Posted: December 28, 2010 in Uncategorized


for some reason,

the boungainvillae does not fall for you


look for a deserted garden

and fret not; chase

the little of what is left

by the amihan

on a faint, dejected cloud above you,

or the grey skim of water

where old forgotten sorrows

still carry the weight of unspeaking,


on your tired, broken shoulders;


courage matters little

to these things;


are like stains

that fell the once robust sycamore,

the kind not easily erased when the sun

rises; but you may lug them freely,

like the darling suds

that come and go as they please

with nonetheless the ease

of swelling buds and rain.


and if,

for some reason,

branches bend and heave

in defiance of the acacia,

do not feel ignored

or insulted;

your voice rushes not

to the face of the fallen


for in that far and away region

where a swig of stars stay blotched

and dim whenever, wherever

grim tales are told,

your own disconcerted life

is a tale worth its words;


and should the kiss-spangled rose

finds you forsaken,

beside that one crumpled sheet of paper,

hush your coddled heart

and write not a word

for it is in the wreckage of a soul

where poems reign.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s