tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62618472011-12-31T10:35:50.373+08:00Since I can't write legibly anymore and can't think straight with pen in hand,(computer has taken away all that) this is where I am going to put all my musings from day to day (hopefully) and the place where I intend to put my works from this date hereon. Oh, I may put some of my favorite poems now and then for safekeeping. :-)rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.comBlogger1681100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-42148862644461436322011-06-15T15:50:00.004+08:002011-06-15T16:00:52.295+08:00

...they’ll whisper sweet thingsand make you untrueso be good to yourselfthat’s all you can do... Wonderful Baby Don Mclean I planted a seed inside my headwhen I was a toddler, you see.It was to be taller than a redwood,mightier than a baobab tree.Its thick leaves would rustleas the wind blew.Haven for birds and tiny insects,it would grow the sweetest

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-12404723507095164072011-05-03T08:31:00.002+08:002011-05-04T08:52:45.389+08:00

I have never seen the moon blink.It stares at me all night,watching every step I make.Sun down till sun upwitness to man's follyI have never heardthe moon whisper.It talks to meof endless nightsof women's screamsas monsters whip touch soft skintearing their flesh to turn them mute.I have never seen the moon taste salt from the sea.It knows the taste of saltfrom fresh blood of naked mensilenced by

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-22382973900390299922011-04-21T07:39:00.002+08:002011-04-21T07:45:38.187+08:00

How many would live to be ninety fiveliving alone, with nothing but a pennyin his pocket?How could he be left aloneliving in pain, homeless,begging for food?How can his country betray him when he sacrificedeverything including his lifefighting the enemy so that wecan live in freedom?The folly of timeis on this decrepit man’s shoulder.How could we allow himto live in squalor?He does not need

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-37599100260819736092011-04-21T07:24:00.003+08:002011-04-21T07:34:21.444+08:00

I could have been looking at your silhouetteas you block the view of the moon,its white luminescencebetrayed by the golden glowof my tiny candlerendering every contour of your facelike a Dutch painter’s chiaroscuro.The stillness of the black nightis punctuated by the sound of a leaky faucetwith ladle dipped in a half-filled jarslowly filling up with tiny droplets.I am like a tiny lost

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-24697459909766770132010-08-16T15:44:00.000+08:002010-08-16T15:45:55.343+08:00

The old hag thinks she can haggle her way to heaven. She goes to church every morning. Rosary in hand, she kneels her way from door to altar while her favorite brew laced with arsenic, bitter gourd, acid and goat’s blood stews in her earthen pot. She listens intently to the sermon while her room is decorated by named voodoo rag dolls speared with a hundred pins. She thinks she can bribe her way

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1261450977228753372010-07-20T13:44:00.001+08:002010-07-20T13:45:26.334+08:00

One day I will just quit and make it all go away. No more chasing sirens snaking my way on busy streets. No more sweating inside hot congested trains, or waiting for fully packed buses on dangerous, dark corners. One day I will just quit and make them go away. No more overly active teenagers hooting and shouting for no apparent reason. No more lazy, disrespectful students to make my head boil

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-29728944710452373502010-07-16T10:08:00.002+08:002010-07-16T10:16:04.451+08:00

Browned by the summer’s heat,this once viridescent land is dry.Blades of grass lie motionless.Leaves as brittle as glasscling to thirsty branches.Nary a cloud driftsthrough the sky.Land feels like the devil’s furnace.It has become a cesspoolinfested with gnats and rats.Then the rains come.It pours and poursuntil the land can hold no more.Desert becomes a seaof brown mud, thick like spoiled

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-46798020132458658922010-05-19T08:54:00.004+08:002010-05-21T05:48:53.858+08:00

I walk this parched earth dried by a fierce sun grown fiery with age. I lick my dried lips longing for a cold, wet drink. I think about this thirsty land bathed with blood of kin and countrymen for centuries fighting enemies that come relentlessly. When will this bloodshed stop? Not when greed remains. Not where there still sits a patch of landworthy to plant rice, grow crops, where carabaos can

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-84083301103712582972010-04-29T08:39:00.000+08:002010-04-29T08:40:32.121+08:00

You were an unexpected gift from the heavens for so short a time.Why did you come during the shortest period of time, when swine drank wine, plagued the world with flu, and everybody’s not fine; a Christian brother deferred from work, decided to knock on Peter’s door, and classes were suspended; clouds drained all its rain submerging every corner of the streets and our efforts were in vain.

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-67361599703179753912010-04-13T09:18:00.003+08:002010-04-13T09:23:17.483+08:00

It is I whom the gods tried to subdue with cheap tricks for so longthey almost won. They gagged my Mother, locked her up in a cold chamber, chained and badly beaten. It is I who inherited the forked tongue of my ancestors, bore the scars of a battered ego.They turned me into the moon when I could have been the sun that rises from my mountains and sets to the west at sea. They changed my name to

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-79979737909461826612010-04-08T15:38:00.000+08:002010-04-08T15:39:28.887+08:00

When I lived here, there were only a few houses,trees lined the streets and the moon was enough to light up the field. I always felt like everything was new, I never felt abandoned like a stray dog. Once when we were playing tag I accidentally kissed her,brushed my lips on hers, made her cry and run away. The following afternoon, I waited for dusk hoping we would play again,but she never came

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-33387263922750859382010-04-02T20:15:00.002+08:002010-04-02T20:16:00.337+08:00

I tried to send you three simple wordsetched on a pebble cast out to seathinking it would find youwherever you are. But it rushedback with the wavesthat foam the shore.I went up the farthest valley,shouted my message to the windhoping it would travel far and widebut it echoed back to me.I looked for migrant birdstaking refuge in the swamps,whispered in their earsthe words I need to conveyknowing

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-43025811714625413652010-03-01T08:30:00.003+08:002010-05-19T09:01:25.045+08:00

God tricked me.He gave me timethat does not stopfor anything. Just likea snail that crawlsever so slowlyfrom one point to another,it reaches its destinationno matter how faror what obstacles hurledalong its way.God tricked me.He gave me youthto squander and abuseso that Ican lay in my death bed,inutile, suffering the painof an ignominius state,devoid of all the dignityI used to possess.God

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-10740722979495469242010-02-15T21:25:00.001+08:002010-02-15T21:27:02.679+08:00

A man dies of a heart attackon Valentine’s Day?Such an unfathomable conundrum.While lovers hugged and kissed,I braced myself and grieved.As a young maiden opened her cardthat came with the flowers,I opened his casketto put on his pinlook at himfor the last time.Never had flowers smelled so strangely.With sparkling eyes and a girly giggle,she managed a smile.I cried, shiveredand took a pill.Never

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-31982412601065143642010-02-03T07:39:00.005+08:002010-02-03T11:01:04.353+08:00

Sickening platitudescacophony of campaign jinglesfloat the air againin a junglecovered with huge picturesof yellow, red, orange, green.Promises of paradisea litany of more jobslower taxesmedical assistancefoodshelterthank you heavenfor these angels!"Don't forget my name,"the saintly statesman shouted.Chameleons are better.They only kill what they eat.Politicians are parasitesfeeding on our

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-20294643218328584712010-01-13T11:41:00.003+08:002010-01-13T11:46:10.407+08:00

Hello darkness my old friend I've come to talk with you again sound of silence/simon and garfunkelLike a vine slowly choking tightlyevery aching inch,loneliness creeps the trellis of my mind.As purple sky welcomes darkness,widens girth with a powerful grip.How I long for the summer sunwith friends on a white sandy shore, watching foamy waves, smoke from barbecue grills and lots of ice cold beer.

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-79485378565856917652009-12-30T20:45:00.003+08:002009-12-31T04:24:54.886+08:00

Time is never kind to me these days. It places a pebble in my shoes that keeps getting bigger with each passing day. It adds a rock on my shoulder as we welcome every year. I am burdened by permanent boulders, the weight of youthful transgressions best forgotten. Time ticks continuously as the heavy burdenscause me to be left behind while the world spins and travels in its own orbit. Time

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1682028989971810892009-12-09T16:42:00.003+08:002009-12-16T14:58:45.595+08:00

I wonder where the river flows.It is difficult to see what lies beyond. Does it take you out to sea where abundant fish swim freely, colorful corals breathe to multiply, or where giant turtles spend a hundred years? These waters could lead to a dead end where algae is replaced by silt accumulated through the years of wanton neglect, storage of the bowels of a city long dead. I have always stayed

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-55428833548729151282009-12-02T19:29:00.001+08:002009-12-02T19:32:07.686+08:00

I chased a monarch butterflyto keep in a bottle to cherishbut I could not keep up with itas it fluttered aimlessly in space.I got so preoccupied,I never saw the intense redness of the roses,the black tulips , chrysenthemums.Not even the dandelionsthat carpeted the lawn.In my eagerness,I stumbled and cut my armwith a broken glassleft by some careless, lazy bum.(Or maybe it was me?)It hurt so much

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-802239799233968792009-11-19T11:39:00.001+08:002009-11-19T11:39:57.498+08:00

Where is the guava tree of my youth? I used to climb it with bare feet my arms clutching its coarse trunk while I searched for a fruit. I could tell when one was ripe for the picking. I remember the small tree house my father built with his strong hands. It was where I could see the river flow east, where I shoot bouncing pebbles as the day retired. I could tell when a boat was about to set sail.

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-91257210817934374802009-10-28T08:17:00.002+08:002009-10-28T08:22:23.331+08:00

I failed to see that fieryvermilion glow at duskthe last hurrah of radiancecascaded by a setting sunas it bids the day farewell.Heaven is not what it is tonight.The gods can be idle, too, sometimes.No stars flash steady lightslike fireflies floating around a treeor a moon to shine upon my bald head.Neither can I smell the dama de nochethat only blooms at nightas the winds blow away its fragrance,

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-90210516299583615242009-10-23T05:06:00.003+08:002009-10-23T05:21:44.394+08:00

The halls are empty and quietpunctuated only by the soft murmursof the nurses at their stationwaiting for that beacon of lightsummoning them to attend to their ward.I hesitated to enter your rooom and smell the antiseptic bed,the thin white blanket and pillow casesthat unmasked putrid odor of deathlingering in the air.I knowlife is that tiny droplet of liquidentering your numbed vein;life is the

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-8715419088034604702009-10-05T18:01:00.001+08:002009-10-05T18:04:37.641+08:00

What’s in a shoebox but a shoe. Once black as a moonless night shined wet that it sparkled in the light. The other pair’s been gone for years and all that’s left are memories of a best forgotten past. What’s in the ref but an egg sitting there for ages. It could have been a lovely fowl by now tossed in the oven with thyme. A delectable dinner it would have made for a party of five or even eight.

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-84993977371170427382009-10-04T10:34:00.017+08:002009-10-06T07:44:12.028+08:00

ASTARWASSEEN INTHE SKY THAT NIGHT. ITWAS AS BRIGHT IF NOTBRIGHTER THANTHE MOON. IN BED, A SIX YEAROLD BOY WAS FAST ASLEEP. HETRIED HARD TO BE GOOD ALL YEAR ROUNDFOR A PROMISE MADE TO HIM BYHIS MOM AND DAD. THEN THERE WAS A FAINT SOUNDHEARD ON THE ROOF. IT COULD NOT BE A CAT, FORSURE. IT WAS HEADED TOWARDS THE CHIMNEY BUT THEN ITSTOPPED AND ALL WAS SILENT ONCE MORE. A FEW SECONDS THEREAFTER, A

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-91072011982419379292009-09-17T09:21:00.004+08:002009-09-17T09:31:21.284+08:00

Sexy Sadie what have you doneYou made a fool of everyone…Sexy Sadie you broke the rulesYou laid it down for all to seeThe BeatlesYour sins continue to haunt you as they always have. Just as birds never come in winter man's forgiveness eludes you forever. You were young, weak and vulnerable dancing in bars naked like a child, fodder to lusty,sweaty men until you met the devil named Charles.

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-8258418085398783202009-08-29T09:46:00.007+08:002009-09-01T15:02:25.821+08:00

This poem started out in tagalog in response to Jun Blas' (Filipino coordinator) request that I join a contest in poetry writing launched by his department in celebration of the Buwan ng Wika. What Does It Mean to Live a Free Man?Can you consider yourself free because you do not live in a cage; do not serve foreign masters who look different than you?Can you say you’re truly free just because

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-12939215745396526062009-08-07T21:15:00.000+08:002009-08-07T21:16:05.003+08:00

I can imagine how your morning went.You calculated how much toothpasteto put on your toothbrush.You parted your straight hair with your favorite comb,favored your black shirt over the red oneand checked if your white pantswere ironed well before putting it on.I bet you never knewyou were not going home tonight.You sat down quietly at the table,said grace before your meal. You spread butter over

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-70678236938296083572009-03-25T09:18:00.003+08:002009-03-25T22:34:23.749+08:00

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

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-45473577001536718082009-02-08T04:40:00.003+08:002009-02-08T04:45:22.099+08:00

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

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-60210523542608972762009-01-11T15:22:00.003+08:002009-01-11T15:31:25.773+08:00

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

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-82315531128733524472008-11-05T19:10:00.002+08:002008-11-05T19:17:34.220+08:00

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

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-42841935519769543032008-10-05T21:57:00.001+08:002008-10-05T21:57:51.215+08:00

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 answeredeven benign questions like "What time is it?" or "Have you eaten yet?" He stood like a tall candle ready to provide light when needed.

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-54231875952106997172008-09-20T03:17:00.002+08:002008-09-20T03:23:47.103+08:00

shards of broken glass lie in the dust pan ready to be thrown away, books read ferociously rot on shelves, gather worms unnoticeablyafter 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

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-53033358532248520332008-09-03T20:34:00.004+08:002008-09-03T21:13:22.319+08:00

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

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-39066174353178589512008-09-03T20:34:00.001+08:002008-09-03T20:34:39.106+08:00

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-27350120608536771322008-06-27T06:09:00.001+08:002008-07-01T04:23:15.297+08:00

Sam never knew what comfort meant. Fed with am as a substitute for milk when she was born, she was too weak to even cry. He was a drunk who beat-up his wife. Having left for another woman, her lazy father was nowhere in sight. It was actually good for he could have done so with Sam. Beat her up whenever he was drunk, that is what I meant. They lived in a cart which her mother used to gather trash

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-54758961209605323722008-06-22T07:29:00.002+08:002008-12-10T07:59:20.995+08:00

View from the restaurant at Biwon HotelOne of the perks I enjoy working for Zobel is the chance to go to places I could not have gone to had it not been offered to our employees. It started around the late 1990's when the teachers embarked on journeys to different places in the country, from up north to Pagudpud to way down south in Mindanao. I have visited and enjoyed places like Iloilo,

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-51676301394482392772008-05-31T08:57:00.000+08:002008-05-31T08:58:23.772+08:00

She wakes up at five when the sun is about to set to greet the stars anew, checks her mobile phone if she has calls and know where she’s headed to. She puts on her make-up, heavier than yesterday’s to numb her face, wears cheap perfume to hide her scent, ready for what she has to do. She dons a pretty dress, skimpy and tight,revealing her bosom for all to seeshe’s ready for the picking - to look

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-57896639004079652062008-05-25T19:42:00.001+08:002008-05-25T19:44:53.978+08:00

Cabbage soaked in salt and washed only to be bathed once more with rich chili,julienned radish and ginger chopped scallions and a dash of sugar to balance the flavors genuine kimchi at last! Wrapped in red spicy sauce, it welcomed me at dinner as soon as I disembarked from the plane greetedby the cold Korean spring night and the hot bulgogi soup.My palate sated by flavors practically unknown to

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-90419958546257854542008-04-17T15:47:00.005+08:002008-12-10T07:59:22.133+08:00

Your books have been stashed away, neatly arranged according to size.Your documents lie safely like a well-kept diary keeping your secrets inside the box.Your table now stands empty of those colorful bric-a-bracs used as weights for loose papers and notes,lest they be blown away by the wind to nowhere and beyond. I watch as you throw the pencisl into the last crate forcing theiri way into tiny

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-11656980815385529332008-03-14T19:53:00.001+08:002008-03-14T19:55:18.489+08:00

I don't have to hear my baby cry to know he craves for food or that he wants a warm hug on a cold, cold night. I know what is and what is not. I don't have to taste a mango to know if it's sour or sweet, nor do I have to cut myself to know that a wound immersed in brine hurts. I know what is and what is not. I don't have to see the tears to know that not all dreams come true making men miserable

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-76461357553533120672008-03-06T08:18:00.001+08:002008-03-06T08:20:13.611+08:00

Ending the BeginningThis is no place for an old man. The steps on its stairs are too high for knees weakened by weekend walks with friends in the park.Raucous laughter once shared here with former allies, was a harmony to his once sharp ears. But friends have gone away and everybody sees him as just a decrepit man. Nobody knew the songs he sang. Who from among these kids would have heard of Carly

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-18315982067302829452008-02-01T05:27:00.000+08:002008-02-01T05:29:14.522+08:00

The Assassin As the creatures of the night wake and crawl to forage in the dark, each not knowing what role they will play tonight. Hunter or prey? He sits and waits watches the party, puffs on his third cigarette wishing it were grass. He reminisces about years that passed. How he indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, the excesses of youth that seemed eternal then, that bring him here to

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-54318381807309467972007-12-20T10:05:00.000+08:002007-12-22T08:01:48.477+08:00

This house is as old as a man who can barely stand and walk with his cane.Its stucco walls used to smell of acrylic and enamelvandalized with crayons by tiny hands,muted by family squabbles keeping family affairs within,deafened by a blasting sensurround stereo,that sent the dogs barkingmuch to the dismay of Miss Cruz, the spinster neighbor who always concluded:"he's high on reefers once more,

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-82289499791087216752007-12-14T10:02:00.000+08:002007-12-14T10:10:13.405+08:00

How I miss being awakened by the song of a warbler,perched on top of a tree,by the smell of jasmine in the airor the scent of crisp leaves, recently touched by morning dewI miss watching a waterfallplummet into earth.I want to listen to its untiring rhythm,sense its power and make my heart poundby its thunderous roar.I miss swimming in an oceanteeming with fish.I bemoan the measly few, choking on

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-8773429927336223822007-12-01T11:13:00.000+08:002007-12-01T11:17:21.093+08:00

my son has set off on a journeynot on a plane, train, ship or carneither by bus, not even by tram all he has is what he has -smidgen of morselsfrom his father's talesor his mother's caressesto tell him she caresarmed with his bow and violinhe glides his way withdulcet notes, pulsating vibratos,pixelled pizzicatos and arrogant arpeggiosunleashing a fierce bruteor a beautiful maiden –letting loose

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-65714033216027910792007-11-03T04:59:00.000+08:002007-11-03T08:47:29.489+08:00

I looked at her and wonderedMaybe she was someone's cute little darling once.She must have been for who did not adore a child'sroving eyes wondering at everything she saw,all happening for the very first time,rosy cheeks like they had been chilled inside a fridge,short black hair swaying to the wind with every move,fragile body fragrant with talc and oil after a steamy bathWho knew?Maybe she was

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-66409323048411490872007-10-16T14:46:00.000+08:002007-10-16T14:53:40.268+08:00

Wash the car and make it rain lather with soap to shine and clean drive away this homing pain Gathered mud this car has gained filth on arid land can only mean wash the car and make it rain Besot in drunken rage I train this once pure heart that's now unclean drive away this homing pain rust and soot on engine valves have lain for years it must have been wash the car and make it rain If only like

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-50347116989633111792007-10-16T14:42:00.000+08:002007-10-16T14:54:07.838+08:00

There he sits quietlyamid the whirring bladesof an old electric fanwhining uncontrollably for a day's hard work.With his hands in his pocket,he waits impatiently for her.His gray, thinning hair shows the weight of the years. Too manybattles fought, too many womenlured to do as he pleased.But tonight is different. He had to seek help. His chemically-induced memberis veed to stand in attentionjust

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-31346229659257177622007-09-01T04:27:00.001+08:002007-09-01T04:38:33.095+08:00

whether you view it like a rocky river emptying tons of water into the sea or a caravan of a hundred men on perspiring camels slowly passing a gorge of sand for the next patch of grass or even a tortoise trapped in a puddle of hardening mud left by the ebbing tide sets on a long journey by land to seek the ocean, tracing, sniffing salt in the air life pushes itself till tomorrow is yesterday

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-83761911040313480512007-08-06T10:03:00.000+08:002007-08-06T10:05:55.192+08:00

I have undressed under the gaze of a quartered moon, never with a fiery sun shining on my skin, devoid of a cloud the shade of a tree or a leaf to hide in. I feel naked, down to flesh and bones my guts, way deep into my soul. Like a toothless guest in a Jerry Springer show exposing my shame, too numb to care, before an unforgiving audience amid their laughter and scorn. Alas, I must justify

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-19767621558717652292007-08-06T09:57:00.000+08:002007-08-06T10:03:29.692+08:00

Gathered from yesterday’s downpour water trickles down from thatched roof now pregnant with rain tiny drops slowly swell like a leech sucking on golden flesh until they lose their grip - fall at the same spot. Uneven noises incessantly made on a pool they have created. No sound can be more primeval than droplets plunging into mother earth breaking my mortal rest traces of a breathing world

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-78327182397927088702007-07-13T11:10:00.000+08:002007-07-13T11:20:34.167+08:00

A good friend of mine, an english teacher, gave me a challenge last Friday. She said she wanted to showcase a mother and her child onstage reciting a poem. She asked if I can help her find a poem of this sort. Or better yet, if I cna make one for her. I always love challenges. So, I made one. Here it is for you to critique and tell me if it workd before I give it to her. Here goes: Hush my little

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-32664757467931142122007-07-09T10:26:00.000+08:002007-07-09T10:27:33.425+08:00

Just MeI await the night hoping for a shooting star so I can wish for a big house a lambourghini, big business, diamonds and a loadful of cash. When I close my eyes I'd like to dream of fantasy land where I can only smile not cry, feast on hearty meals and have whatever I wantAs I approach the dusk I realize I have been waiting all my life for things that never come No shooting stars no big

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-84964483218883424642007-06-21T06:09:00.000+08:002007-06-21T06:11:35.438+08:00

I have looked death in the eye as it stared back at me.empty and cold and blankpeering but not seeing searching but not feeling. It looked straight into my eyes and then beyond, as if searching -searching for my soul.Or it was the kind of lookfrom someone who no longer dreams of tomorrow expecting something elsemaybe not of this world.As I looked at her, I tried to remember how she was.How she

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-57813172169720829562007-05-17T06:28:00.000+08:002007-05-17T06:30:14.635+08:00

I have been to a land where elephants roam,clad in tiaras and robes paint flowers on a vase, make a goal out of huge soccer balls, massage people with their huge feet and give rides on their backs. I have been to a land where Bengal tigers are nursed by pigs and vice-versa, to show the world and brag what a happy family they have. I have been to a land where crocodiles abound,where their chewy

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-51024925039671068662007-04-10T06:02:00.000+08:002007-04-10T06:17:51.972+08:00

This is a Connie challenge at Word Weavers. The form is called an Etheree.I am not through with you my little child. You may flap your wings but not soar that high yet. Danger awaits in the mist hiding in the crannies of walls waiting for the waves to set it free. You would not like the tyranny of time. Run like a rat amiss of every turn because you rushed - an unprepared child. Test the air,

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-61099044442847260132007-04-04T09:18:00.000+08:002007-04-04T09:45:45.178+08:00

Come September when leaves start to fall, die, wither, and be buried by the winter snow I shall be five and O.I still have yet to earn an obelisk to mark my grave; a cusp of three gold stars to catch rays of the morning sun or the gentle breeze that echoes explosion of twenty one guns No crown rests on my head just streaks of silver on my thin mane; traces of fat on my drooping skin bulging eyes

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-65912039960767640262007-03-17T11:22:00.000+08:002007-03-19T12:21:28.778+08:00

I see you being handled by your torturers again. Men and women in white robes poking every inch of your body listening, probing, searching, invading even your soul. Manacled with chains of rubber hoses steady drip of sugar in your veins your bed, solitary confinement for having done something wrong your room, your prison cell from which there is no parole I watch in horror as your torturers

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-56874353987258392172007-03-13T04:19:00.000+08:002007-03-13T04:22:58.906+08:00

Everything that surrounds me are very familiar. Like I never went away. The fresheness of cloth on every pillow, aroma of grounded coffee beans being brewed on the pot sizzle of eggs and bacon fried on a non-stick pan. Hearing my mother give orders to the househelp faint thuds on the pavement ocassional clang of the hoop as my brother plays basketball awaiting my mother's call, that breakfast is

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-50895103590567323382007-02-14T05:48:00.000+08:002007-02-14T06:02:20.798+08:00

My Ultimate WishIf I have but one wishit will be not to die in my old agewhen all my teeth are gone,my head showing more forehead than thin gray hair.When I walk with a cane and a limpif not confined to a wheelchair,my hands tired of pushing myself,or bedridden and fed like a child.When my memory of wonderful yearswith my loved ones gone,of a past not long agowhen I was a teenan uncle, a lover,

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1163194680610496722006-11-11T05:33:00.000+08:002006-11-11T05:38:00.626+08:00

For this round, we have to write using a child's POV! This is what came out from my mind. Daddy's Little GirlDaddy's hands are so big mine are just half of his I have to look way up just to talk to him that's why I love sitting on his lap!I wonder if he's smarter than mommy. Daddy knows many things He answers my questions except for one "Daddy, Daddy, I saw twin dogs with their heads at

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1162082486096853582006-10-29T08:37:00.000+08:002006-10-29T08:41:26.100+08:00

This one's all about rhythm! 'Nuff said.A canvas and a storm I stare idly at my canvas too white even for a cloud charcoal clouds fill the sky and it's chilly outside I begin to see nature for a theme remember a place in my dream I hear the gentle rustle of leaves the patter of rain on the roof With my steady hand I sketch luscious trees on a verdant hill the wind is getting stronger I hear a

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1162082213200522022006-10-29T08:25:00.000+08:002006-10-29T08:36:53.216+08:00

This poem is for our lesson called The All Accepting Eye. To quote our moderator and teacher, Gwen: Often something that is most memorable is not necessarily one of exceptional beauty, but one with a bit of ‘character’-- perhaps a spectacularly colored sunset that’s enhanced even more by the streak of gray cloud off to the side, or perhaps a flaw or other type of substance in a rock – for

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1159629728024419242006-09-30T23:07:00.000+08:002006-09-30T23:31:30.496+08:00

I've decided not to throw what I have learned in writing poetry through the years I've been trying to or scare away my muse by not writing at all. Hence, to do that, I have enrolled in my friend's, Gwen Austin's, class in Writersvillage.com called "Painting poems with words: From eyes to words. For our first assignment, "The Naked Eye", we are to do a poem that describes, in as much detail as

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1159504305347395842006-09-29T12:30:00.000+08:002006-09-30T23:25:28.636+08:00

This is where alzheimer finally takes me. My mother - alone in her bed with neither memory nor care. She is nothing but a shell fleshy mollusk meat gone the soup down to the last gulp. Like the debris found in the morning of a full night's revelry confetti strewn thick on the pavement amid trash of firecracker paper. A birdcage without the bird or a flower without the scent. This is what she

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1152984996725706322006-07-16T01:19:00.000+08:002006-07-16T01:41:07.923+08:00

In one of the few times that I can blog hop to my friends' blogs, I chanced upon and was surprised that a very good friend of mine, Dr. Emer is also into poetry. Now, I know that many people think poetry is either for women or for wimps but this goes to show that poetry is really for the kind-hearted, passionate, sentimental, and intelligent people like Doc Emer. In his post on June 13, he

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1149945545694203562006-06-10T20:46:00.000+08:002006-06-10T22:16:59.470+08:00

Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.- Eleanor Roosevelt I just got up from a wonderful dream. This was my first time to dream of Joji after her passing. She was in her most beautiful self. Clad in white and topped by gossamer silk long enough to join her beautifully groomed hair cascade with the gentle breeze. She had a

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1147329057282229522006-05-11T14:30:00.000+08:002006-05-20T10:29:38.993+08:00

Snow-capped mountains appear like a mirage,impressions on a canvass full of billowing whitenot sure if it's Baker in Washingtonor a formation of clouds smoking on the balcony, I watchravens dive-bomb sea gulls perched on chimneys,coitus-interruptus to a morning fling (glad I don't have neighbors as annoying)above, her majesty, with talons clenched and outstretched wingsfly in circles, watching

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1144240516526058772006-04-05T20:30:00.000+08:002006-04-05T20:35:16.543+08:00

Will I continue to be faceless to you? with my reddened ears slapped by volatile hands, or my eyes, angered by your audacity, or my broken nose and bloody mouth, wantonly beaten by your minions? Will I remain nameless before you? Don't you recognize my clenched fist, battered body, beaten black and blue with wooden truncheons by armoured men? Will I remain anonymous amid the throng of sweaty

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1142926455728203242006-03-21T12:51:00.000+08:002006-03-21T15:41:32.903+08:00

It is very interesting when I read a poem written by friends and it sparks an interest in me to write a response to theirs via another poem. Remember "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love?" by Christopher Marlowe and Raleigh's response in "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd?" I had a blast reading the two together in high school. Not that I understood it reight away. It took the teacher to "

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1140702182467922982006-02-23T21:34:00.000+08:002006-02-23T21:47:23.016+08:00

I am a man beaten,caught by the tide drowning, gasping for air as I swim towards the shore I am a man beaten, by the sun which was kind enough to take cover among the clouds I am a man beaten, supposedly by a shy moon yes, she hid in the darkness but only to come back anew I am a man beaten, by a multitude of stars I guess I need not explain I may be king but

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1140167725665865482006-02-17T17:14:00.000+08:002006-02-17T17:15:25.683+08:00

Kung ako ay naging isang VIP sanaDi na kinailangang ako ay pumila. Bababa sa awtong magara pinapalakpakan pa.Sarili ko ang dadaanangmalambot na alpombrang kulay pula.Ngunit ako'y isang maralitahangin ang laman ng aking sikmura.Kaya hayun at ako ay matiyagang pumilawalang kadala-dala kungdi kapal ng mukhaat marubdob na pagtitiyaga.Sasayaw, kakanta upang mapagtawananat baka sakaling ako ay maging

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1138670504787767592006-01-31T09:17:00.000+08:002006-01-31T09:21:44.796+08:00

I have always wondered what limbo looked like, or where it should be. “It’s a place for the sinless, those who are not yet ready to go to heaven,” I was told. Where is it? Or how does one get there? Nobody knows for sure. Not my teachers, or my wise elderly neighbor with her thick glasses as she reads the holy book. Neither the priest, nor the nuns who taught me this. I grew up not knowing what

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1134944195605166772005-12-19T06:11:00.000+08:002005-12-19T06:27:41.746+08:00

I was fourteenwhen the sun was completely uprevealing new worlds.Some were shown before my eyes,like periwinkle decor inside mansions.Others I had to search forlike insects hiding insidetiny breaks on mountain precipices.I had to work hard for somelike pounding grain with mortar and pestle,some I just picked up along the way.I was fourteenwhen I started to blushat every smiling girlwho grew

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1129082952908528732005-10-12T10:07:00.000+08:002005-10-12T10:09:12.913+08:00

It should not be the words I weave or the steady rhythm trapped inside embellishments of traipsed fecundity that should melt your heart. Neither should it be the images, fresh or trite as they may seem, that conjure the image of Dorian Gray. Rainbows do not elicit the feelings of want begging for a tight embrace. I hope it is neither my low voice that causes you to stir and fret, and make your

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1127701675241606432005-09-26T10:20:00.000+08:002005-09-26T11:07:42.443+08:00

Do not weep for me when I am deadOr write dirges in my name.I need no epitaphs on my graveI have stopped looking at rainbows.Cloud formations go unnoticed before my eyes.All I see is the terror the sun bringseach morning when I have to wake upto face another day.All I see are colors induced by pills on my sleep.Heaven turned to nightmare when I wake.Tomorrow does not bring a new dayit’s just as

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1125269609160467052005-08-29T07:51:00.000+08:002005-08-29T06:53:29.166+08:00

I sit in the park watching the world pass by. Children's laughter permeates the air as they play tag. Balloons matching irises, tulips, polyanthas, daffodils.I used to be part of this crowdI sit on my benchmumble speeches to a countless audienceinside the theater of my mindor lecture teen-age kidswho listen intently to every wordin the halls of my imaginationI see a couple kisstheir heads move

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1123813576047536552005-08-12T10:23:00.000+08:002005-08-12T10:26:16.053+08:00

Pinauwi kami ng titser, inay.Signal number 2 daw kasDilim ng langit ay nagbabadya ng pagbuhos ng malakas na ulan.Malakas ang hihip ng hangin.Humuhuni ito tuwing dadaansa bawa't siit ng ating tahanan. Kung dumating ang bagyo'ysiguradong magliliparanmga bubong sa lansangan.Kaya't hahayo na ako inayupang magtinda ng sigarilyo sa tulay.Hintayin mo ako't isang salop na bigasat isang latang sardinasang

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1123422164288836502005-08-07T21:39:00.000+08:002005-08-07T21:42:44.296+08:00

It is the kind that makes me deaf a loud bang that echoes in my ears this silence – a stillness that makes my heart pump wildly a realization that I am all alone I'd rather hear croaking frogs for they signify rain shall soon come. I like its patter on my roof as it cleanses every nook.I'd rather hear the clanging of a thousand bells it means that men still believe. I long to hear the sound of

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1120716878214433702005-07-07T13:39:00.000+08:002005-09-15T21:09:21.160+08:00

Now that I have a Filipino poetry group called Pinoy poets, I have been inspired to write Tagalog poems. This is already my second one. Don't bother about the first. It was bad! I will have to thank Krisberse, Kiko and Steph for helping me with this one. Malapot na TubigIpikit mo ang iyong mga mata anak,humimlay ka sa matigas na sahig,pawiin mo ang mga bantulot,pabayaan mong liparinang mga

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1118904434389166732005-06-16T14:46:00.000+08:002005-06-16T14:47:14.393+08:00

Pinoypoets’ Anniversary Night at Conspiracy The pinoy poets, a group of young writers (uhm I am a member,too, you know) will be having its first anniversary. These are young, energetic, creative group of people who share their passion for poetry and seriously working hard to hone their craft. I am such a lucky guy to have been accepted to this group. If you care to join us in our revelry, read

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1118735558035352812005-06-14T15:25:00.000+08:002005-06-14T15:55:04.266+08:00

I have Dwayne of pinoy poets to thank for giving me valuable feedback on these two poems and made it decent. I have not written any poem for some time not knowing I can get rusty right away. The second one is my attempt at erotica. I know, it's far from par yet. i'm working on it... Anyway...Untitledlike sunlightcrawling into the night,you inch your way into dawnto penetrate my window doesn't

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1115954877087750252005-05-13T11:25:00.000+08:002005-05-14T19:03:27.516+08:00

How many poets and writers have used the candle as a metaphor for life? I can still hear Elton John quoting Carl Sandburg saying "our lives are like a candle in the wind" as he sang for Lady Di before her interment. Edna St. Vincent Millay went as far as having her candle burn at both ends, to signify how fast life is here on earth. A candle is the most appropriate symbol to describe life. It

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1115436411979696212005-05-07T11:26:00.000+08:002005-05-07T11:26:52.046+08:00

the girls from L to R: 

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1115434909275262282005-05-07T11:01:00.000+08:002005-05-07T11:01:49.360+08:00

The boys at Mayon Resthouse: From l-r: Shane, Edgar, Arnel, Joven, Dante, Ricky, moi, Ollie, our Japanese friend, Hocto and at the back is our host and friend, Gene 

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1115434752048462692005-05-07T10:59:00.000+08:002005-05-07T10:59:12.123+08:00

EB with Ate Sienna 

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1113836877875119092005-04-18T23:02:00.000+08:002005-04-18T23:07:57.876+08:00

Number 6 of the Canons of Chinese brush painting is to copy the masters.6. "In copying, seek to pass on the essence of the master's brush & methods": To the Chinese, copying is considered most essential and only when the student fully learns the time honored techniques, can he branch out into areas of individual creativitySo, is this true in poetry, too. One of my favorite poets is William

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1112584663825292332005-04-04T11:14:00.000+08:002005-04-04T11:17:43.826+08:00

Never have I dreamt that it would stop but even the deepest well runs dry reams of bond paper are eventually used up the longest journey ends with the last step. Infinite numbers could not be counted try hard if you must… end I know not where but end it will, no matter what. Who can count after a thrillion Or even a hundred million? Strongest despots end their rule either by them or for them;

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1112406793338963412005-04-02T09:45:00.000+08:002005-04-02T09:53:13.340+08:00

The Writersvillage University celebrates poetry month by launching its third exhibit of poems. Once again, three of my poems had been included. Once again, I am the only Filipino in the exhibit. Not because I am good but because I am the only Filipino member in my group. hahaAnyway, you can view it here just click on the name of the poet you would wish to read. Enjoy!

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1112302288151083892005-04-01T04:50:00.000+08:002005-04-01T04:51:28.153+08:00

not todayI have given birthto dozens of poems Twhen words flowed freely with every sighinspired by early morning larkssinging a symphony of dulcet notes or a plethora of colorful imagesexploding in springor the discovery of a rainbowarched in the skyI have found beautyout of a cacophony of thunderous firecrackers on New Year's eveor the opening salvo of gunshotsin a peaceful nightor even the

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1110547913625307002005-03-11T21:29:00.000+08:002005-03-11T21:31:53.626+08:00

My poem "A Parent's Wish" has been accepted in this ezine. Check out this wonderful site. You can see the poem here.

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1110023752872333852005-03-05T19:54:00.000+08:002005-03-05T19:55:52.943+08:00

During the 60's whenI was seven years old,television was a new commodityand only a handful owned one.In our block only Aling Andehad one and all the little boysand girls gatherby the window to watchMighty mouse on Fridaysand Popeye the next day.When the owner of the housewas in a good mood,Mang Peping, the husband,would ask us in so we can siton the floor in front of the tube.I have long urged my

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1109505152888287402005-02-27T19:31:00.000+08:002005-02-27T19:52:32.893+08:00

I have always theorized (or maybe I was told in school, I forgot) that any criticism of a an artwork is correct as long as the one making the crit is successful in putting all the elements together. In this way, i would liken criticism as builing up a jigwaw puzzle. You know you don't have a complete picture when one or more of the elements don't fit. Anyway, a few posts below, I posted a poem

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1108544958888854142005-02-16T17:06:00.000+08:002005-02-16T17:09:18.933+08:00

I wrote this piece in 2000 when I was just beginning to write poetry. It's inspired by Edwin Markham's "Man with a Hoe" which in turn was inspired by a Millet painting. This poem was edited mostly by Bob Wands. It was part of the Writersvillage exhibit for our first poetry month exhibit. hope you like it. The BaptismWaiting for the ceremony to beginmy future godchild on his mother's lapI sit

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1107042186112030552005-01-30T07:29:00.000+08:002005-01-30T07:43:50.046+08:00

I have joined a group of Filipino poets called pinoy poets upon invitation of fellow blogger Jardine Davies who turns out to be a very good poet who has definitely found his voice. Anyway, my first submission which received feedback from members was a poem I made in 2000 entitled "Mosquito Nets". It goes like this: Mosquito nets I hate mosquito nets! They shield me from nothing. Not bedbugs nor

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1106653953138639892005-01-25T19:51:00.000+08:002005-01-25T20:05:56.776+08:00

mickey  Coby  Father and Sons  This was written right after the three of us had gone home after a three day camping trip to Makiling during the school's Father and Son camp. This has been published online. You'll find it here Hope you enjoy the pictures and the poem as well. Here goes: Rites of Passage I have camped on these grounds when I was young, braved the thick forest to test if I

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1105828164351303902005-01-16T06:24:00.000+08:002005-01-16T06:29:24.353+08:00

As I disassemble the holiday tree, I slowly gather the twigs like picking up recollections of you. Your toys usually littered the sala geometric shapes you fit with your little hands while learning to walk, Each ornament, a red ball or slver star represents some of your fondest toys... horses, trains, and cars on your first steps. Remote controlled tractors, planes and battle ships

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1104340125667255252004-12-30T01:06:00.000+08:002004-12-30T01:10:23.300+08:00

Roused from my sleep by my mothers melodious voice, a warbler singing dulcet notes quiets my baby down. Surprised, I can almost guess the next note she will sing Of course I do... she used to sing this song to me I continue my nap knowing no harm can happen now.

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6261847.post-1103054522723629382004-12-15T04:00:00.000+08:002004-12-15T04:02:02.723+08:00

He would not have done so in spite of the vote for his ouster. But a mountain shall explode you see and so he had to, and did! A little juvenile, for his departure, I could not decide if the meat is raw or overdone. I don’t know how many calories he left behind. Explosive ammunitions for the heart and too much catsup spoils the taste So next time I partake of Big Mac's burger

rollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09910653328930948032noreply@blogger.com0