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Poetry

Binondo Church

For its brick walls were blotched with rednessLike a child with a high grown fever,The tolling of its bells, bounty and scared. The plaza on its façade, a space of endearmentFor the taho vendors in selling their drinkable breakfastAnd the jeepneys whose wheels turning...

Unbreakable

Exact is not the word; the hurting is felt in many places. - Joel Toledo Mending is necessary as these respites from fragility will no longer do. Mind the volume dial as it floods you with constants and firmitude. Long before right from wrong: language stolen...

Of Sunrises and Sunsets

1 Night falls I hear crickets And the sound of waves As the sea marks A quiet day Towards a somber weekend 2 I have lived with face masks And face shields For years And where did they get me? I learned to greet With muffled voice And learned to smile With my own eyes I learned how to...

Kalahig

In memory of the hundreds of trash pickers who perished in the garbage slide at the Payatas dumpsite on July 10, 2000 From the skeleton Of disemboweled mattresses Bent scrap of metal You honed to pointed perfection To stab at the refuse of the world In this moment’s defeat You...

Arranging Furniture at Midnight

I move chairs at midnight, Adjusting my wife’s preference Which one is facing which. The cats are doing football Banging on tables and walls. All six of them, Siamese versus Persian All team High Maintenance. My angry wife wakes up, Reminding us she needs to sleep. I’d pay for this in the morning, When...

Patterns

The chisel as creator Lends shape to wood, to stone. Shape being the truth of character, Reality of body and bone, Sculpted fact of form, The confidence of matter. The paintbrush as creator Draws maps of rainbows, Contours of celebrations, Then blends faithful colors With their reserved spaces. Spaces being the measure of possibilities That...

Random Pickings

Unbreakable

Exact is not the word; the hurting is felt in many places. - Joel Toledo Mending is necessary as these respites from fragility will no...

Rush Hour

How’s life, old buddy Between seventy and eighty, eighty and ninety Perpetually in a hurry Heading for the cemetery Amid emotional poverty Are we racing against time Or the lack of...

Three Poems Before 2025

2024 What do you want to say to a year yet to explain itself? The days are heaving, the hours a diary made meaningful with our ghosts: gray, tenuous, prone...

On Session Road, Remembering Mike de Leon’s Kung Mangarap Ka’t Magising

The projector hums. In the theater’s dusk, a flicker unspools a world. The scent of rice wine and stale popcorn grounds him, a shadow of a...