Promenade

When beautiful moments begin to make us feel that time almost doesn’t exist, the spaced words could make stories of joys and sorrows. In little promenades in life, we always take our separate ways at the end. Maybe no one can really walk together forever, but we can always ride the night with morsel of memories and cherish them until we get to the forked road. There on that same path where moments end and we let go, some just drive us back to where we start to hope that things last, even for another day or so. But the path we thread will never wither away nor fade.  The night hears our heartbeats; the road is always free. And at times when life bids people to walk away, let us be those with courageous hearts who know how to hold on and stay.

Third World Wheels

 

 

Fast-rolling, art-tattered, colorful four-wheeled stainless steel box—a galvanized-sheet-made road monster as ubiquitous as the diesel exhaust fumes it spews. While it dazes mad in a Grand Prix class of speed, it can stop at will like a sudden outburst of rage, screeching loud as it scratches rough asphalts or smooth road cement. Inside this rickety proletarian transport, masses of all types huddle hard for a nauseous cramped space as it turns, swerve, and swirl to and fro huge or narrow avenues of trade. Don’t even expect sidewalks to be spared if the traffic push comes to metallic riotous shove. Imagine the rage if autobots and decepticons get stuck in traffic in a one way street—the picture’s more like it minus the fiction. This is Philippine jeepney—the country’s “king of the road”—probably the unheralded Third World Road Wonder of the World.

EVANESCENCE

 

He watched as she barged her way in, rushed to the queue, and bumped her knee on a “wet floor” sign. “Are you okay?” he asked, and instinctively held her hand as she took her place on the line. “Yap bud, thank you,” she replied, “just poor eyesight!” She quickly steadied herself and returned furtive glances with droll nonchalance. He got his coffee a few minutes later and settled on his usual spot. When she too received her macchiato, she strode towards him and asked, “Would you mind if I sit here?” He gladly obliged.

A stretch of awkward silence passed. He tried his best to appear uninterested, but he can’t help but glance. He observed that the girl has a beautiful forlorn face. She was staring through the glass wall now. Outside, drizzles started to pour and mushrooming umbrellas suddenly blocked her view. “The sky is about to tear up,” she muttered. Her words roused him back.

He looked at her and saw her watery eyes. Her shoulder sagged; her lips slightly quivered, but gave away the sweetest smile he ever saw. He smiled back and casually asked what she does.She’s a poet, she told him, and apologized that she can’t tell her name. “You don’t need to tell me yours, either,” she wryly added. Befuddled, he just nodded. She smiled again, acknowledging his curious look. “Ah, forgive my nonsense. Let’s talk, but in metaphor!” she exclaimed. “I like that,” he replied. “It’s easier to understand things in a metaphorical sense, isn’t it?” And they both laugh.

As the place began to swell, uncongested, and crowded again, they just sat there and killed time—two strangers in deep chatter about the fooleries in life. Amidst the endless fleeting moments that occurred around them, it seemed like the whole world converged in that single spot. There they were two wounded souls laying their hearts bare without fear.

“Indeed, we can’t know heartache until it comes and the pain lingers on,” she told him. He listened with utmost sincerity. Her every word stabbed his heart. “At some point we have to face life in its unbearably painful façade,” he managed to respond. “We can’t avoid getting hurt. We just have to rise up and live.” She nodded and looked at his eyes. He veered away, and then met her gaze. “I’ve never been as candid as now, but I didn’t realize I would be pouring my heart out to a complete stranger,” she said.

He wanted to say how special he thinks she is, but he held back. A lady staff wiping a table nearby abandoned her chore, approached them, and asked if they needed anything. Their cups had long been emptied and other patrons were gone. They’re being shooed, and they heartily laughed. “Will I see you again?” he asked, hoping that she would say yes. “I don’t know,” she answered. “Let’s let things be.”They halfheartedly parted—both felt they had to stay but just can’t.

A Speck of Universe in Your Heart

 

There’s a speck of universe in your heart. As you wish for the kismet from afar, freely embrace the void, the cold dark space, and the cruel distance. Believe in the gravity of your own faith. Rely on the strength of your love. Trust the power of hope. Take comfort in the bliss of longing. Defy such cosmic heartache. Build a compass from what you’ve lost and begin with a careful stride. When wounds heal, take pride from the scars. The crumbs of painful memories always crumble on their own time. You can be lonely but not alone. Feel broken but unbreakable. Let things unfold even if your trodden dreams drift afloat. The pain often melts into a stream of tears, so let them ebb as they flow. The heaven smiles fast on us when our heart does. Wish from within. There’s a speck of universe in your heart.

Random Musings

 

Each of us has a story—muted tales of madness, fear, and uncertainty. Everything splinters, gets crushed, and gets broken. Life doesn’t go round in circles. Like an unfamiliar road, it has bends, curvatures, and edges—nothing ever goes straight. There are even nightmares inside a dream. I once comforted a lost child in a crowd and felt lost myself. I witnessed old people shedding tears for wounded doves in a park and kids laughing at tearful crocs inside a cage. Even a reflective solitary man in a white-tiled room will scream of darkness. Life’s humor simply throws out plenty of scary metaphors. Most of the time, we are just like wood shavings in the air bound to hurt visions or feathers blown by the wind unsure of direction. A good percentage of humanity subsists on hope; but the greater tragedy is simpler: we live our lives just too afraid to take life on its head and go out screaming. When we want something bad and it takes a bold sacrifice to achieve, should our minds be supple to fear or our hearts disincline to what they feel? Is it living when each day we die from within? I’ve once known a man who lost everything but still had these words to share: “Don’t wait for the hardest fall. Take charge of your life like there’s nobody else out there who cares at all.”

 

The Masterpiece

 

Every visit at my father’s workshop, I stared at that blank, mottled canvass in the wall. My old man, who has had a little amount of success in his days as an artist, wouldn’t utter a word nor speak more about it, except the usual, “That’s the best painting I ever made son.” That prided masterpiece sparked my curiosity for many years.  I often muttered, “It’s odd. There’s really nothing there but that dappled piece of cloth and wooden board. Beside it are the real works which I thought have greater worth. “No,” he said, “that will always be my source of joy.” So I just often let it go and didn’t push further. After my father succumbed to an illness sometime in 2005, our family was totally wrecked apart. He virtually withdrew from real family connection. He started to hate everything. I suspected that it included the fact that his only son cannot even draw some good stick figures. So life hated him back, too. I’ve never set foot in his workshop anymore. He died a few years later—frustrated, sad, and hateful. After he was laid to rest, I found myself in his workshop once more. There, at its usual place was that blank canvass, staring back; taunting me to unhinge it from the wall. So I snatched it out and ripped it open. Inside the thick layer of cloth I saw my first drawings—some doodles on top of my father’s painting wasted by my innocent artwork.

The Stranger

 

It was a typical provincial sight—small shacks with clotheslines, farmlands from all sides, dusty streets, a skinny dog napping in a shade, chickens picking around the backyards, and local old folks grinding trivial tales in a bamboo bench. If not for an old, lacquered poster of a smiling politico, this typical mountain village was in a time warp. He knew he finally reached the place by the time he limply stepped down onto the waiting shade. Gripping hard the relic of his soul entombed into that old locket in his shaky hands, he let a funeral pass by. Some thoughts loped and scampered around his brain. It took him twenty years to muster courage. It felt like a damaged dream, but he had to be here. “Life is a big bluff,” he surmised. Then the humid air blew and touched his forlorn face. It chilled his spine and roused him back. The sun-dappled ground is gone and the night wind started to whisper. Semi-darkness embraced him like an old friend. Then he felt curious eyes staring at his back, watching his steps, sizing up an aged outsider. As the dim light from a solitary lamp post flickered and puffed out, he slowly strode down to a familiar road. From afar, an old hut waited empty for a stranger coming home.

The Treasure Trove

 

Once there was a boy who hid himself one day inside his parents’ wall cabinet. Within that newfound lair, he discovered a wooden chest he took as treasure trove. Excitedly, he pulled it open and rummaged through the loot. To the boy’s consternation, he discovered no candies or toys but these sad mementos: a bundle of mooted hopes; two stacks of mistaken joys; an array of anger; three nice rolls of regret; a neat sheet of tragedy; some stocks of depression; a deck of distrust; two packs of pride; four canisters of sorrow; a thick envelope of disappointment; a bottle of bitterness; six purses of pain; and a heavy bag of guilt. The boy, perplexed at his find, emptied the chest and filled it with broken innocence. He grew up long time ago, but the child is in continual quest—collecting boxes of love and cans of forgiveness.

Peregrination

 

Everyday, we caress our emotions like broken homeless people, carving hope in the cold pavement we erroneously call home, when in fact we’re just passing by. We can’t hold on for long to something untenable even if it feels so perfect; we just can’t stay at the same place forever. Human journey is just as far as we can hold on breathing. Much of that notion lies at the fact that at some point, when some of us reach a crossroad, our hearts turn numb and our minds get suspended at a pendulum of expectations that swing our hopes nonstop, only to hurt us ineffably until we shrink at the backdrop of our own frailties. Some things bind us tight on the belief of life’s arbitrariness. Each moment becomes a gambit and we cast our dice uncertain of what fate has in store for us. Never mind what color of thick layers of blinders we put on our eyes because our defeatist self is always ready to embrace false percepts of reality. Thus, we follow the lead of the crowd along the fences of our own self- imposed limits; the flow of structured life: frigid, dull and distant. Just look around and see how people make shovels out of their weak spirits and dig their own graves. Hopelessness abounds; pessimism drumbeats the agonizing message of unhappiness. Sadly, this is a piece of tragedy destined to haunts us all each time. We are, after all, mere humans; no single juncture in our life is actually meant to be the same or eternal. So, we walk on. No one really dares to stop. But here’s one truth about life: even if a destination is a made-up lie, we’ll get there still and find it real. Our will keeps our fortitude; our decisions in life make us who we are at the end. But it wouldn’t’ hurt to be bold and pause for a while amidst humanity’s procession in life’s narrow path. For I tell you, desolation is home even for the fools who halt the journey to appreciate a rose by the roadside.

Amorphous Encounter

 

As she softly recounted the tale of their speckled love, he listened like a man on vigil; the night solemnly stood still as heartaches diffused like the glow of the shaded lamp on the nightstand. As more words floated and tears flowed and dried up on crumpled napkins, he imagined hope between gaps of her gasping where truths lie like a brimful glass of red wine spilled over her chest. He imagined it like a caldera about to burst and spill more burning sulfurous words of life’s pain. As their eyes get fixed to each, sudden memories of guilt tangled; the door of silence bolted shut. Her delicate hands wrapping the white bed sheet trembled and wrinkled the linens of hope and despair. Inside that dim cramped room love lasts into eons, but still too short a bliss. Just as they caught their last words with their lips, they knew they would soon speak more of life’s stains.

Redux

 

I dreamt I was a lost ancient warrior, garbed in bronze helmet and leather body armor. I saw myself seated on a boulder, shaking off dusts and dirt beside a stranger’s flower bed. For a while, I thought the carnation and roses gave me the scent of peace. As I gazed at the green pasture from afar, I saw the dancing shadows of clay pot-makers along the sandy riverbank. Then everything went dark and silent. I heard a short bip, then a blip. I saw afterward glitters of freed bubbles as more bips dragged on. A metal chinked. Then I woke up—still in yesterday’s work clothes. Drowsy, I hastily dragged my feet and lowered the window blinds. Outside, I only saw congested concretes and sparkling metals whizzing past.  Beyond my windowsill, the world was running wild. Just as some beasts of steel slithered through a neighbor’s garden, I rolled back to bed, defiant against the sun that rose proud. I knew the clock turned 10 AM as my phone rang. But the warrior is long gone.

Keppel Shipyard Tragedy

 

Life is a heavy load, they say. But so is death, literally, for six men who took the brunt of a 42-ton steel scaffolding that plummeted down their heads at the forward dry-docks of Keppel shipyard in Subic. After that ramp crushed their tired, scarred bodies, one has to ask if those damaged lives were less heavy or more impaired than the 22,650-ton container ship they tried to repair. I wonder what their last thoughts were at 10:20 AM on that fateful seventh day of October. Do you think they have thought of a hug or a kiss from an expectant wife or a sweet embrace from an excited child? Nah, it was a cruel death; no room for romance. But life ought not to get snapped out in a split second. True, life is scaled to find its worth at some point. By what measure? We can’t say. An utter despair! Here’s what was left from that industrial carnage—just mere body count and scattered limbs. A message to the Philippine government and Singapore’s Keppel Shipyard Limited: get sucked up on your excuses, but reserve silence for the bereaved.

This piece was originally written two years ago in the wake of Keppel Shipyard tragedy in Subic, Philippines.

Reaping at Sierra Madre

 

The night was dead and the moon grieved at the foot of Sierra Madre. As crackling shots and screams logged to our brains, we knew more bodies fell. The nightly dirge of sudden shrieks, wails, and cries brought in more ghosts of fright—exigent storm about to devour the land; the life. Every sharp strike of mattocks to some parched grounds bore graves—numbered cliffs of unmeasured pain. Gone are the nights that entreat rituals of laughter and reverie at the golden field. Those nights when after the hard days of work, humble fathers pride the fruit of each outlaid sweat, while the children dart soft trails of the rich rice field; mothers behind in joyous pursuit of a kiss. Gone are those nights except for the nightly procession of dead kin who nourished the land. Indeed, gone are those nights, extinguished like the children’s mirth. The summer reaping was delayed, but the land is waiting. Soon the sickle will slash the mighty wind around the robust mountain.

Haikus

 

Nature’s Nobility

Even blades of grass
Pay homage to still air;
Vow to a short hush

Faith

Brown earth, green foliage
But gathering clouds now shade
The valley—a creed

Storms Come in Raindrops for Paper Boats

 

Some rapid drops of rain
Cruelly sank the paper boat
Behind the scene of the drift
A short but crisp leather whip
Mightily lashed at a fragile skin
The rain just won’t stop

A thunder cracked above the teary sky:
A body was shaken, a little voice cried
The paper boat cringed beneath
The broken shards of bloody rum
The wind blew hard, the angry sky howled
The muffled cries, heaves, and sighs drowned out

As raindrops cut through again like blades
The wet shred of paper boat flowed down the canal’s end
The tore up page loosened up, the bold words stared:
“Coming Storm Suspends Classes”
From drainage afar, more paper boats sailed
The sky just continued to bleed

Art Pedagogue

 

I once created a work of art—just brown hand marks splattered on a giant paper mache ball. I installed it one Sunday at a vacant lot beside the schoolyard. Every day since then, students would stop by my workshop to ask me what it was. I didn’t tell. I just smiled and shooed them off to class. Soon they would know, I thought. The curiosity on my masterpiece did not wane a bit. For some reason, a group of students started doing techno-rituals around my giant paper mache ball. Funny how children can get so weird. I didn’t see it coming, but things have gone south of good. A fortnight ago after that, a petty quarrel ensued at my classroom. It involved members of the already cult-like club of the giant paper mache ball. The incident hurt one student who accidentally stepped on a loose spike I owned. I was eventually fired on the charge that even school officials cannot spell right. That was bizarre to be honest. In one spat, suddenly I was the fly. I think it just took all the oddity of the whole affair. Before I left the school, I thought of bringing with me my artwork. But then I decided to just leave it. Heck, it was just a giant paper mache ball. Every day since then, students would stop by my house to ask me what happened. I didn’t tell. I just smiled and shooed them home. Soon I would know, I hope.

Myopic

 

Allusion to colors—the world remains blind as millions of visions skewed to lie. Though we have different colors of skin, there’s no reason that white folks be the noble stock and the ill-fated rest are those brown, yellow, or black. It’s not mere retinal confusion but a disturbing racial myopia. Yes the soil is brown and the Earth will always be green, but there’s only one true color of men. Even if we are in a grayscale world, our blood will always be red. We live as we blend; we die as we bleed.

Butterfly Effect

 

Beneath the thick green foliage of Niger Delta, some tall, sharp blades of grass vowed to a short hush of wind just as the monsoon rain showered the Indonesian Metawai Islands. Down at New York Central Park, balloons popped in the air while a flock of Arctic Terns in the North Sea flapped their wings. Millions of miles away, an old stem broke at a garden in Sao Paulo, Brazil while a long procession of logs passed through a stream 150 miles north of Canadian Border. Two hours passed and dark clouds formed above the fertile earth of the Kaghan Valley in Northern Pakistan at the same moment when a patch of soil eroded in Iroha-zaka in Japan. As a moth slightly moved in a sanctuary in Tajikistan, a tropical cyclone developed over the tropical Northwestern Pacific Ocean. With a maximum sustained winds of 130 kph, it crossed at 260 km East and dumped heavy rains. CNN reported: “Powerful Typhoon Nesat hits Philippines.” Over 7700 miles away down at Cambridge, a yellow butterfly fell dead on Edward Lorenz’s grave.

The Lark that Sways the Plaid Board

 

The old plaid board atop the merchandize store swayed as the lark swoop down and rested its feet to the board’s jagged edge: the sod of its ancestor’s flock. As the bird perched, it gazed at the storm of dusts that blazed like a dark fog out of the earth’s crust. Below, echoes of chaos numbed the stifling air as metal centipedes crisscrossed against iron beetles’ flair. Soon after a silent prayer the lark flew free to a place far away. For many years, this lark sat on thousand checkered boards yet it can’t still find the Tree. The plaid board already freed of the bird’s weight swayed and swayed and swayed. It sways until today.

Still Life

 

Spoiled milk, spilled drinks, and the tiled wall seemed about to close in through the liquid’s flow. A call from deep slumber sank in the stream of dream and was sipped back through. As the early sunlight flared and filtered through broken glass panes and softly soothed the cramped sleepy sweaty bodies with the humid summer heat, the old shafts and dirty bed sheets stirred like a plowed brown earth. Just as the rooster’s lazy crow was heard, the burdened chests and starving mouths heaved and shooed the crumpled paper plates on the rusty creaky bed. The room seemed like a barren scene if not for the swinging crib. Then an infant cried; a siren wailed from the street. The clock clicked at six. The room stayed still. Indeed there are dreams we cannot leave.

Enigma

 

Once I met an old fisherman who told me a life’s secret. He said, “The only way to keep this world moving is to always do something. I tell you this son, keep up with the tides of time—swim if you can, float if you want, or crawl if you must; just don’t stop. Soon you will hurdle debris of human failures and pass through broken shards of dreams, but still, don’t stop. I’ve done a lot in my lifetime, and though things are only getting worse, I don’t stop. I still hope for something good so I keep moving son…I keep doing things.” Puzzled at these enigmatic words, I asked, “But what is it that you do?” The old man sighed and said, “Living young man, just living.”