moving on

I'll be leaving this blog and transferring to www.penstalker.blogdrive.com If you've been reading this blog, just click on the link above and read on. thanks... penstalker

Elevator

the frames of this electronic door shone
as the bell rang
two discordant notes.

open [ ]
*going up*
people poured out
from the open
door and it was empty again.
I entered, pressed 23
and [>l<]. closed.
slowly, automatically...
the door seemed reluctant.
**please stand clear of the closing
door**
a hand appeared between the opening
just before the door
closed
completely, the hand forced
the door to open up. It revealed
a man in a dark suit
accompanied by five people,
his officemates perhaps.
They entered, rather noisily;
he pressed 17 and
[>l<].
the elevator opens
and accepts--then closes
**please stand clear of the closing
door**
closed.
I ascended, through this enclosure
pulled by taut cables. i am
moving towards the apex—
pulled against gravity
by electricity—strong wires
like the hands of time
unable to let go—
towards my destination:
twenty-third floor.

*seventeenth floor*
the elevator opens and lets go
then closes. i am left
to stand by the corner of the elevator.
**please stand clear of the closing
door**

*eighteenth floor*
[ ] open
two unnamed faces and Danielle join me
in this corner of the universe
as i ascend and defy
gravity, Danielle stands
beside me and shakes my hand.
meanwhile the other two girls talk
about how late they are
for work. they press 22
and [>l<]. **please stand clear of the closing
door**

Danielle and I talk about the weather, the traffic
and friends long lost or gone. I lean
on the wall to my left and watch
the screen display the floor number
we are passing by.

nineteen
showed the screen in yellow, up
we went without
stopping by.

*twentieth floor*
[ ] open...nobody's there. the elevator
is waiting
for someone to run in
and enter. we are waiting
for the door
to close. [>l<]
Danielle looked
at her watch uneasily.
"7:07 am Have a nice day!" shows
on the elevator screen.
**please stand clear
of the closing door**

*twenty-first floor*
pointed heels stabbed
the elevator floor as the two ladies
walked into the open
door and left me behind
with Danielle inside.
**please stand
clear of the closing
door**

Danielle walks towards the door
even before the
*twenty-second floor*
she took one last look
at her wrist watch
press [ ] hurriedly,
anxiously, stormed out of the elevator
in steps that could have sent the elevator back
to the ground floor. “see yah
whenever…” she remembered to take
a last glance at me before
the door closed. [>l<] **please
stand clear of
the closing door**

*twenty-third floor*
[ ] open door

here I am.
*please
i step out
stand
without a last glance—out
clear
into the twenty-third floor.
of the closing door*

Intro in E-minor

The crowd swells as empty
Chairs are filled up.
Sound
Technicians adjust the last
few dials, they turn
some more knobs.
Sound
Check. Sound
check. The spot
lights
are set, waiting
To explode and expose
He who makes music.

Meanwhile, the house lights burn
Bright as the crowd arrives
To fill the darkness
Of the concert hall.

At the edge
Of the platform, the guitar
Waits for the hands
That will take away its slumber
And bring it to the center
Of the multi-colored lights.

Its place is dark.

Meanwhile, the speakers sing
With melancholy
To fill the silence
Of the concert hall.

The chairs are full
Around the platform. Silence
Is about to be
defeated—
The amps, the mics,
The cables and wires,
The seats and the stands
Are all in place.

The house lights wane and
Black out completely.

Hush. A still lake. Shadows
move on the platform.
Plugged. The guitar stirs.
A single spotlight waxes bright.
A hand moves down.
A strum.
A sound splashes on the still lake
as the guitar and its master and
The horde of sounds behind them

Begin

To break the silence.

Supernova

From red to yellow
Life jump-started.
From white to blue
Heat and light spread
Fire burned within me.

And now
A fireworks display!

My life erupted
In a thousand sparks.
The multi-colored sparks surged forward, shattered
As broken stained glass.
Light-years fast, they still travel
Through my universe.
To light up the dark
Alleys of the universe.
**
Midnight on the darkside of the planet earth.
Thousands of eyes
look skyward tonight
To behold the remains
Of a life snuffed out.

Moving to Our Tenth House in Twenty Years

Heavy boxes slide on the floor—
essential things accumulated over
the years. Empty now
are the shelves, lockers and cabinets.

Two years—
of filling this space—of people living
in this seeming fortress near the church
with broken bell tower.

The weeds are tall around
the house—taller than the weeds
that litter the yard of the church
with the broken bell tower.

The plants sit quiet in front of the parsonage—
patiently,
they endured the sun, they reveled
when drenched
by the waters
from the sky, enjoyed the kisses
of the dew. Now
they shall be moved:
Moved
to a place they never knew.
The colors leave
this house today.

Rooted,
how can the trees be moved? They refuse
to leave though they want to. They cannot
unless they are cut
down to the roots.

Cabinets and chairs, the washing machine and the fridge,
the tables and racks, dividers—all
lined up on the lawn, waiting
impatiently for yet another moving—
and this is not the final one—
just a part of a tired routine,
endless moving, never setting
down on a single place for a long time.

It goes on, we move,
we arrive, only to move
again and again to another place. Today we shall arrive
to another house—
beside a church—
never our own.

Lailanie’s Homecoming

I
Homecoming.

Lung cancer took Lailanie away
From the crowded hospital at Taft
Avenue.

She went home in the silence
Of the night in the ambulance
That traversed the highway from Taft
Through the mountain passes of Cordillera—
Back to the grieving hills of Andabuen*.

The child within her tried
To fight for her life
but her mother’s time was up.

The creek, like flowing tears welcomed her.
The hills were hushed
by her passing. Everyone hoped
For her homecoming,
but not this way.

II
Promises meant to be broken.

She watched silently as the white coffin
Entered the lawn and settle
In front of their house.

Could it be she’s dreaming?

It was but three in the morning
And she does not usually wake up till
Four thirty to boil water and cook
Breakfast, pack the tools and send off
her father and brothers who will tend
The fields west of the village.
She’s done all this since angcay** Lanie
Went away last May
To have her check-up
at the provincial hospital.
But last month, her Father, frantic,
And worried, packed up his bag, and went
Away again, saying, angcay Lanie must be taken
To Manila for her life to be saved
From the sickness that the provincial
Hospital can no longer handle.

She was the daughter
After Lailanie. She was supposed to be
In college by June next year
and Lailanie will pay
for her tuition, her books, her allowance. Lailanie will
Pay for her dreams.

She’s home. But she’s gone.

She dabbed her tears with the back
Of her hand and rose to heat water
For the coffee of the people who
Brought angcay Lanie home.

III
End of a 300-km trip.

Three a.m. it feels good to stretch
His legs once again.
He is so tired from sitting all night
Inside the cold ambulance.

A week ago, her father went
To ask him for help.
Lailanie was dying, she needed
Expert medical help.

He thought of all the times
That he gave her allowance
Even when his wallet contained
No more than a few red bills.

He was the helpful uncle
guiding them so they can move
away from the poverty
he has barely escaped from.

Four years of college, and of her uncle’s help
All came to naught now—
She could have helped
Her family, she could have…

But the dead can not bear
The burden of the living
Lailanie’s uncle helped them again,
But he will go back to the city later
To tend the businesses he left there.

IV
Aborted Love.

When she returns, he would ask her
To marry him. After all, his child
Already grows within her womb.

He reserved two of his cows and started
Building his own hut in Villa Concepcion.***
His parents granted him his own piece of land.

“It’s nothing serious,” she assured him
So he stayed and waited.
He prepared for their wedding day.

Yesterday, he was informed Lailanie was
on the way home from Manila
so he went to Andabuen with a gold ring.

Dawn came and he saw the coffin
Brought down from the van. He couldn’t speak.
He held the ring tightly till his hand ached.

V
Acceptance.

Such is life. Her parents thought
She would outlive them both and lead
Her siblings to a better future.
Their lives were tied to the land
But hers was not. Now, it’s even cut
Off from theirs: It’s ended.

The sun extends its hands
To the grieving hills of Andabuen.
One by one, the men and women of the barrio drop by
To provide any comfort they can,
Then they leave to proceed
With the daily routine of barrio life.
------------------------
*Andabuen: a barangay in the forest region of Benito Soliven, Isabela
**bolinao term for elder sister/brother
***a neighboring barrio of Andabuen

Box Full of Crayons

Coloring Book.
Colorless and flat, smiling
Faces that lack depth,
Drawn with thick and thin; solid
and broken lines, stare
from black and white pages.

Crayons.
His little hands grasp big crayons;
Smudges colors on the pictures
all over the pages
of the coloring book
Of my life on the floor.

Out of the Crib.
Your face and mine blended
In his delicate face
That brings depth
Into my eyes.
His laughter resounds
Through the walls.
His cry wakes me up
In the middle of the night.
But it doesn’t matter.
I get up and prepare
A bottle of milk.
Now he walks.
Now he talks his baby talk
And fills our world.

Boxes of Milk.
His fragile little body
Close to mine; his tiny hands
Stroke my face;
Your hand in mine
We’re holding him.
Inside the cupboard
Are boxes of milk stored
In exchange of the little luxuries
We decided to let go.

Box full of crayons.
Coloring books scattered
On the floor. He sits in the middle
With a box full of crayons.
He opens it up with his tiny hands
And holds the crayons
That brings all the colors.

Rain Train

I stepped out into the road from the passenger seat
Of the jeepney and the rain started to pour down
Hesitantly. I trotted down the pedestrian lane
Dodging the droplets of rain that reached out to me.
In the absence of an umbrella I hid under
my silken jacket. The droplets penetrate
my makeshift shelter and it becomes heavier
as I walked towards the Quezon-Avenue flyover.

I crossed the highway. It has always been easy,
In sunny days and rainy days—when I’m alone.
I stick to the edges of the pedestrian lane
and raise my left hand to stop the cars and jeepneys;
‘til I reach the other side.

Without my umbrella, I joined the throng
of the labor force hurrying to work
this Monday morning. I ascend the escalator
of the Quezon Avenue MRT Station and I’m lost
in the crowd.

Inside the train I feel warm in the company
of strangers, huddled together
because of the hurry that drives them on.
My right hand clasps my wet silken jacket
And my left hand holds on
to the handle bars to keep me
from falling…

I remember her hand clutching my elbow
when we walked side by side and I held
her umbrella through the rain on a Monday afternoon
of June two years back when we were still
in the university.
And now she is out of this sun-dried, rain-drenched country.
Overseas…
perhaps she beholds her dreams slowly unfold. And I,
here in the train, on a rainy June morning, think of
the girl with the umbrella in the pouring rain.

As the rain splatter on the window
of the train, I snuggle with total strangers.

Till There's No Time

For CJ

A second passes
Unnoticed
The eyes blink
A minute of a child in the arms of her Father
Eternity looks on
An hour’s worth of running down the hill
And rolling over the sea of grass
A child’s bliss
A day of turning at the axis of the earth
Somebody’s caught, left behind
Time waits for noone.

As the tide rises
as it falls back
the moon lets go
of all its months
barrels upon barrels
of photographs and artifacts
are rolled over the river until
the years, as tide, rise
to wash them all away.

We couldn’t but watch
For we are caught in the web of time

Shadows lengthen till darkness takes over
However, billions of stars
Are awake tonight
On the road shedding light
‘til we come to the other side
Where the sun shines
And there’s no time.

Fade

Dreams fade...

As the setting sun
They ebb away
Like dawn
Like twilight running
Away

Dreams end.

Like any happy
Or troubled childhood
Like any story told
By poetry or prose
Like the passing away of

A rose.

We who belong
To the dreams—we
Who dream

We perish.

A Woman's Ordeal

for Abet

He came to me
As a black cloud, dry and heavy
Without precipitation
His eyes, an unflowing stream,
Brooding all the hurts and confusions of his life.
His heart, a stagnant lake:
Breeding ground of hate and anger,
And a reprobate mind—
He can’t think straight.

They took his mother
To a mental health clinic in the nearby city
Last week. His mother is in delirium—
She was a bottle of alcohol,
Preserver of hate,
Hers was a face of smiling
Pretense—of placid gentleness, as of the quiet noon
But her heart was boiling like Mayon
a year before a major eruption
Her countenance, her eyes are cold as the torrent
Of rain in June.

When they returned, she speaks not much different
than the way she used to after her husband
beat her. She bled inside…

After the beating, he’d declare his love for her
In the quietness of the evening
So they can go to bed together.
And he held her lovingly with the same
Hands that beat her.

And she would whisper
“Your love is sweet…
Your love is sweet…
(as the brackish sea)”
With her voice, indiscernible
Even by her own heart and her own mind.

She could feel him her between her legs
She could hear him let out a harsh sigh
of relief. She could taste his sweat
mingling with her tears. But she could feel him
nowhere in her heart.

She was a placid lake.
She was a bottle.
She was a dormant volcano
Seething within.

One night in the silence of her child, the bottle was broken
She was shattered. A home has been torn
Apart.
The heavy black clouds gathered
And yet the rain didn’t fall
The rain didn’t fall.

She became a stagnant stream,
Like a boat, her mind floats in the nothingness.
Forever wondering and wandering while
The waters whisper their rippling melody, but
She started living in her distant memory
She lives to blabber and talk albeit unsensibly.

Nobody understood

Her husband never tried
To understand her, to care for her
As he ought to.

Nobody understands

Though she talks and she talks nobody takes her
Seriously, but her son
Who sits here with me, telling her story.

He fixes his shirt hastily, hesitantly
Afraid to let his tears drop.

He simply looks away.

Freedom in a Prison Cell

for Amado

Will the ink run dry?
Will your words be forgotten?

The ink flowed freely
The pen was your gun. So you were
shackled. Inside the prison.
where you cannot see the sun
the fire within burns,
your heart was trained
to master your mind, suffering
confirmed what you wrote—
stinking prison, poison disguised
as food.
You slept and dwelt with the insects
Of the dark.
But you remained alive, alive…

The ink flowed freely
The pen was your gun.

So long as the poor plow and till
the land
So long as the wicked rich burden
the farmer with an iron yoke
So long as the hallowed Congress inscribe
laws in the name of their own interests
So long as the millions remain
Oppressed and ignorant

Your ink shall flow freely
Your pen will echo its shout…

The prison cell vomited you
It cannot contain you…

A heart of light breaks
Through the dark

Your ink shall flow freely
Your pen will shout.