Isaiah 43:18-19

The wind carries hopes someplace,

along with the riddled trees.

Songs and dances forlorn and muted.

Paper and ink idle and stubborn.

A season of change in the offing.

The fallen shall rise again.

I trust You with this newness,

fully and completely.

The past fraught with worries

now sees no light.

The death of a star feels like an eternity,

but I obey You.

Still, I cherish You.

I do truly love You.

My heart, mind, and soul

are one with You.

Letting go and forgetting.

The wilderness is paved with Your wonders.

Streams spring up in the wasteland.

I do not fear, for You are with me.

All The Great Things Above Me

The full moon casts the end and the beginning.

The river tamarind tree -- dead and slender -- 

beside the thriving pink bougainvillea

-- vibrant, flamboyant, frolicking with butterflies --

rises mightily like a distant castle.

So cold, the sea breeze leaves me shivering,

and I don't want any warmth.

I don't want to feel anything. 

The sky binds my countenance to it,

as if I am indebted to its chains.

Gazing at the eyes peppered

across the cloudless night, I see none.

I see tomorrow is never promised,

as murky as an aging vision,

thinning and fading.

Oh, how bright is the night

I am blinded not by this love.

The seed of this mystery

keeps on growing and growing

and sprouting all the more its greenness.

I listen to your voice from the far mountain,

to the strings I so long to hear.

My heart plunges to ache after ache.

I want to see your delicate face,

to stare at it, to adore the beauty that it is.

Oh, my love, this clarity from Heaven speaks out loud.

All the great things above me,

reassuring and comforting,

fill the spaces in my whole being.

The divine works enliven me fully.

The Sheets

I am one grateful man,

for the comfort you bring.

Softly and patiently,

you cover our nest

that I can only be free.

Beneath and in between,

roses spring across the yard.

How beautiful is this peace,

as unblemished as the cotton sky.

Your quietness is sheep,

yet the valor of king.

Beyond the rustle of the night,

your whispers soothe her to rest.

I am from the star,

a celestial rock,

watching over her.

I weep, I wish, I pray to be

with her in her sleep.

Her Strength

The smell of her dark hair leads me to a field of greens, reds, and pinks

Swaying with the sultriness of the wind, a balm to a battle-worn soul.

All the birds, never joyless, hum a familiar melody sent from a night sky decked with stars.

I feel her nearness as I close my eyes, holding my warm arm.

An image of her emerges -- faint sun's vibrant and most eloquent surprise.

On a morn of April, she dazzles, she dances, singing her heart out loud, ever childlike, yet she weeps.

She sobs in silence, in a vacuum of bruises and wounds.

My Maria, my life's rose, my heart aches with her.

Speechless tears sink in my every day, a suffering of being so far away from her.

The unforgiving seas and soaring mountains, so overwhelming we breakdown many a time.

But a magnetic string holds our universe together, an anchor we cling to.

Forever gracious and grateful, my dear Maria finds comfort in the promises of the Word.

Often does she remind me of that, truly a ray of light she is.

Her strength awakens me from slumber, pulling me out of the pit; she is strength.

I love her deeply, and the fragrant blooms and swinging birds are in the know.

Bigotry

The morality of a highbrow bigot can crucify a poor, barefaced soul in seconds.

The plebeian gets pounced on a slip -- to death -- profusely bleeding without being heard.

Reasons that don't cower in fear and apologies that bury the lowly alive six feet under blindingly shiny shoes, are a murmuring drone of a gnat within earshot.

An annoyance to be silenced, or to be stamped out by inutile tender hands -- pink and moisturized and manicured to high heavens, unsullied -- that have never met any kind of soil.

Why?

Because, again, bigot.

Safe Haven

Storm clouds loom over our scarlet cradle
- the feelings, the dreams, and the roads.
The distressed air knows its own battles;
stubborn and wild, it unleashes its might.

Birds perch on in abandoned, broken attics,
fraught with fear or coldness or hunger.
Never to leave until the tempest dies;
never to fly until the sun comes up.

Heavy, pounded, and loud, earth is soggy,
an incurable wound for hours,
or an infant enduring its complex wailing.
Souls wander not on a lark.

The night breaks its ribcage;
streaks of light unfold before your eyes,
pacing as a patient soldier.
And warm hands hold you tight.

Hardin sa Mang-uuma (A Farmer's Garden)

Your garden, peppered with your magical touch,
lies under capricious heavens and over silent, deep riverbeds.
It awaits the season of bloom, which cries of defaulted joy.
It is as patient as a vagrant crossing treeless lands, lost and parched and yellow.
It is, after all, a child without tantrums.

When it survives, you are the proud father.
When it grows, green and strong, you have found a pearl.
It wins every taste bud.
You can make yourself breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
It is selfless and giving.
Your garden, after all, is a forest, a nature with lungs.

Stones and Dust

Stones and dust faithfully rest
on the unassuming ground,
while coal-hued cloak,
dotted with minute flashes of light,
envelopes the stillness
caused by the shy sun.

In a manner scattered
over a large portion of the earth,
they stand, they lie, they roll,
they fly, they erupt, they wander.

Beneath the claimed sovereignty
of these flats, gateways, walls,
towers, bridges, and shelters,
are the uncharted mysteries plotted
like riddles of the great Sphinx.

I can't fathom the insides
of your will and freedom,
for you mind and render your own artistry.
I remain faithful to you.

Nocturnal Stroll

The heart and mind of the being
are back for good;
and all that are held captive
in scattered hopes
and more the kinetic dreams
whistle in uniform sounds
that become of the sea,
neverending.

The Plant

There you are my muse
in the nook of my soul,
looking out for my god
dressed in my faith and hope.

How the silence of your mien
perpetuates through my afternoon,
is to my indignation not;
it is the fuel stirring
my affair with solitude. 

I delight in your fine expression
-- coy, playful, full of conviction
yet unpredictable.

You carry the eyes
watered with spring and summer,
and direct which to mine;
and for that, so grateful I am.

Despite all the nuisances
dangling and screaming around,
you remain calm and steadfast,
only to breathe with me,
to sleep in our own pulses
and be swayed by our simple happiness.

I catch the phrases let out from your foliage
-- young, smiling, and still wading
in the ruffled air and storms.

I love you.