The Grief of Mt. Makiling

It was on this steep earth
that I once stood upon,
when she spoke of the sweetest secret
that made the night the happiest of
Mt. Makiling; the blooming flowers
swayed with the blowing wind
and went on with the rhythm
of the sweet scent of the summer.

But the love she told me of
caused her a regret equal to the years
that wrapped it hidden in the forest.
For she learned of my foes;
their Spanish greed that could stop
the dancing of the leaves of the bushes
and the lies in their stories
that deafened the sound of the wind.

And the truth that she kept
must be said to her suitors
upon the promised light of the full moon,
and She had no choice left.
And my fairy saw a prophecy of
death to come upon my soul.
It stunned the shrubs and left them
a darkness that went on to the break of dawn.

It was in the shed
of this tree that she waited
for me to come. And we two
would float away by the river in a raft
to a pasture of our own,
where tall grasses and thick
bushes hid me from the eyes of death.

In the silence of that day
she was seated on this rock
under the shed of this tree,
far from the stabbing lies
by my rivals. For these,
they caused me a death I could not
stop by firing bullets that
shattered the serenity of Mt. Makiling.

I could no longer feel breathing,
Yet there was no time to grieve
For I must go to that rock
where she waited for me but
Maria was no longer there;
She ran to my body soaked in her tears.

And the silence of the wind
among the grasses
and trees heralded
to Maria’s grief and loss
a sound not heard but
felt by the heart.

A Still Photograph

When sunset rays walked by the terrace,
little kids and their smiles come by our house.
They left their slippers before the entrance
and went inside the four cornered
playground that will soon be
plumped with noises that sing my childhood’s tune.
We frolicked from the afternoon
until it was night: giggling
and waggling1 around like bees
as we stung each other with glee.

My mother was busy looking after us
while sewing pants that were
a foot longer than I was. The best dress for a clown,
I thought. And delight became a giant in me;
it couldn’t wait when it was done;
to seize all the smirks and crush them
into pieces of laughter. And a rapture
swelled around the smallest kid
inside oversized jeans: making
everyone blush and cackle2.

And the sun slept so long in the night.
I closed my eyes for the next day
but woke up with the window soaked
with never ending knocks of rain.
I grew up with that sound
and the silence of paper, pens and books
I had to spend everyday with
inside thick and deafened walls.
Cold mists sneak through the closed door now,
and a frown stands still in the shadowed room.
I hear nothing but my breathing,
As I smoke a stick
stabbing my lungs with smoggy air.

1 move rapidly back and forth
2 high-pitched laughter

cigarette tanka

A flickering fire,
Its last heat to light my stick.
I inhale the smoke
And realize the dried leaves
Would later be my own self.

Oh for the love of Treeplanting

that cruel Sun was ever itself

like it’s raining fire at the skies

burning the clouds to white

and it’s background a heat of blue.

a steam i’ve never seen fogs the air

then blankets my skin

with a warmth  you won’t dare think about

on a very snowy evening

because it had always been noon.

mornings were never mornings

but the extention of the sleep

robbed by the alcohol

hurriedly bought at 1:55 am

just before the liquor ban

and the empty bottle lies by the floor

just after dawn dies.

the day becomes night then

when my eyes pull down  the lids.

I then wake up to the sarcasm

of a great morning

and goes on all through out the day

which started without a bath,

for it will just come at me

as i bore holes to ground

with a big deal of iron

enough to fit our heads to it

for we always willed to come late.

yet this tardiness

could plant 30 trees

watered by sweats

running down from pores

widely opened by the days will

uttering the coming of the herbivores

ready to bring death

upon the little sapplings

who would’ve thrive better

on there plastic covered soil.

but they must be on the ground

for us to thrive for our future

seemingly dim for the haunting

thought of  soccerfields and courts

brought upon the feud of two faculties

playing us 32 caring less for the unfortunate.

we toil as the day ends,

but oh! for the love of treeplanting

i’m doing it again

for 100 trees more!

*************************

dig,.dip,.die,.

note: only my brods and sisses would understand this

Long Live UP Latagaw Lamdag Society!

Dried Out of Tears

rain

falls

down

from the sky;

like rejected angels,

soaked

in their tears

and covering their whole being

sadness felt within.

cold hearts

and loneliness

pushing them down

down

down to the ground.

and below the earth

they weep

with no more tears to shed.