fragments

i.

kiss me
(like a
bee) so
softly (in
a rose)
love

ii.

let us
(if lovers
wear the
sunlight)
wear (then
) the span
of darkness
untouched (we
must be) by
the rays of
the sun

iii.

yes (no)
unpoem
me (just
) as you
have (un
dress me)

iv.

love is
(the substance
of the soul)

like a piece
of glass menagerie

(o yes
very fragile
) handle it
with it
-most
care

The Sunday Times Magazine
February 23, 2003

The Circle Magazine
Published Vol.5, Issue 1 / winter 2001
http://www.circlemagazine.com

the mumbaki

the beat of his gong
the stomp of his feet
stirred the mountains

who's there to listen?
and who's there to see?
the emerald stalks
standing still on the terraces
like a corps of Ifugao braves?

he dances not as King Solomon
had danced to praise his God
he dances not as a Zulu chieftain
had danced to celebrate his triumphs

he dances
to keep these ancient hills
from the conquering metropolis

he will hold his ground
he will wage his own wars
against the angels of change
against the devil named Progress

Published 2000
In Our Own Words 2 : A Generation Defining Itself

At the LIRA
(for Rio Alma)

wordlessly the Adarna bird looks upon
the novitiates where they express their minds
bare their timeless passions and break their souls
laboring to tame their winged conceits

here in the Parnassus of lesser gods
they offer their craft with beauty and pride
only to be judged by their peers and foes

and those who will be forged anew with fire
will beg for the verdict of Apollo

one or two will assume their fitted place
in the fabled circle with their green bud
of imageries rhetoric and forms

soon you will see them ritualized in print
mastering their madness and maladies

First published in The Sunday Times Magazine
December 8, 2002

Sons of Sisyphus

there were voices in the field
and ghostly footfalls of farmers
fallen like the yellow blades
on the breast of the earth

they came and poured their sweat
under the seething sun
they lived their lives away
and searched what was to be found

they are mere voices now
mingling with the wind
soothing those who comes after them
softening the hardened hearts
of those who waste their adamhood
on the barren ground O

how would they know?
they speak no poetry
but the plaints of daily toil O
why would they care?

they only live for a moment
each night they pause awhile
and push their rock once again
when the sun climbs its ancient hill

First published in The Sunday Times Magazine
November 17, 2002

catwalk

she catwalks searching
for a certain sky
living her ninthhood
on the streets
and alleyways
that never sleeps
at night

the hours
only moments

& in her catness
she slips slyly
longing to be free
wordlessly . . .

leaving only the poems
she has written
on my body

softly
the sound of
a closing door

First published in The Sunday Times Magazine
September 29, 2002