Finding Home

Rain falls My hair feels soft Its layered tips brush my neck It doesn't sting as in the previous days Where the heat turns it into needles Rain falls My boy sings I read About mountains and roads and love Uncommon but love just the same. Rain falls The book pages are flecked with age Storage for words simple, unfrilled blunt as with  my Chinese heritage Rain falls My boy continues to sing My hair feels soft I continue to read The rain has ceased But the cold it leaves is comforting turning needles into cloths of silk Rain fell I pick up the pen And I write these.

December Two Thousand Fourteen We installed wooden boards on all our windows. Shutters, they're called, If they were beautiful, intentional. Another typhoon, they told us. Our house darkened. Quieted. We waited. She came. Ruby, they called her. A howling that seemed no end. She was no Yolanda. But bore the same last name. Or first name. It did not matter. At least the boards muffled the loudness somewhat. August Two Thousand Sixteen The wooden boards have long been dismantled. Save for those outside our bedroom windows. It's still not beautiful. From the outside it's not. It still darkens the room, muffling the sounds. But when I draw the curtains aside, Slats of light seep through And sounds of day and dusk still enter-- Birdsong, Only what is necessary Only what must, Such as, When I reached down to kiss you, Our little boy seeing this, then said, "I yuv yoo." The wooden boards-- Shutters, I call them now.

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.

"Salin" Cebuano for residue, Remains, remnants, Leftover, scrap, remainder I wrote you many poems Do you remember? And then autumn came Leaves fell But we only have summer and rain And yet, well, Now I still look for you in the spaces between those letters in the pauses between breaths in the places where my mind says, "No more, No more, No more." We were no more than residue.

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

I want to write A fresh poem A January poem It seems like a good time After all it is the beginning Of the year. And yet Old words come up  Like the old shirt I always wondered Where you got it from Dug up from the closet Now given away to the house help Like the letter I found Years ago Unfinished perhaps unsent Dear... Name that wasn't mine Oh, I could list down A few more But it's getting old There is nothing new About old wounds Perhaps All stories are old ones Read, reread Told again and again I want to write a Fresh poem A January poem that begins: Daylight breaks The grass turns yellow From the glare of the sun And the birds sing a broken hymn No, not a Hallelujiah But this-- Did you truly love me? I am a woman to love How could you not? Course you did Did Past tense for The new year I want to write A fresh poem A January poem It seems like a good time After all it is the beginning Of the year. And yet