soft grumbles

At last, i have composed a poem for this lesson while proctoring the final exams of my advisory class. This is a very personal poem I would like to dedicate to my very first friend here. His name is Tom Spencer whom my wife and I have had the pleasure to meet together with his wife, Kathy when we first came to Canada. Unfortunately, Kathy is currently fighting for her life as she had been sick with the Big C. I welcome all the critiques as I plan to give this to him somed


An Ode To My Friend, Tom

I hold my guitar
not knowing what to play
but play I must. It's the least
I can do for you and your pain.
Mindlessly, I start with a C minor
progressing to A minor, then F to G
until a steady rhythm takes shape.

Then I overlay it with a simple line
in pentatonic mode
stretching the strings to bend the notes
like a wailing ewe frantically calling its young
afraid it fallen prey by its enemies.

Tune turns to shrieks and howls
with every false harmonics taking it
an octave higher.
Distorted sounds emanate from my box
amplified cries from deep within my heart.

A teardrop falls
for a friend who needs a hand
to steady his gait while he watches
his loved one slowly disintegrate,
melting like a tiny candle,
its flickering light vulnerable
to the gentlest of breeze.

Lucky is that homeless, dirty child,
unmindful of the scorching heat,
his bare feet numbed to the flaming asphalt,
mouth frothing with sticky saliva,
begging for spare food.
He may be hungry
but at least he still has the gift of life.

I feel the pain of a friend
whose warm embrace with soft pats on my shoulder
I had the pleasure to enjoy
one cold, spring day in Vancouver.
His failing eyes glowed as he gathered me
in his arms. Her stately pose
seemed so sure,
shared with him the joy of meeting
a friend from far away
for the first time.

My guitar now shamelessly wails
as the melody rises in crescendo.
I cry, "While she has morphine to calm her nerves
he can only cry to wash away the pain."

My lament over, I get the key to put
the guitar in its case thinking
I wish he had his own keys to set fond memories free
he has kept inside the chambers of his heart.

rolly

I looked for God in my youth
searching for clues behind the words
Augustinian nuns preached.
I learned a long litany of prayers
but didn’t find Him.

I’ve visited a lot of churches,
cathedrals even and saw a man
crowned with brambles, nailed to the cross.
There were pictures of His minions
but these were not what I was looking for.
And I couldn’t find Him there.

I’ve gone beyond mountains
and over the hills thinking
He might be hiding behind the clouds.
I’ve tried diving the Tubattaha reef
for He might have sought refuge
in tiny rock crevices found underneath
but didn’t find Him there.

Then I realized

His are the hands that carved
the mountains where life abounds.
His are the fingers that dug the deepest seas
teeming with fish and white corals.
His is the brush that painted the flowers
bursting into colors in spring,
the bright sky turning magenta at dawn and dusk
when the sun sets only to rise
again the following day.

God has always been here.
God is the cool water I drink
after a long dry spell,
the food that sustains me.

I have smelled His breath
in the misty morning air.
He smiled at me when I saw
an innocent baby smile
as he welcomed a world
he had never seen before.
I have felt His touch when my mother,
with probing eyes, gently stroked my face
in her last moments.

Now I know
He lives inside my heart.

I sit on top of the mountain
watching lights illumined
by unnamed towns
like stars beneath my feet.

Fog descends and the chilly air
engulfs me like your arms
without the warmth.
Then I realize, I am all alone

All I have are memories
of your soft voice
whispering in my ear
like a tender kiss
sweeter than the ripest fruit
borne by a tree
as old as time.

I remember how
your gossamer white gown
would cling to your body
barely exposing supple breasts,
giving a glimpse of your long legs
while you teased me with your smile.

Your slender body seemed frail
as if it would break with the tightness
of my embrace - but that was deceitful
for I have known the strength of your words,
your unshaken stance and how you
won all the battles we’ve fought.

It has been a very long time since.
I may be perched on the highest spot
with everything under my feet
but it is still your name
I whisper at night.

I missed the morning strolls we could have taken
to put the sun on my face and warm my body
after a cold dark night

I missed the warm caresses of your strong arms
assuring me that I shall be protected
from harm in a chaotic world

I missed hearing your tales of gallantry,
of horses and knights, of Indians and cowboys
and their endless battles, of soldiers
with fierce guns aiming
fire at the bad guys,
or how you taunted and defied
the Japanese during the war

I missed going to the lake on a boat
with you, putting a bait on the hook,
casting the line and catching a big fish
that mom would have turned
into a very fine dish

I missed the times you could have taken me
to school toting my bag, my lunch box
containing rice and meat marinated in soy sauce,
garlic and vinegar,
holding my hand
as we crossed

To me,
you shall always be a name
on a tombstone
where we put
flowers and candles
on your birthday
or any holidays
like the 1st of November
and be contented with the stories
shared by papa growing up
under your care.

rolly

I couldn't believe a man
who used to command more
than a hundred,
heeling at his side
like lapdogs with tongues
sticking out,
wagging their tails
ready to please,
would succumb to time.

Men used to tremble at his feet.
Their voices quivered as they answered
even benign questions
like "What time is it?"
or "Have you eaten yet?"

He stood like a tall candle
ready to provide light
when needed. Worked

like a brand new tire
exploring miles upon miles
that when added up could
reach the stars.

Gravity is not so kind
to this old man.
It sags every flesh and muscles
on his frailing body,
drags his shoulders like the sun
inevitably surrendering
its power to earth
as it is drawn
during sunset. Lucky

sun. It will bounce
back in the morning
while I see a candle melt,
retire a worn out tire.

shards of broken glass
lie in the dust pan
ready to be thrown away,

books read ferociously
rot on shelves,
gather worms unnoticeably
after being soaked
in a recent flood,

a partly burned photograph
sits on the floor
amid shattered frame
fallen from the wall.

these are all gone
but they wouldn't care.

What was left are
unused wheel chair
resting beside empty bed
now kept clean to store
perhaps to keep one’s memories

It is the living who mourn
for the dead,
it is they who suffer the loss
while those who have departed
would not dare to care

I never knew how to write a love poem. Silly, one might think, right? Maybe one would wonder how a learning poet would not know how to write a love poem. It seems like everyone who dabbled in poetry started with love poems. Not me! I started to learn how to write late in life. I discovered writing late in life. I have told this tale before in my other blog. You'll just have to dig in a little. I myself am too lazy to do that now. Anyway, my first attempt to write a love poem was in a class in writersvillage, an online virtual university for writers based in the States. We were under the tutelage of a poet and my assignment was a catastrophe. "This is not a poem!" How many budding poets have heard that before, huh? That made me wary of making love poems. How do I make a love poem that does not sound sappy? Anyway, after too many years of evading it, I tried doing one anyway. Here is the piece.

What I Fear Most

I do not fear the coming of a moonless night
though I shall see nothing in the dark.
Like a blind man groping his way, I shall bump on walls,
stumble over the brown davenport across the hall,
or trip on the books that lie cluttered on the floor.

I may miss the smell of grass damped with morning dew,
the redolence of vapor rising from dry asphalt
the rain the monsoon brings after a long drought,
or the whiff of new mown hay.
What is the essence of a scentless air
when I cannot smell even the foulest of the foul?
But I do not fear the day when all those scents have gone.

I may not be able to enjoy
the zing of caffeine in my morning coffee,
the sweetness of a cup cake or an ice cream
that is so decadent it can kill me.
I do not fear waking up tasteless.

I may not feel the waves on my feet as they try to reach me,
bait me to sea to swim and swallow me in its depths.
I may no longer feel the softness of a dog's coat,
or feel the tenderness of a gentle breeze as that kisses my cheeks.
But I do not fear the loss of my sense of touch

I may be deprived of sound who wonders
what's going on around when every abled- body
is busy with useless banter.
I may not hear the notes the guitar man plays
or a swan singing her song.
But I do not fear not hearing a single sound.

No. I do not fear these things.
What I fear most in the dark black night
is that when the lights return, you shall no longer be there.

That is what I fear most for I shall

no longer smell the fragrance of cinnamon on your apple pie
or your newly shampooed hair
and your body bathed in perfume.

no longer taste your chicken a la mode,
your painful lips as they brush into mine
or the salt in your tears.

no longer touch the body of an immortal goddess
or hear your cherubic voice as you sing me a lullaby.

rolly

Not contended with it, I sent it out for comments in my egroup and still I know it was wanting of something. Until my good friend, Gloria Laven, who I have been working with since 1999 and one time poetry editor of an ezine, tried to do some magic and rearranged it. I think she did wonders to the poem as it is more coherent now. I just don't know if I can call it entirely my own. Here is what she did:


What I fear most


Is not the absence of the moon
Although I may not see in the darkness
It provokes.

It is not being able to smell the grass
Or the redolence of vapor from dry asphalt
that brings about my fear.

The day may come
when I won’t be able to enjoy
the zing of caffeine in my morning coffee
the sweetness of a cup cake
the coolness of ice cream
but I do not fear losing my taste buds.

I may find myself deprived of hearing
and will probably wonder
what is going on around me
I will miss the guitar notes in quiet evenings
yet, I do not fear to lose my hearing.

No! I do not fear losing my senses

What I fear most in a dark moonless night
is that when morning comes,
you may not be there!

What I fear most
is not sharing a piece of apple pie
made with your tender hands
the fragrance of your newly shampooed hair
when you cuddle your head upon my chest
I dread to think, I shall no longer feel
your soft skin, scented with delicate perfume

My fear causes my heart’s rate to rise
just thinking of not having your lips
pressed against mine before falling asleep

Truly, what I fear most my love
is that moonless night when you’ll be gone
and I won’t be able to dry your tears with my kiss
caress the body that has kept me warm for so many years.
To lose the woman whom I have shared a lifetime of love
nd whose melodious voice fills our home
with happy songs and tender lullabies.

That’s what I fear the most.