
sing to me Polaris’ song
steady, constant of the north.
show my midnight lullaby
softly rocking, back and forth.
see the map on my pillow
salted as sunbathing seas.
shoo my fears, shoo them for me.
—
I write because I read. I read because I write.
sing to me Polaris’ song
steady, constant of the north.
show my midnight lullaby
softly rocking, back and forth.
see the map on my pillow
salted as sunbathing seas.
shoo my fears, shoo them for me.
—
Three photos have immortalised the birthday my mind cannot remember but will always be dear to me. The first photo was of me and my Tatay (father) who looks like a young TV actor with his Colgate-commercial-smile and polished moustache. My chubby, teenie tiny fingers were clinging tightly to his shirt, perhaps its instinct to know that someone who will keep me safe will be him. My eyes wide with fear, perhaps I’ve always hated the camera ever since.
The second photo was with my Nanay (mother) whose free-of-wrinkle face clearly wore her youth. She was wearing a loose shirt, her eyes mirroring my uncertainty, a feeling understandable for a woman who birthed a baby at her twenty.
The last one was me and the gifts I’ve received, I stood with the help of a walker as my knees are too weak to support my weight. I cannot remember the toys, the balloons, the cake, the guests, the clothes of that day. But with these photos I know one constant thing, I was loved and I am loved since the beginning.
Mem’ry of the first
birthday fades like rays of May—
only love remains.
—
You are asking why
I haven’t been writing
lately about love,
well, it’s because
you do not utter
a wish every night
once you can already
hold it with your
bare hands. So why
I haven’t been
writing about love
it’s because I
already have
you.
I heard the
hushed melting
of the last flake
of winter on the
drying road bathed
with the first infant
rays of spring,
I felt the
spinning earth
waited a bit,
I saw a
second lasted
more than a minute,
when you smiled at me
for the first time.
My heart saw you before my eyes
How beautiful is it, right?
Like nightingale, I heard your song
like moon-sent, sweet goodnight.
From miles away I felt you long
before our nervous hands touch.
Tonight listen to my soul’s notes,
they are for you, my far love.
—
Feet on the edge of a cliff,
hanging, hanging,
just one more push Mr. Wind.
Yet sweaty hands
cling, cling,
to unseen twigs,
not willing,
not willing,
to dive, deep, deep,
into the pit of love.
I have always been
brave, blunt, honest,
but I cannot leap,
else I’ll be a mess.
Yes,
I am scared, afraid
to fall… for I know you will
not catch me.
… my third baby book is here!!!
Do you also believe that long-distance love is tough and scary? Do you also believe that relationships, the romantic ones, require so much of bravery?
This book of poetry believes so.
Containing over 100 poems written for several years, this collection features the unsure and the blurry beginnings of a relationship made possible by Instagram. Yes, you read that right. Instagram.
Beyond physical attraction, it was and still is a soul connection between a poet and a musician/photographer parted by mountains and seas.
The poems carry a true story of how the everyday calls between two artists turned from friendly to something more. How it took them both by surprise. How they were both afraid and unsure.
With four chapters, swinging from certain to uncertain, from happy to sad, from loved to hurt, from longing to glad; this book covers the mosaic of feelings all hearts go through when “in love”.
More than the poetic forms and the metaphors used, this book is first and foremost a gift from one heart to another.
From a she to her “he”, wrapped with a prayer for their love to be blessed be.
Our tongues are dancing muscles
sprinkled with the magic dust of languages,
as if before birth we’re treated
on a buffet of diverse dialects and accents
where we select how our mouths will circle and arch
to utter each twisted word’s lyrical march, but
pause and place your vein-hand
in the middle of your breasts, there,
there is a polyglot organ,
tapping ceaseless da-dum, da-dum,
tasting the kindness in a stranger’s smile,
touching the tendrils of love’s blurry profile.
There is where we learn,
our tongues may be the dancing muscles
sprinkled with the magic dust of languages,
but our hearts are our postal code stamps
proving this big, big world is our residence.
—
Perhaps, there is, maybe,
a biological malfunction in me,
instead of a mouth singing
to the tune of bell-voiced hymns
the language of my soul speaks
not with dust-tongued shrieks
but with the dancing lettered-runes
under a smiling owl-light moon,
tiptoeing from my scarlet muscle-cave
flowing, twirling with each brainwave
until they reach the tip of my waiting fingers
where they will be freed, and on earth, they will linger,
across the ringed-sea, they will float,
until I am onboard my only heaven-bound boat.
—
virtuoso, oh no,
i am no ace of (many) no’s,
i am not numb (yet)
against spades of (vicious) no’s,
but I’ve my shield
of self-belief, just
enough to help me
swallow (sharp) eyes menacing,
(brute) words piercing,
(twisted) life unveiling,
on my own.