I write because I read. I read because I write.
Made of wood - old unnamedwood - our tiny home. Fragilein the surface. Look beneath.After a minimum of 20 typhoons per year, it's still proud after acouple of decades. Unlikethe tamarind tree, the acacia,the guava, the hibiscus, thebanana. September is clothe in blinking little lights. The countdown forthe manger starts. It is a season of… Continue reading our Christmas lights
after Alice Walker and Zora Neale Hurston Blue. Perhaps baby blue. The shade you gift a baby boy in a shower that does not involve a drop of water. But I'm talking about the July sky, here, in my corner of earth, is rarely blue. Mostly grey. The difference was the absence of flying tins.… Continue reading where are the planes
A peaceful Sunday, watching queen sun's everyday bowing, with a shaken call, soul-stirring words, i learned of your sudden passing, premature, it is, a thief of sonnets I did not see coming, with a holed heart I ache for your pen's rash drying. — A poem I wish I never had to write for my… Continue reading A quadrille for my Rodnoy, my king of sonnets
Finding Chika: A Little Girl, an Earthquake, and the Making of a Family by Mitch Albom Chika Jeune was born three days before the devastating earthquake that decimated Haiti in 2010. She spent her infancy in a landscape of extreme poverty, and when her mother died giving birth to a baby brother, Chika was brought… Continue reading 6 Lessons I Learned from Little Fighter, Chika Jeune (perhaps a book review)
Naked eyes’re powerless for they are invisible, smaller than dust, no less. Creepy crawlers, void of tiny legs, bursting from vein to vein inside a mortal, muscled-keg. A minuscule army of Platinum, Fluorine, Arsenic, Boron haunting for the invading “C”. With a fatal glow, ‘nother option is the clear-cut missile of Cobalt-60 and Nickel-60. Both… Continue reading army of elements
Unfinished coffee, void of warmth, aching for last touch. Oh, the daddy. Spilled sauces blots on canvas, wait, it's kitchen table top. Oh, the mommy. Crumbs of cookies paved roads for the hard working ants. Oh, the eldest. Traps made of Lego too tiny, too tough, barefoot left scathed. Oh the youngest. Bedroom scented with… Continue reading map of mess
on the day when her grandchildren will be sitting on her lap asking for the bravest thing she has done, she will be looking back at this moment. she's in no danger. no noise. no death-defying acts. but with peaceful tree-whistles, lullaby-like bird-tunes, embrace-like forest air. and her heart and mind who were both dauntless enough to walk out of a life in… Continue reading Bravest Moment
I asked my mom this morning about the almost burnt painting I saw last week in our attic. Its main subject is a woman dressed in glamor and elegance. She looked like me and my mommy but I am quite sure she is not my granny. To my surprise, mom turned pale and then sad… Continue reading The Painting
I was three when curiosity was born inside me. I remember the first thing I asked my mom was about the grand piano covered and silenced inside her room’s bathroom. I grew old asking why it’s hidden. She has offered me nothing but a teary smile, until today. With the same nostalgic yet melancholic look,… Continue reading The Bathroom Pianist
I smell how the supposed sweet, summer aroma turned into a chilling winter scent as I watch how her soft, smooth skin turns from blushed pink to lifeless violet. I listen to her frail heartbeats, silently begging, pleading, helpless against her quite incoming death. With a tear-stained face, my mouth utters its own prayer as… Continue reading Spring Bud
A Reading Writer 