lyrical, poetic, personal
Amid four-thousand-seven-hundred-one miles,
you’re the biggest rainbow gaily arched
and watching me above,
enjoying the picturesque
of me
bragging my cheeks
to the timid raindrops
pouring down:
. . . from the rusting valleys
to the greenest mountain;
. . . from the rushing rivers
to the bluest sea:
I see you smile
dreaming of me.
If Tampax birds,
and sexy-walking penguins
can dream of something real,
why can’t we?
– Originally written and posted on August 14, 2014 –
A dance
under the moonlight
and on top the hill,
where city lights
and stars
are witnessing:
Me–
grinning
in a red haltered dress
and blue stilletos;
playfully wiggling
my hips
to grace.
You–
gearing
in a black sleek suit
and white checkered tie,
seriously advancing
your steps
towards my way.
As the mono plays
while our song
fills the air:
your right hand
locked
on my waist
to stay;
While my lips,
laced
on the auricle
of your left,
blowing our sanity
away.
Sprigs in rust,
red,
gold,
and yellow
are filling the meadows.
Falling leaves
are hurrying
to kiss
the crying ground–
who cares what abounds!
In the cold murder
of their dream to be together;
Again, reality,
is the ruthless killer,
Again, on the loose again!
Poorest wistful bliss declared:
Dead on the Scene.
Poorer dream: Unresponsive.
Poor gusty winds in cuffs charged:
Accomplice.
On a Friday Morning,
Forsaken trees sing elegy,
while dead Heart gives its own eulogy:
“Odi et amo-”
Her closing verse.
The bereaved are tearless;
while the Grasshoppers mourn like mistresses;
oh, but the crickets are speechless.
Guess, they’ve never seen
that much tears and tearless before.
Tsk, tsk, tsk–
He really has a thing for numbers,
I tell you.
Alongside
his weight and body mass index, length and width;
he eavesdrops his heart rate.
He squeezes ’til he sneezes
in dire attempt
to put his blood on a scale.
He even segregates white to red,
as if they’re Russia and U.S.
in conflict with one another.
He counts calories and sugar
without using spoon nor cups,
like as if FDA requires his nutritional label.
So what’s next, man? Man, oh man!
Perhaps he’s torn between pores and hairs–and which one
poses as his greatest, and most meaningful numerical challenge.
Though uneven,
they travel in a steady phase.
Although the long seems more agile than the shorter,
It never matters
if they overlap one another.
Hence, even if the sun is shining bright;
Notwithstanding if the moon is too pale,
in track they stay
always working night and day.
Man thought
He can use this
to his advantage.
But amid knowledge and skills;
Given his vigor and technology,
Man can’t keep up with time
and fails.
Simply because,
the hands of clock are ever empty;
but Man always carry more than his hands can take . . .
. . . ever ensuring
he has everything
and nothing to worry,
he carries them all
no matter how trivial and crazy.
Note that this is not a mystery story
of a clock always up and too early;
but a classic on gravity
of a man ever late
and sorry.
It’s two-o’clock,
but it seems like six or seven.
The grayish clouds are thickening;
and it’s starting to drizzle.
As meek droplets
rush to kiss the ground,
an old, familiar melody
begins to play.
As leaves in rust and gold,
waltz to the melancholy tune of autumn,
silent tears march
on cheeks partly pink and yellow.
And as the long, dark
and lonely eve approaches,
an old familiar gloom
looms anew.
Uninvited memories appear out of the bloom,
while nostalgia assumes,
while a lonely heart
yearns anew.
To the symphony of gentle winds
conducting in every crispy morning
of spring,
a bed of confused tulips and roses–
in colors of Roy G. Biv–
is waltzing with me
in sweet harmony.
To the ballad of swells
playing in every tepid noon
of summer,
a rush of ripples in calmest tides
are smooching my toes
and romancing my heels. . .
. . . can’t walk;
. , . too teased–
my timid steps
can’t deny.
To the whispering lullabies
in all of fall,
he puts me to sleep,
obviously smitten
watching me
snore in peace
by dawn,
when I wake up,
he says “Cheese.”
To the medley of carols
christmasing merry and bright,
he brings warmth
even if the fireplace
is not alight–
in all of winter’s coldest nights–
he’s keeping Krampus out of sight.
. . . the epitome of a wish;
a dream
too perfect
for the quite imperfect me
to realized.
Born as Cassius Clay, Jr., on January 17, 1942, at Louisville, Kentucky, legendary boxer Muhammad Ali passed away, Friday, June 03, 2016, at the age seventy-four.
As a Filipino-American journalist, what I can personally say about him, is that through his legacy, the Philippines is home to at least three of world’s greatest boxers, namely Manny Pacquiao, Rolando Navarette, and Flash Elorde. Thus, we owe it to Ali.
For Philippines hosted what was labeled as Thrilla in Manila, it was hailed as The Greatest Bout of All-Times and apparently, Ali’s best according to CNN.
Held on October 1, 1975, at the Araneta Coliseum, in that bout Ali beat his longtime ring foe, Joe Frazier by 16 points (48-2 over 32-2). And because Filipinos witnessed and were moved by Ali’s heart, boxing became a part of our culture.
As a fan, I admire his unwavering sense of humor, his boldness and yet he was so compassionate. Above all, Ali was a golden, diamond-studded emblem of the human spirit.
He beat Parkinson’s disease for more than thirty-years. That amid the humiliations it caused him, from his physical looks, to speech, to his agility and cognitive functions, he remained propagandist of peace, justice, and sports. What was more inspiring? He never blamed boxing for what he suffered. Rather, he was always thankful for his fate.
On death, do you know that he planned his funeral and memorial? Oh, yes he did! He insisted that his fans be given ample time to view his remains at his hometown. His bereaved wife Lonnie narrated that it was always hard to pull him away from his fans. He hardly said “no” for autographs or picture takings.
I also admire his choice of name: For Muhammad means worthy of praise; While Ali means a cousin of the prophet. He was very spiritual.
As a naturalized citizen, I exalt Ali as a man of color, who knockouted prejudice. He was a champion of civil rights. He always stood tall for his beliefs of himself and faith.
Ali won the hearts of many around the world, even those of his arch enemies such as George Foreman, all because of his gigantic soul.
A fighter in and out of the ring; an icon of sports and a humble philanthropist–Truly, Ali is one of the greatest men that lived and changed the world.
Assalaamualaikum, Muhammad Ali!
Lyrics, Sentiments and Me 
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