To Have End Meet Peace

3










A song fades with a refrain; while

A novel concludes with a cursive ‘The End.’

A day is through with the sun going beneath that blazing orange and red horizontal line; while

A night retreats to the breaking of dawn marked by the same colors but tamed and in vertical upward rays.






Some say a prayer; while

Some raise a toast.

Curtains go down; while

Hands raise to clap for a good show.






Waves of goodbye may be seen as redundant gestures; while

Kisses may appear as a conjecture.

But comes the end, is end–

The broken needs to mend.






Because even with walls or tables—

It takes a turn to walk away.

It takes a leap to leave;

It takes pulling of the knob to close door.






A period or a glyph to complete a thought. . .

A blowing of horn to undock and send off a ship. . .

A name below ‘Truly yours’ below God speed. . .

A lick to send an envelope away. . .






Attitude lovers call it ‘for old time sake’

‘That’s all!’

‘That’s it!’

A decent closure–that’s about it!






But it takes one last effort,

One that is sincere–

To have end

Meet peace.









Featured Song:

Too much, Too Little, Too Late
by Deniece Williams and John Mathis

(Videos courtesy of YouTube)

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September 

15








(Original date of publication: 09/23/2017, 2:13 P.M.)






Thee September,
You’re the March of fall–
I remember.







The true Seventh,
In thee,
Life defies death;
And death surrenders
To valiant memories.







Thee, September,
You’re the beloved
Harvest of Charlemagne’s.







In thee,
Petals bloom in rosegold;
While the soil shimmer in moss;
Crops beam in stunning hues amid their daunting fate
In the refrigerator.







Thee, September,
You’re the fairy godmother
Of forget-me-nots, morning glories, and asters.







In thee,
Those pretty blooms
Shine with silvers and sapphires in the dinner table–
I remember.







Thee, September,
You’re the year’s
Most gentle.







In thee,
Lavander and vanilla competes for the best scent
To win the purest heart
Of the meekest air we breathe–
I remember.







Thee, September,
You’re the crowning glory
Of Michael the Archangel.







In thee,
He cast the fallen in abyss of abyss;
While Heaven crowns the oceans and seas,
The faithful and hopeful,
The dreamers and doers of leis and wreaths . . .







. . . crafted by the humming angels
Who’ve been stalked
By dozing butterflies
Who’ve fallen
In want at first sight.







Thee, thee, September,
Oh, I remember.










Damn Time

24

Time is another four-letter word
that may sound so simple
and very elementary;
but it has so much power
over you and me.

That perhaps
if religion and I
are strangers,
I’d say,
time must be god.

For everything,
and everyone
is subject
and constrained
of time:

To live
only to die. . .

To grow
only to perish. . .

To enjoy the vanity of youth
only to bear the grim of aging. . .

To learn
only to be senile. . .

Damn that time!

Its ironies
are violent winds
blowing my mind;
its neurons and electrons
are about to call 911.

The slow-thinking caterpillar
becomes a restless, all-knowing butterfly.

The endless sky from powder blue
turns deep black as day retires.

The ever vigorous Sun gets tired
being consumed by everything that breathes;

while the naked moon
with gay serenades;

and the stars
dance the time of their lives.

The pale seeds would spawn into
the greenest leaves;

radiant flowers
bloom in bliss;

But hey, those
are for just a while.

For those foliages would turn yellow and red
and be tossed by the wind without dignity;

while the blooms would lose their beauty without a trace
as their petals wilt in dismay.

The Missy who is once a head-turner for her flawless skin; now
wears cracks from her cheeks to heels.

The Adonis who is once adored for his six-pack;
now mocked for the beer barrels he carries front and back.

Damn that time!

Though my heart beats louder than the ticks of clock,
“time remains of the essence.”

Damn that time!

Perhaps Mama

12

Mothers' Day 2015

Mama,

I can’t thank you enough
for all the wonderful things
You have given me–
Not a single bad I recall.

With the nine-months alone
Of putting your feet to grave
As you carry me in your womb–
I can’t thank you enough.

With the many hard days
And sleepless nights
Since I was born–
I can’t thank you enough.

With the running and cramming
I put you through
during recitals to graduations, baptismal to wedding–
I can’t thank you enough.

For the tears you shed;

For the laughter we shared;

For my secrets you kept;

For your patience that never ends–

Perhaps Mama,

I can’t thank you enough.

But know I love you more

Than gratitude can show.

Happy Mothers’ Day to all moms in the world!

(Courtesy of YouTube)

The Gifts

8










In my journey to life,
too often,
I nearly get lost
between darkness and light.
But thank goodness,
I stumble on the gifts.

If the gift of light
brings me knowledge
to man darkness,
the gift of peace
however,
leads me to wisdom–
through acceptance–
that such darkness exists.

If the gift of light
brings me courage
to deal with the unknown,
the gift of peace
however,
leads me to grace
that leads to possibilities
which often come
with the unknown.

And if the gift of light
brings me understanding
to unwelcomed thoughts,
the gift of peace
leads me to compassion;
allowing me
to reconcile
my thoughts
with my morals
and values–
of those,
of Heaven’s
and Earth’s.

For if the gift of light,
never fail
to walk me through
the valley of truth,
the gift of peace
always allows me
to run worry-free
in the valley,
and all the way
to the apex
of serenity,
even if
my eyes
are closed.

For the gift of peace
always bring
the brightest light;
allowing me to see the world,
myself,
and everyone around me,
not by sight;
never through the eyes,
but through my heart
and soul.








YouTube/Danny Wright/Forrest Gump/’Feather Theme’

Petal and Me

14

20130908-212831.jpg





For hours, 

We kept each other’s company:

We basked in the silver sun.

We played with the turquoise ripples kissing my toes like an ardent man.

We managed to get by as drifters rescued by the white and golden sands.

We hardly noticed the sun turned orange,

It was fast going down;

And the blue ripples were slowly gone,

My toes gone beige.

My fingers ended purple.

She remained pink in divinity.

She was supple lilac in majesty.

Though I knew,

Soon she’d wilt in brown . . .

But at that moment,

She looked fragile and lifeless;

And I sounded fierce and tough

However, our skins spoke better-

And it was simply a fact.

Recommended Song:

Naturally
By Kalapana

When End Defies

2

This breathing thing
is

A journey to many beginnings
With no ending

A walk
To endless sky

A marathon
With no finish line

A dance
To medley of tunes going round-and-round and on-and-on

A song
With no refrain

A quest
To cascading pursuits

A hike
With no peak awaits

A dive
To bottomless sea

A reign
With no crown

A cry
To desperation of another feet

A day
With no clock

When time rules

Where truth stuns time

When chasing of uneven hands stops

in beloved arms.

And the world stood still.