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 everyday, 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.


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.


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,

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.


Well, who does not love a superior IQ?
It does wonders. 
We marvel at your pride.
But EQ can trample IQ down so easily.
It dares you to be true.
We toast at your being a human.
We realize.
We learn to fly.
We soar high as much as we kiss the ground.
IQ + EQ, ah, it is a long shot, sometimes.
Well, there is a mound of dust.
To sweep or to vacuum?
That is the second question.
Asthma, please go away.

Death of Friendship

Shimmering glow of vivid sky
Donned the everlasting amity.
In haste, rainbow unfolded its colors
To pursue a hope for eternity.
Yet, its ends began to banish,
Seemed dreams losing reality.
Blackened night merely marred life;
And death connived at a past.
Died and buried with pain,
Less hope, struggle ended.
Ever-soaring wings resolved in pity.
In a sad, damp cold plight we ended.

Faked by Will

Was in the doldrums by ardent guilt,
Severed by mind, will, the gloom,
Deceived not by charlatan dogma,
Courage stifled the hapless bucolic,
Only abysmal benightment deepened their sorrow,
Reckoned dogsbodies despised through arrogance,
Dulcet bells, maimed in silence,
Joie de vivre perturbed profoundly on the brink of prime;
Whisper of emaciated justice wandered, fear curtailed its span yet.
The spirit lost in supreme nowhere.
Darkness shrouded the mirror of truth.
To lie would construe nil of sanity, to be blind.
To be candid would evoke dullness and conscience.
Conscience, conscience, would scribble pertinacious statute.