Pusang Gala Ka Gloria!

Gloria, gloria, awit sa pagsamba
Gloria, Gloria, pighati ng maralita.

Sa bansa na ang sinungaling ay
Nagiging presidente; ang magnanakaw
Ay naghahapunan sa hapag ng banyaga;
Ang mandaraya ay nagkakaroon ng
Siyam na buhay tulad ng pusang gala; at
Ang mga mamamatay-tao’y mas malaya
Pa sa mga tapat sa batas
Pusang gala nga naman!

Anong gloria pa ang maasahan?

Mabuti pa ang pusang gala, marunong
Dumila at luminis ng dumi sa katawan,
Gloriang may siyam na buhay ay di
Man lang nakita ang putik ng kanyang
Pandaraya at pagnanakaw sa mga aba.

Mabuti pa ang pusang gala, inaamo ang
Siyang nagbibigay ng pagkain sa kanya,
Gloriang siyam na taon na sa Malakanyang
Inamo ang mga heneral binusog ang
Mga bundat nilang tiyan.

Sana naman, ay hanggang siyam na
Lang talaga ang buhay ng Gloriang ito,
Kundi ay mabuti pang gawin na lang
Siopao na asado ng magka-gloria
Na ang bansang nakuba ng panahon.

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The Pianist is a Murderer

The pianist is a murderer, each
Key caressed on its black
And white skins, existing on
A most uncertain life as
The maestro kills him at
Each loving stroke.

Different black shapes of
Circled head, emanate
From the keys and fingers,
Floating in the air to
Dance with one another.
Like the vapors from steaming
Lakes, they fly and soon whisper
Their last.

The pianist is a murderer.
Kills each black balloon as
Soon as they whispered or
Shouted their presence; but
Each individual creative
death and undercurrent of
creative violence, gives birth
To a musical piece.

The pianist murderers,
To become a master creator.

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Farewell Black Shoes and French Kisses

You have walked with me, on
Damp avenues, rusted pavements
And daily sunshine, as you
Whole-heartedly housed my tired
Journeying on your limited
Darkened twin rooms.


But I have seen lately that shining
Blackness of your skin and
Forehead, faded as those Levi’s
jeans I wear three times a week.
Your tongue tied on the silent
Opening of your wide mouth has
Grown quite tired from our
Constant French kisses in the morning.
Your embrace on my dependence is now
cold, arms loosened like the button
of my favourite old green polo
shirt, exploring that little
universe of its sole existence.

I still love you for Christ’s sake! Though
I can see that you are already growing
tired of the weight of my love. But
I have to let you go: let go even
Of our French kisses; goodbye to
Strolling on romantics boulevards
During boring afternoons. Because
You are now gone, stolen by the
Darkness from my embrace; while
I was fast asleep in confidence that
I Will have you forever.

Farewell to you black shoes,
I must move on now.

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Our Cold Nights

A cold wind blows from
empty lakes, as green and
red lanterns flicker, slow to dance
an the awaited Eve; yes, it is cold.
Cold - on meadows and valleys
pregnant memories, as

tall, darkly draped on the
of silent (and if we could still call them as such).
The raging waters of our collective
excuses for expediency and mentality,
the darkness wailing on far-away blooded hills,
were forcibly weaved within the rhymes our
children's songs.

The wind is cold,
particular month, but who
knows if we will soon
hang silent bamboo lanterns
igloos inside our vaults;
as our shadows are standing
tall and long in front of the thick road.
The cold wind whispers:


this Eve only shines to all
clasp hand towards the bent night,
while the green, red
lanterns still flicker on
our cold night.

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Distant Love

the shade of your shy smile
tows down his darkness of the night
in a box of tears
he has chained the
pinning of his infantile dependence

you smiled lovely as
a leaf is brushed by
the whispering wind;
all he can do is
hush his love on
the clouds of your sterling
smile

un-splendid awning like
a little robin's bleeding
heart
both of you can only share
smiles and then bid
goodbyes

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I Got Wet Under the Rain

the rain walks quick from the horizon
miles away over the sleeping hills,
unexpecting its sudden mourning and
crying over my blue face, until i am
all wet, all drowned, all crying.

i tried to wipe all tears with my
white soaked shirt, and it only
added to the hurt - made my
face and eyes all red and wet.

over the horizon i saw the
shimmers of the peering bading sun,
and the mourning of the heavy
sky stopped all sudden;
but my face, my eyes, my shirt
and my all of me were still
soaked in the cold of rain's
afternoon mourning.

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The Silence of Truth

The dust has not yet settled
Off, from the rubles of
Darkness that has fallen from
The eternal sky.

Silence. Hush of truth is
Grappled by the noise of
The shallow conscience of apparent
Arrogance.

Hush. Silence of truth extolled
The greatness proven by no words– embraced
By many, but belied by a few who
Played in the scheming of the just.

The dust has finally settled and
rubles has befallen only on
Those who dared to build the ivory
Tower with playing cards and barefaced lies.

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