The Antidote.

Thumbing through the loose threads at the knees of my trf jeans
I listen to the huskiness of Paolo Nutini’s voice as he strikes a soft G.
I wonder why the neighbour’s dogs have stopped barking
Could it be that they’ve lost their voice?
Or perhaps bashfulness is at their senses’ reach
If only I could sniff just as well...
But maybe they’re also like me
Picking up the pieces
Of whatever’s left of the pellet on the floor
And maybe just like me
Summer is their favourite season
A time of rice cakes and strawberry milkshakes
Sunsets and cheese omelettes
Bicycle rides and ipod tunes
Whistles and stares
(Though I wouldn’t be bothered)
Making dog-ears in my beloved paperbacks
Rendezvous with my polygamous lovers-
There’s Coke after lunch
Ice creams at supper
And Cadbury whenever
Poetic License. Geraniums.Orchids.Daffodils.
Treading barefoot
Along my custom-made valley
A prerequisite for the mountain heights
Whistling on a rainy Sunday
With a drenched cardboard for cover
Listening
Seeking
Waiting
Enjoying
Living for moments that take my breath away...

quid pro quo

Thanks to Mark Knopfler for the inspiration... :)

The soldier took off his armor
Laid down his sword
And examined his wounds
Some scars are fading
Some are just starting to sting
Yet the battle is far from being over.
He gazed at his callused feet
Then at the road ahead
A tear trickled
And slided down his sword
The blade gleamed as liquid touched metal
Everything is traded off....
Fire for pure silver.
Pressure for diamonds.
Sweat for food.
Pain for joy.
Storm for harvest.
Blood for peace.
Tears for strength.
Heartache for wisdom.
Crucifixion for redemption.
Failure for growth....
Death for Truth.

Chiaroscuro

A white sheet of canvass
Hungers for colour
Awakens with the touch
Of running fingertips
Probing with sweet invitations
Gentle promises of forever-
Become a halo on the head
Easy succumbs mix with fear
And smooth shimmers
Tightens and encloses
Grips with salt and muffled cries
Senses reeling, petals tearing
The bottle pops as reverence shatters
And drips of red run down
On the promiser

A white sheet of canvass
Meant for fine sketches
Of chalks and pastels
By palms of immaculate
At a moment of opportune
Is eternally stained
With burning gradients
Of grey passion
Throbs with veiling techniques
In a climax of strokes and shadows
Pulses of black remorse
A heart sore...
No, not beautiful at all

Summer lv

i miss writing...i miss reading literature, i miss midnight rendezvous with my pen and paper, i miss scribbles of cheesy nothings on tissue papers during summer...most of all, i miss being melodramatic...

i hear the sizzle of the heated pavement
i feel the warm breeze gently blowing the ends of my hair
i sense the dampness of the spaces in between my fingers,
it's summer...and it makes me think of you...

i taste the saltiness at the corners of my arid lips,
i find beauty in the glowing sun as it sets at way past six
i take notice of the ubiquitous sounds
made by children's giggles and ice cream bells
it's summer...and it makes me think of you...

i look at the silent changing of the blue clouds
i smell the freshness of the grass in our neighbor's lawn
i listen to the fading melody of faraway guitar strings,
as i catch myself falling into yet another Sunday afternoon reverie
it's summer...and it makes me think of you...

it's summer...let me experience the harsh rays of the sun
let the warmth of the wind beat on my senses,
let the heat consume now...
for i know, soon...it will surely rain on me...

the other girl

You have always wanted the woman.

Your days and nights are filled with fantasies of her.

She with her red lipstick and spicy perfume...

She who always gives you a light and beats you into puffing out a full smoke...

She who expertly cuts speeding cars and conquers Manila traffic in one breath...

She who kicks off her stilettos to stand on the hood of your car and screams your name under the Tagaytay skies...

She who pulls your hand and dances with you in the rain...


Yet at night, as you rest your head against your pillow and sense the aftertaste of your last kiss fading,

you think of another girl...

Secretly deep within your heart, you long for someone else.

Someone who will give you a smile instead of a pout as she tucks a strand of hair behind an ear...

Someone who can walk with you across a muddled parking lot without uttering a curse...

Someone who will believe you when you say you are going to pass the bar and be a lawyer someday...

Someone who won't laugh at your novice compositions...

Someone who lands flat on her face and stands up giggling at herself...

Someone whom you can impress with mere love letters written on perfumed stationery sets...


A girl you can bring home to Mom.

childhood memoir

It’s not about pathetic reminiscing or dismal melodrama.
it's never about melodrama.

It’s about gathering together amusing simplicities one has experienced as a child-

Growing up in silent wonder of when and at what point did everything else start to become complex-
While thinking of those early morning braids and tight pigtails by Ate Vilma-- her brown hands yanking hard at a stubborn clump of hair until my white scalp becomes visible along the hair line.

Of after-lunch tiptoes to the Forbidden Room for small pilferages of A-ma’s sweet kiamoys,

Of melancholy nights with my body smelling of vapor rub and Sunflower oil; a moist Hello Kitty face towel pressed on my forehead-- a consequence for playing in the rain.

Of groggy school bus rides and forgotten Care Bear lunch boxes.

Of being asked to stand in front of the principal's office due to slapping a male classmate who would like to hold my hand.

Of countless "Pang He Na Le's" (Chinese of 'Remain for detention!') for having been caught passing notes with friends in the front row.

Of reading Sweet Valley's and R.L. Stine's-- the pages of which are stained with Cheese Curls-encrusted fingerprints.

Of waking up early for Sunday school but only because of the cute toys and sweet candies they give once you’ve memorized a Bible verse.

Of summer days composing of heat rash, necks white with Fissan powder, and green tongues from sucking at avocado-flavored ice candy.

Of ambitiously trying out Mom’s high heels and walking around the house with tote bags hanging on bony shoulders.

Of the fragrant smell of brewing sinigang as my Achi and I play Snakes n’ Ladders while sprawled on the wooden sala floor.

Of Saturday ballet and piano lessons I would hate to attend because I would rather play tumbang preso with the plump, sweaty boys next door.

Of gleeful afternoon naps anticipating my growing up soon, but only to think about being a child again.

Sigh!

Without Your Mercy

"God is more than just. If He is just and fair only, then we (for all our measly worth) would have been destroyed by now. We do not want justice. Thank God He is merciful..."
-Pastor david Sumrall


Without Your mercy...
I am a mere dust
A purposeless soul
A being devoid of beauty
Nothing but unmolded clay.
A spirit incapable of love
a lost sheep
A barren existence
An insolvent entity.
A lonely isolation amidst a crowd
An unredeemed captive
The black in an unsightly cloud.
I am a lasting filth
A false actuality
A volatile fragrance
A choir in cacophony.
I am nothing but unsought offering
An illness in recrudescence
A twig swayed by waves
Just a sinner in despondence...

it's all about you

standing in the midst of a battle
i am a warrior who has lost track of what she is fighting for
always on the quest for gold
bound to make it on top
i keep walking on this endless road
encountering jungles and mazes,
taking a lot of detours and missteps
why do i keep forgetting that it’s all about you?
it’s really all about you...
i dwell in this inevitable loneliness and sorrow
i suffer and struggle through life’s challenges, vexations,
my own inner upheaval and self-made fears...
been looking in front of the mirror for others to see-
a well made-up face…
a pleasing, practiced smile
of a person who is almost dying inside,
who keeps on forgetting
that it is you… it is only you i must please.
often at the mercy of my own pride,
false humility, and extreme foolishness
not really understanding the true meaning of being in your presence.
i never fail to write and tell my own stories with utmost enthusiasm
when there is actually a different story to tell...
a more wonderful story
because it’s all about you...
everything is all about you.
i bask in the glory and tingling feeling-
that vanity, friendships, and material success bring,
all the while ceasing to recall
that it has been about you…all along.
i keep on giving in to my childish illusions and fantasies
every day dreaming of an enviable life
of obtaining that fairy tale love…
of one day looking at the face of a coming knight
failing to remember that it is your face i must seek
that it is you i must wait for…
it’s all about you, jc
it’s not about me
not about me at all…
this is all about you…