To J
You are the most heinous thing
I've ever laid my eyes on
It makes me sweat
The bearing of a miserable grandpa
In the body of a baseball god
The morals of a wretched cut-throat
With a gentle giant's hands
Your tub-thumping makes the vilest Redditors blush
As it falls from luscious lips
And the sleekness of your decor and design
Clashes well with your grimy looks
You bear all these and more
With the stride of a schoolyard bully
And nothing else has made my heart race like this
Ever since you conquered me in my dreams
I dreamed of conquering you
If we should meet,
It would be a fateful meeting indeed
And I know, with bitter pleasure,
That you would make full use of it
And that's alright
To become one of your pawns
Is a double-dipping deal
But having your attention
For one second
Would be compensation enough
Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry
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The Orchids
As a kid,
I was always drawn to orchids
I drew them on the backs of Xerox scrap
In my grandma's old shop
I doodled them on the corners of my notes
When the restlessness kicked in
I once got laughed at by my mom, my aunt, and my cousins
Because, while the other kids made fishing rods
From the extra tinsel and plastic straws
They threw out while decorating for Christmas,
I made orchids
My great-grandparents' ancestral house,
Tucked in a tangle of quiet fields and groves
That weathered the island's rapid, reckless growth,
Was once ringed by orchids on a wire fence
When we moved in, I used to stare at them
As they caught the dew and fire of the rising sun,
Their dainty blooms and stately leaves and stalks
Glistening like flutes of emerald and blue,
And I mourned when they suddenly fell dead and dry
A couple of days later, only to be amazed
When they flowered again
The books call them commensalists:
In the wild, they stuck to branches and cliff faces,
Taking in what they need from the open air
Without harming their roosts
I, too, wish I could take up space
And thrive wherever I went,
Daring both gales and beasts alike
To bloom for a day, wither, and fall,
Then get back at it again
Maybe that's why I was drawn to orchids:
I wanted (and want) to be them
Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry
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To O.O
I plod outside the gate
And out he comes
With little feet a-padding,
A tiny nose a-sniffing,
And a minute mouth a-wailing
Like it's been ages (more like a month)
Since we last saw each other,
To greet me
O.O I named him
After a silly K-pop song
Panned by self-dubbed experts in the medium
He had great swathes of orange
Splashed over a white underbelly
As if by an artist
At the end of their wits
Much like me
He lounged with fellow felines
That colonized our whole alleyway
Now sheltered at a neighbor's house
And there he spent his nights and days
But once in a while,
He'd cross my gaze
And run to me
To do our little ritual
Consisting of pets and scritches
Long rubs against my hairy legs
And finally
A plop to the ground,
Four paws in the air,
In a game of who-scratches-who
It would not last, much to his grief
Since he did this on errand-days
But when that once in a while comes
I let the eggs and dishwashing soap wait
A lifetime longer
Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry
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December
When boughs and beams hang full with wreaths
Of foil and tinsel, and the streets
Reverberate with tunes so loud
They drown the drone of one whole crowd
Ah, it's December
When stalls and stores are decked in gold
And walls of green and red enfold
The eyes of shoppers old and young
That woes and worries blindly flung
Ah, it's December
When walls and hedges blaze so bright,
They thwart the schemes of early night,
Keeping awake the listless streams
That make each place burst at the seams
Ah, it's December
When past and present mix anew
And buried sorrows pay their dues
And holidays gone by return
To joke and laugh and sit and mourn
Ah, here it is again
December
Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry
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The Galaxy Am I
More than the stars that dot the sky,
The galaxy am I!
Who there can gauge the span of my wings,
Or my tail's length,
Or my eye's width,
Or the depth of the silent dark,
Through which I ply?
Who there can count the clouds of light,
The streams and rays,
The swinging blades
Of bright and blistering flame,
With which I fly?
Who there can hold the million worlds
Chock-full of breath
Or quiet with death
That on my myriad maelstrom arms
Still float and lie?
Who there can plot the course I take,
Or know my start
Or where I end,
Or see the hand that spins me hence?
Who there would try?
"Me," says the human race, "I'd try!
I fear no more
Nor I adore
Your greatness. You're no thing divine!
E'en you will die!"
So it all cries, but only a sigh
I hear; I laugh
As grain to chaff
Or fire to dust and ashes faint
Oh, prophesy!
Who frets o'er naught as they do?
I do not care
Nor do I dare
Flee from formless infinity
No question why
Who there has seen my first?
'Ere history
Or mastery
Came to, already I was here
Singing on high
And who shall see my last?
While they all fade
To voiceless shade
In bounteous void a-dreaming
I will abide
More than the stars that dot the sky,
The galaxy am I!
Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry
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Oh, tiny, precious pond-born beastie
Naught but a dot in wetlands murky
On bugs and scum, you go a-feasty
'Neath grassy shade you rest all-easy
Your gills bob out your face so filmy
Mouth fixed minute 'twixt eyes a-glassy
Your restless tail tucked 'tween your feetsies
Let you swim past the days so breezy
But time will come, one morning dewy
When nursing grounds come up a-misty
You'll turn 'gainst brothers and your sisties
And rise up to a world all-creaky
Up! Up and grow, my sweet pond beastie!
Become a bane for teeming crawlies
And flyers and human neighbors sleepy:
Oh, warty tyrant 'mongst the weedsies!
Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry
(also made a quick graphic 'cuz I was feeling very whimsical)
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The Regular
"You shouldn't be scared of becoming a regular.
Businesses rely on traffic
The longer and more often you do business with them,
The better.
So don't be flustered
When the guards stop checking your bag
After you came to window-shop indoors
For the 99th time
Or when the bakers know which loaf you'll get
Between the golden hours
Of three and five PM
Or when the salespeople let you know
Where the brand-new shirts and shorts are
In that sweet millisecond
When the doors let out their
Ambrosial AC air.
Their off-handed gestures,
Curt nods,
And time-perfected customer service smiles
Let you know they know you'll do this
99 times more.
So go and get that bread!"
I whisper to myself
Before walking up to the doors,
Freezing,
And walking away.
(I will be back.)
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Peace
"Peace I leave you,
My peace I give you."
So why do they praise war?
Perhaps they want to see His wounds
Writ large on a thousand bodies
Again,
And again,
And again
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War
Where is the glory in war?
"In the tactics," cried the strategists
"The spoils," replied the soldiers
"The innovation," said the technocrats
"The peace," the statesmen answered
Behind them all, a trembling hand
Rose up; I beckoned
And a wizened man appeared
Wearing faded fatigues
They were studded with stars and flags
That all weighed down his shoulders
Hollowed and beaten by time
The others retched at his presence
And begged him to leave
But he told us, "The glory in war
Lies in the flowers that bloom
In the billions
When all the marks of its wake
Rot away."
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Taste
Do you see me?
Do you smell me?
Please, come!
Come and take a seat by this table
Take that tiny spoon,
Take a scoop,
And taste me
I once slept in a dusty bed
My feet spread contentedly beneath
The damp coldness, which matched
The warmth that beat upon
My verdant hair
There they grabbed me—
Hands rougher and tougher
Than the loam and rocks that anchored me—
And pulled
I couldn't cry out
Or did I?
I don't know
They can't hear me anyway
They threw me into a giant vat
Along with my kin
And in its wet, freezing stomach
They tossed and turned us
Many flew out (or were they plucked out?)
Never to be seen again
They picked the rest of us in handfuls,
Wiped us of the last bits of home,
Laid us on a tray to scorch under the sun
Before throwing us into cramped, crinkling bags
So tight our breaths fogged them
Then into heat, then cold, then heat again
We passed
And then, were picked once more apiece
I was the first
They ripped my paper skin off me,
Lopped off my head and rear
They turned me sideways and bisected me,
Dicing both halves for good measure
And when I was nothing
But meager bits of myself,
They tipped all of me
Into a boiling tub
With many estranged folk
All torn and crushed and broken
And covered the exit
Please, help yourself
I swear I will not stain your shirt
Or singe your lip
Or sear your tongue
In fact, I will kiss every inch of you
As you take me
Into final nothingness
I swear it will delight you:
My melting into darkness
I will give you warmth,
Tickle your brain,
And quicken your heart for a while
Isn't that the point
Of all that torment?
Please, take a scoop
And say you like it
Make it all worthwhile
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An Ode to Sinulog
Once,
You were taken hostage
Mistaken for a gift
Thrice,
They tried to bring You back
To their fold
Yet thrice,
You returned
To the kingdom You made for Yourself
In foreign isles
"Out of Egypt I called my son."
And out of Spain
You came to Cebu,
Where somber rituals paled
Before the child-like ardor
Of red-hot song and dance
Now, every third Sunday
Of the first month of the year,
Thousands of bronzed bodies
Crush together
And scream in one voice:
"Magnet of love!
Magnet of love!
Magnet of love!
Beloved of our ancestors.
Have mercy on us
Who call on You!"
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What's Hope Like?
"Hope is such a pretty thing."
Or is it?
Tell me, how does she look like to you?
How does she taste? How does she smell?
Is she as fine as sugar cubes?
As white as snow or many-hued
Like rainbows after thunderstorms
Or circus banners gladly borne?
Do her teeth shine like clear sunbeams
That fill the jumbled, sordid dreams
Of harrowed folk with blissful light—
A lamp that wards off cruel night?
And is her fragrance flower-like,
A balm for pain, a cure for spite?
Please tell me, friend, I'd like to know
What is hope like, please tell us all
I've seen her once, and I can say:
She's barely any of these
She's ragged, bruised,
Covered in scars
And stitches drape her
Arms and legs
Both end with claws
As sharp as knives
Just like her teeth—
Or, what's left of them
She reeked of ash
And tasted like it
She's haggard, haunted, wild
Like me
Yet, still, she smiles
That's how I knew
I could cling to her
For longer than a while
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Keep 'Em On
The room was dark
The windows small
When I peered through
The broken wall
I saw myself—
To my surprise
I did not know
The how's or why's
But then I heard
Other Me speak:
"These bills might hold
Me 'til next week.
But I can't take
More of this fast,
This endless wait
And stifling cast!
I shouldn't have bought
The training shoes
Or the new phone
So much to lose!"
I leaned away
And cast my eyes
Down to my feet
And hand besides
Said phone's alight
With all the news
Of all the stuff
I gained and use
Without a care;
Same with the shoes
A laugh escaped
My pursing lips
I shook my head
And at a clip
I told myself:
"The race is tight
But then, one day,
This endless fight
Will end, and then,
With teary eyes,
You'll see the twists
And turns and miles
You've walked—no, ran!
Since who knows when
Out of that pit,
That dreaded den
You call the past
Keep running, boy!
Those training shoes
Are not just toys
Your soul's a well
And heart's a pyre
So what if you're
Right on the wire?
One more lap left
And then, you've won
Just keep those brand-new trainers on!"
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Oops
I forgot to say Happy New Year.
Happy New Year!
There.
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I Live
The world is dark and cramped
I lie in a walled void,
The only light in this emptiness
Coming from a tiny spark
Within me
Outside, I hear the roiling
Of a million monstrous beasts,
Squirming,
Skittering,
Squelching,
And gnashing with gigantic jaws and feet
One brushes me—
If there was something stiller than still,
I did it—
But does nothing else
I shake my head:
This restless fear
Can't be borne much longer
Then, I feel it,
Something cold, crisp, and clammy
Touching me
I twist and turn to taste it
The walls break
To reveal a darker, heavier, deadlier darkness
But I thrum with thirst
So I dig down, dig deep
Then push,
Shove,
Crawl,
Crunch
Against this crushing expanse
With feeble, fluttering hands
And heaving head
More drip down in damp drops
And I drink deep
But then, something else draws me
Something hot, high,
And brighter
Than this tiny spark within me
I struggle—
An abomination nips my side,
But I struggle on
A million miles, a yard, an inch,
A hair's breadth
Then, I break through
And take my first gasp of air,
All bursts in green, blue, and gold:
Warmth, wind, and a wide world
Welcome me
With a fragile, vibrant circlet
Of glorious color
For my crusted brow
I shake off my withered cowl
And put it on,
Then, I spread out many arms
And shout:
"I live! I live! I live!"
Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry
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Dump Depot
Pennies, dimes, a quarter,
A couple of 10-dollar bills
A quick rub on the sleeve
Can clean—oh, look, a Benjamin!
Must be my lucky day!
"Pipe down," she said,
"You'll wake the neighbors up.
The shopkeeper's as mean as he looks.
Go check these here;
You'll find some better steals."
They smell like hell.
"There's more over there!"
Alright! Now you pipe down.
Oh, wow! This bomber jacket
Still looks fresh. These Docs
and Skechers, too!
'Dunno what an LV is,
But it looks fancy enough.
And—holy crap!
They dumped a whole-ass blender here!
Looks good as new.
I bet you can use 'em.
"Or sell 'em," she replied.
"These folks don't care about this stuff
Like we do."
Yeah. I wonder why.
Based on a prompt from The Art of Poetry
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