Alphabiblebet Siamese Sonnets

Adam was created to steward earth
Bloodied by Cain’s putting Abel to death
Cause he hated having his brother kept
Decades after Eve was pulled from the rib.

Empty was the world then there was no light
For God loved it already even dark
Gave the darkness a twin and everything
Heaven, sun, moon, stars and birds on the wing.

In six days the waters and land were filled
Just teeming with creatures swimming with speed
Keeping up with their counterparts aground
Leaping for mutual happiness found.

Man’s destiny was such that even luck
Need not his bountiful fortune obstruct.

Only his choices could have been well picked
Perfection being what his mold portrayed
Quirkiness was never his strong mettle
Resulting to occasions that nettle.

Suffice it to say he defied the odds
Tragedies haunted him yet he held fast
Unflinching with the blows of life’s descent
Victorious to the very bitter end.

Why man persists is not to contradict
Xenophobia thrives because he exists
Yearning to be was truly his at birth
Zany though he may be the world is his.

holiday in holiday inn

they didn’t want americanos

anywhere near clark-mimosa;




of them   s o m e   years

before –

screwing their women into


& reclining in

a haven of homes

with tiled floors

& flushing latrines,

while –

outside in the liquid heat –

the locals

coiffed the lawns.


I will tell you something.

the americanos never left;

troupes of

camouflaged troops

p a r a d e ground this hotel;

trundle with BIG


e n f i l a d e

every floor:

t r e s p a s s  the   foyer

like ants a r o u n d sugar.


their officers fart and froth

at the bar,

sinking budweiser

by the bottle,

while the puerile recruits

who haven’t yet

started to shave,

ogle the women

in the pool

like they’d never scanned

that gender before.


I was going to ask them

what are you doing here,

but their deferential smiles

and syrupy polite

‘what level, sir’ –

as we share an upward elevator –

merely serve to blunt

my own

atrabilious mission.


so we holiday,

slightly wary;


have a

militarised vacation





Let Kids Be Kids

By Nicanor Tiosen

Let kids be kids while they’re at it –
just keep an eye for their mischief
Let kids be kids, hurry them not –
there’s plenty of time for them to grow up.

Theirs is a time for frolicking –
for toy guns, dolls, and climbing trees;
Theirs is a time for loud cries and wails –
for bruises on their knees.

Don’t promise them anything
that you’re not sure to keep;
For the next time that you fail them,
they’ll not take any excuse you make.

Never say to them, “Don’t do that!”
They’ll surely ask you, “Why?”
Better say, “Let’s do this, honey.”
They’ll give you their sweetest smile.

Guide them through school and house chores,
Give them ample time to play.
Let kids be kids but don’t forget
to teach them how to pray!

(c) Nicanor Tiosen, Even If It Takes a Lifetime

I Would Rather It Were Easter

At the end of Christmas I realize
monsters will only shed their claws one step
at a time and just when minor mortals
deem their weight is no longer thrown around.

And holier-than-thou entitled moms
curse tardiness as grave a sin as dirt;
whose personal intent remains unstopped
like, to a Ghost, a column like that costs.

Guidance figures will take upon themselves
to serve and in the service put to task
minions they perceive beneath their estate
because ensconced in clerical domain.

These sacred stewards pray on bended knees
and genuflect as many times as they
frequent the sanctuary; mouthing “Peace”
to all and sundry, their eyes heavenward.

An insignificance is bludgeoned like
he could all by himself incur a wrath.
A better-placed servant can’t rest relieved
to be the object of a dislike wish.

Would not the church be better occupied
if charlatans were with Him crucified
along with my intense remorseful pleas
to make me worthy to eschew the kiss.

So that when carols ring and lanterns glow
I can embrace God’s goodness cared to sow
it’s not the birth nor His death for without
the ressurection I’m as good as dead.

pampanga back lot

the sun is a liar.

he swindles the shrubbery



every       day,


as   they   g y r a t e                             that


&         this,

scalded by his scorches.


he merely sneers

&   glares;

some     times

just sulks;                                                  skulks


the nearest nimbus.


theirs’ is NO choice.


they     thirst   for

some   sort     of




s   t   r   e   t   c   h     &       s   t   r   a   i   n

y e a r n i n g l y,



this   final  decollate











Psalm to Silver

If decency were meant to fall from trees
the seed took time and, not unlike the grass,
the difference is that the fruit does not
allow itself to replicate and just

be plucked by hands unless they have a heart.
It does not drop, not by a thousand shots
and, like respect, grows silently, bides by
its time, no matter slowly, like sigh, to bless.

As hummingbirds are swift backward in flight
the prize or just reward is not as fast
that it does not depict a mirror that
one sees without reflecting its own heart.

Its heart is charity no margin wide
can ever thwart the thump in consonance
with unfulfilling want to sing like larks;
the nightingale, in nursing, soothes hard spots.

A heart is kin to healing kindred parts.
It cannot hurt that which it hears a lot
of ache from, verbalized or otherwise;
like pickled pain exacts an awful price.

The corners of a memory are daft
they seem to nurture chaff that is not apt
to sing in jocund company along
a solo spree gone scattering its song.

There is a line that draws between a broken
bond and brokenness. It isn’t thin
like rainbows rising only after rain.
It is a lining, too, its snow is sheen.


Not that any problem finds solution
or discovery shifts faith to reorient life
perhaps complexity in vanity
what left to copy but facsimile

product dictates producer
who creates worship of production
to pose an idol as origin
demanding sacrifice of body and mind.


All praise to the ceiling that keeps the roof
from leaking directly on my good mood
the memory of saying lauds before
the sun peeks through the blinds or rain down pours.

To exercise that makes me fit all praise
and water afterwards that cleanses waste
the clock that tells exactly when to eat
so cure would not to take effect forget.

All praise to radio’s curtailed excess
that tv flaunts in color’s moving mess
to choice between electric breeze and air
or gadgets and the presence of a stair.

To literary pieces that proclaim
man’s loyalty to Him and kith and kin
the moral fiber of the universe
to strengthen and renew itself all praise.

The evolution of each day and night
all praise is given to so that it might
extend another cycle of the joy
the earth suffuses every man and boy.

So that the thought remembers vespers too
a mental health all praise is given to
to keep the liberties of living life
at bay when other freedoms are in strife.

That terminal applies to good and bad
and nothing lasts too long to make it sad
all praise to those whose dreams and wishes keep
the world a peaceful place for seamless sleep.

Proto Poem

Grade bedazzles money
soul sell I remember
youth given choice
obey and obsess

range between multiplier
takings over exploited
magnitude assesses balance
suicide needs promise


(Inspirasyong halaw mula sa (Ingles na) polyetong ipinamahagi sa burol ni Kuya George Kojima, kaibigan at kapwa gradweyt ng PREX, para sa ika-40 araw ng magiliw na paggunita sa kanyang paglisan noong Oktubre 19, 2015)

Kung makagagawa ako ng sulat para sa inyo
Kay rami kong sasabihin, kay raming gawain dito
May anghel sa bawat sulok, masigabo ang ganda
Noong ako ay dumating, Diyos mismo ang nag-estima

Sinalubong ako ng di-magkamayaw na tuwa
Mula sa nangakangiting walang edad pawang bata
Hawak-kamay kawing-kawing mula sa palad ng Poon
Kasiyahang may awitan at musika ng orasyon

Tinangka kong bigyan sila ng balitang tanda ko pa
Samut-saring pangyayari bago iniwan ng hinga
Ngiti ang kanilang tugon walang tanong maski isa
Lahat sila sa pagdiriwang ng salubong ko abala

Pagkat sa langit ang hudyat ng katuwaan ay kapag
May umakyat na kaluluwang sasalubungin ng yakap
Ng di-mabilang na ama, ina, anak, kamag-anak
Lahat sila ay iisa ang hangad na aking galak

Pagkat sa langit ang lungkot na alaala na lamang
Kagyat napapawi kasama ng dating kasalanan
Ang naiwang kaibigan, pamilya at kaulayaw
Ngayo’y kapiling na sa bahay, walang luha, walang lumbay

Magsasabi sana ako ng pag-ibig ko sa inyo
Bago ang oras ng paglisan ay wala pang segundo
Pasasalamat din sana sa pag-ibig na nadama
At kabutihang natanggap mula sa inyong balana

Lahat kayo ginigiliw hanggang sa sandaling hindi
Ko na masabi’t magawa ang mga nais at mithi
Kaya ayokong madama at lalong makita muli
Ang mga luha ng lungkot na sa inyo ay sumagi

Kaya aking kinausap ang mabait na Maykapal
Na tulutang ipahayag man lamang sa isang liham
Ang kalagayang di na dapat sanhi ng agam-agam
Ang langit ay lubhang ginto ningning ay ubod ng kinang

Dito’y walang karamdaman, sakit o anumang pait
At pagtanda ay isang bagay na hindi naiisip
O nangyayari dahil ang mga bulaklak at bukid
Punung-puno ng kariktan siglang walang kahulilip

Sinabi ko sa ating Diyos ang tungkol sa mga mahal
Kong naiwan na sana’y huwag Niya kayong pabayaan
Niyakap Niya ako sabay ng pagsasabing darating
Ang araw na tayong lahat di na paghihiwalayin

At ipinaabot din Niya ang pag-ibig Niya’t lakas
At dadalhin Niya raw kayo sa sandaling inyong tatag
Ay dumaan sa pagsubok at humina sa pagtawag
Sa awa Niyang kailanman ay mananatili nyong hawak

Ingatan nyo ang alaala ng ating pagsasama
At magsilbing lakas nawa ang gunitang masasaya
Laging naririto ang tahanang sa atin lang laan
Gawing banal at busilak ang buhay bilang paraan

Upang dalangin ko’y maging sa inyo’y magsilbing daan
Sa pagkikita-kita natin nang walang alinlangan
Ang pag-ibig at tuwang sa akin inyong inihandog
Gayundin ang dalangin kong sa inyo’y ipagkaloob

Ituloy nyo ang halakhak huwag hayaang luha lamang
Ang maging alaala ko na sa inyo ay iniwan
Hanggang ang tahanang aking ngayo’y banal na tirahan
Maging tuwang naghihintay sa ating pagmamahalan.

*Sulat mula sa Langit


Down within
where urge meets syllable
inert beyond small
feel of refusal

no claim to above
only breath
anymore false

not dissimilarity or likeness
just averting another’s avoidance
as forbidding own side glance
continuity for sake of leaving

serving none but needing to
endpoint of collapse
halts before insight
weighs every result with choice.



It is an odd phenomenon to find
your phone spewing messages that mind
the homily you heard (and even read
before) at Mass repeating in your head.

What it does speak of is the import
better understood when shared and nothing’s lost
until the words have sunk and been writ off
to memory And, when recalled, a smile

shall lure it back to sing a voiceless sound
of amity. Of promises unsaid
between the lines professing guarantee.
The words are not just characters but oaths

of what an office holds if it were sworn.
For friendship is an ark, a covenant
between two sovereigns, two vows of trust
and confidence. It is a heart espoused

by fellow heart, it can’t renege, it must
epitomize the certain courtesy
of pacts. As strange as inspiration strikes
a poet’s block, this stroke defies the odds

and squeezes in, insistent, and persists
because, it later dawns, the purpose went
according to no plan, it was as plain
as breathing out or in, a glad refrain.

That, almost like a twin, the other note
gave birth to an allegiance to the fact
is testament to faith between, among,
the Triune One and man and other men.

A Sonnet for MA*

T horough is the will that best describes her
H onest closely tailing behind humble
E arth is certainly the ground she stands on
L ike she was from heaven sent to bless it

P ublicity was never her domain
O bscurity being better than most
N umeraries she would rather avoid
F or her faith is neither a crown nor sword.

E rstwhile credentials do not hound her name
R estrained as she is by noble manner
R esponding only to the call of grace
A ccording to her heart’s appointed place.

D eparture deeply deems her legacy
A sanctuary that rhymes with Mary.

*Mary’s Apostle


The weary nomad was in search of self
piled, buried underneath an earth; a cage
surrounded by the sloth of different
enticements carefully arranged to make

the will attuned to opposites of grace.
And so it was his voyages were rife
with ribald gore and appetites that fed
on gluttony and greed insatiate

up till his ear was pricked by guilt; his son,
as still as smile, the kind that missed his mind
that wasn’t there, proclaimed: You never were!
The letter, loud as gavel, banged on him.

And still, protected by a flimsy shield
of erst-neglected rediscovered kin,
his arrogance and scant remorse back-talked
defenselessly through games his son deflected.

Equally deep were his solitude
and quiet grief when, afterwards, without
the influence of transient glee and vice,
the movie of his past flashed sorrily

like starless night and silent thunder clap
only the inside of the heart, the ear,
could hear with all accessories of hurt.
A boomerang of karmic sort sans doubt.

And, searching deeper, there were thankful senses;
music of some token song was plumbed
to spawn a genre, probably an age
and dawn of spirited applauding sound.