where spite Is thrown Here and there And yet It is picked up Again one by one Like shards of glass Reattached and turned Into one hilarious Song Of romance And love and frisky Sunsets Singing your Age old pain that ironically Is the prime Ingredient Of your joy Gibran was right