I write because I read. I read because I write.
gone
are the days of a
clear, singing underworld
now
icebergs are made
of forgotten plastics
half
way, photographed
before it fin’lly sinks,
sea
turtles’re choking with
once-kissed resin straw
have
we peeled your rainbow
scales with our cruel claws?
—
A few days before this moment, online weather forecast reported not just rainfall but a thunderstorm. More than half of June was eaten by the summer sun, it should not be surprising if the Philippines’ monsoon is here to take its part of the pie. Still, palm to palm, my love and I send whispers every night before this day, asking for some sunshine.
I was not able to sleep that night, not because of nerves but because the camera crew and the makeup team have started to arrive as early as 2 o’clock in the morning. With surprise sighs, I watched the queen burning ball leaving its slumber, at 6 o’clock it has reached its full glory.
As my feet walk on the sand-aisle lined with baby’s breaths and asters, there were summer birds singing, some gentle waves crashing, but my favourite thing was his eyes, his Indian eyes, wet but smiling while waiting for me to reach him. I thank God for him, for this moment free of thunder and lightning.
Two lips utter vows
with glittered sea as witness—
tall, palm trees giggle.
—
Come in.
I am sorry for the
lack of energy,
would you like
some lukewarm
tea? Well, we
are tired zombies,
avoiding (or wait-
ing) for the wind
of death, we are
suffocated not by
the unseen killer
but the cruel knee
on our throat for
centuries, (we
chose to close
our eyes on) well,
probably you know
what May did, and
all the months before,
yes, there were
some cherry blossoms
blooming, some
midnights with
crickets singing, but,
our muscle wings
are quite rusting, our
tiled feet itching, this
year is a candle
dying, fading like a
half evening
moon, so June, can you
please bring healing
soon?
—
prisoned in cream-kissed-
walls. outside, wheels re-
tain its daily, restless toil.
pair of wheat feet frozen in
tiled snow, still, free hands’ ink, flows.
—
More than a year I have been living inside this box with no divisions. Cream borders keep me company without judging my daily dancing alone and my full-hearted concerts on my own.
Identical squared-rooms from my right and left stood the same size as mine. The closest left one is usually abandoned, an Airbnb available online. The room directly on my right has been occupied by another breath just a couple of weeks ago. We share the same rightful owner, but we remain nameless faces, after coming across each other once.
Wide glass window panes
taste the same April sky’s rage,
walls cage alien guests.
—
It starts with the usual scene.
The hibiscus bush void of bloom, filled with sharp twigs like fangs of the past, looking at him from his bedroom window. The door less-an-inch open like a defeated sigh. The bedsheet crumpled, free of human warmth. The duplicate cold key, slouched.
The screech of tires against the gravel road, careful but rushed. The tightening of his chest. The forming of rock inside his throat.
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream.
He jolted awake, gasping for some needed oxygen. The dawn willing him, but his voice’s too afraid to call her name, again.
—
screeching tires
roared back to life
running away from
fuming wife,
leaving minty
toothpaste uncapped,
garlic burnt
with bitter bite,
lockdown birthing
silly fights.
yet once the stars
start blending the night,
wheels will return
to arms so light,
hush, hush,
let’s not fight.
—
Five decades of wandering, in every step perhaps your heels planted seedlings of words, of love, of wisdom, of life. So much of your history remains a hidden story. We’re you a slave, a samurai, a cook, a poet, or everything and more? We can read scrolls after scrolls but never can we know.
A beautiful name you gifted yourself, Basho, after your beloved word-artist Li Po which carries the tart taste of a white plum. But no, plum did not win over your favourite plant — banana. In 17 syllables you have transformed a pair of cotyledons to a blooming spring’s cherry blossom of poetry. Until Autumn came to dry your ink in a field of golden, lifeless weeds.
short fifty years of
singing cuckoos, sorrowed snows,
timeless lines remain.
—
wild embers
die trying
the fourth estate
and still i rise.
—
if i should have a chosen pet
perhaps it will be a little bunny,
(i once had one, but she died
just after day one choked on a
loaf bread my dumb 18-year-old
mind foolishly fed it; rest in
peace, mogu, i still feel sorry
for what i did to you)
running around my
beige-tiled floor leaving
chocolate-poop drops
as it jumps across,
i’ll probably read it
some of my unfinished lines,
wait for its ears to
stand tall as if it
can hear the yearning
song inside my rhymes.
if i should have a chosen pet
perhaps it will be a little bunny,
but it is too late now to have one
so i’ll cocoon myself with
my trusted company—
scented words and poetry.
—
