poetry

To Soar… one must first Leap.
Garden the Root of Thought.
Pinpoint the fixed Core
within and behind
the swirling, ever changing
and evolving chaos
of Character, Personality
and Temperament.
Shake the Framework continually.
Detonate and Explode
all safe and comfortable
thought patterns, inner walls
and routine footholds…
whilst never, for a moment,
shying away from Yourself.
Focus your Existence…
into one exact, precise moment of Time
and Craft out of Experience.

What is the role
Who bakes the roll
Who rolls the bills
Who pays them?
National parlance
We are told
Has national instruments
Brave and bold
Diplomatic
Informational
Military and
Economic1
Tools which never
seem to fade
Tools with which
Suppliants are made.
Dense
Inert
Metal
Explosives2
with blades unseen

The wave has retreated farther, and
Father back, the shell left straddled
On itself, and all its dehydrated memories
It whistles like a night traveler: I have a dream
And I cannot wait to see what lies ahead
As if the content were fully sponged with
Consciousness, ready to evaporate into the sky
Along with the wind, it keeps rolling up ashore
Approaching human footprints, behind itself
The shell left a broken line, almost invisible
Like a trail left by another wave, trying
To accomplish a couplet or a marine stanza

This morning a revolution is about to start
with a fight between my sister and I
over a plate of stale breadcrumbs.
The newsreader recites questions for
an imaginary interview with a war hero.
Minutes of silence follow
the high-pitched hissing noise of a boiling samovar.
Water and grain – the tortures of freedom for orphans and trees.
The view from the kitchen window captures the sea.
People are steadily moving towards a distant border.
No school today. The bomb exploded on our playground.

Why are tiny fingers
on a face, consoling:
“It’s OK, Mommy,
I’m right here with you?”
Why the caustic smell?
Why is crimson Slurpee
seeping through the front
seat, pooling on the
floor below her?
Why did the four-year-old
Hear pop-pop-pop-pop-
pop-pop-pop from her car seat?
A four-year-old should
Be sitting in the sun
on the corner, four doors
from home, skin taut as
a talking drum—day-
dreaming of dolls, wondering
what’s for lunch, after her nap
A four-year-old should

Here is a poem with its eyes cut out,
bound in darkness,
blinded by ignorance,
branded with a mark on its forehead
that would make Cain
toss and turn in his grave
from disbelief.
Here is a chest with a hole in its center,
bled out from the empty cavity,
hollow in the bones,
ribs picked clean
and sold to the vultures
that lurk greedily
with lust dancing
through their wicked little thoughts
of carnage.
Here is a song that haunts my soul,
just released,
spun fifty times on repeat

He stood with poor, a gallant man of mind,
ardent and brave he spoke a gentle truth
with roar of pride and peace so hard to find
in times of drought he dared to inspire the youth.
The hostile Spaniards came with sword in mouth
to gut and conquer Rizal’s motherland,
yet he resolved to let the ink spill out
in a spirit Spain couldn’t understand.
“Noli Me Tangere”(Touch Me Not) but look
at what oppression breeds – the hope to free
his land from tyranny of thief and crook,
how lovely “The Pearl of the Orient Seas.”

A festering latrine
Of septic
Money hungry
Warmonger ideology
Old pagan psychology
Behind an eternal tapestry
Portals in
New thinning dreams
Behind hazy mirrored
Politics
Sunday change brings the
Red right hand
Ready to push
Its handle down
The ugly side of
Forgotten wars
Spawning forlorn
Lovers
Independently happy
Comfortably numb
Young robots
Dancing to a perfect
End
Yielding broken weapons
With bruised knuckles
Smiling faces and

Despair kept knocking.
Wouldn’t let it in. Must have gotten frustrated, and gave up.
Depression hung on the doorbell, kept peeking through the keyhole.
Waited it out. Must have gotten hot out there, pacing in the sun, so it left.
Anxiety rattled the windows.
Let the dog out. Teeth chased it down the street.
It’s a free-for-all with these negative emotions clamoring for my attention.
I quit watching the news long ago, and maybe it’s time to quit social media, too.
No matter who wins in any election,

zoos, oh zoology
rushing torrents of strollers
electric guitars on stage
like a run through an airport
connecting flights the cotton
candy, elephant ears, snow
cones, all bundled up in diaper
rash, daddies saying stupid
things about polar bears
this is conveyor belt
consumption, a zoo-like
snow globe planet
everything wrong — sun
bear next to black bear
gibbons caged, elephants
mulling around arthritic