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.


Sleep, Little One, and dream
Swim the cotton ocean that blankets the sky
On a pillow of water, lay your crown
Those metal monsters won’t hear your cry
Sleep, My Moonlight, the sun comes up
Sing lullabies for my still beating heart
You had a star when you were eight
And it was a lightyear too late
I’ll hum to you yet once more
As the dam of my tears break down
I kiss my knees and hug them tight
As I bid goodnight to my first Moonlight.

09 January 2016
When you carry the dead inside you.


One of these days I’ll write you a verse.

That of
Blood and battles and banners down
Paper cuts, promises and evil clowns
Depressing euphoria
Ecstatic howls
Of crumpled bodies and fading souls.

That of
Romance and murders and chemical highs
Two-faced truths and honest lies.

One of these days, I’d write you a song
Of silk-clad Calliopes taken from the throng
Of tongues and salt and cursed curves
And a horse, a carriage, a hearse.

19 May 2015
When a friend steps into an abyss of loneliness and has kept on falling since.

Dear fellow writers, please visit Grape Escape at Maginhawa Food StrEat for a night of wine-induced poetry.

A Certain Blindness

It is not the decaying dilapidation

of what was once a honeymoon

of sorts: honest, sly, licit, lustful

the sins washed out by age, indifference,


sloth and charity fatigue. Virtue,

as rare as a star at noon, is arrived at

like a prayer to the moon. The compulsion

is a check already drawn yet dangled


like an absent-minded pendulum.

There is no mistaking the thirst

slaked except that the conversation

meandered. Perhaps what triggered


the condescension was the inquiry

to satisfy the motive, an accidental

wisp of an arrogant slip, a pathetic postscript

to an anyway polyethylene objective.


Which, were it not for the fleeting high,

could have brightened the hemorrhagic eye.

Ignored the ignominy of homeward hope

exposed, expostulated and extinguished.

An Elegy to the River

By the bank I stand and
observe the docile leaves
falling from this withered tree
where we carved our vows
onto this river where I drowned
my tears of anguish
realizing that you seized my world
with the silence of its flow
and left like leaves
stolen by its currents

I wonder if the stream
will bring you back to me
back to where we first met
back to where we cast
our dreams and wishes
back to the place where we
chase one another until
our bodies are moist
with sweat and water
back to this river which
left damp memories
of your departure

I weep and mourn
for this river will die
at the vastness of the sea
and you, forever lost
cease to exist
as this river’s destiny

Sevenling (Match)

One red matchbox-like metal
flew through the slab-winged sky
packed with an unleashed sparks,

teeming with bright hues of dreams
til the dawn got off the track
kissed the white-lined thoroughfare,

and eighteen hugged their Maker.


Such memories don’t get washed out back to sea,
to be unseen, lost in the turmoil between
once a road and network or paths or labyrinth
but there is no power to lift up the darkness
from the heart or the dead, darkened by the sun
from a blue sky where once a wind howled
with belligerence, road rage, red-faced, pummeling
but of course, there is no remorse
for a hit-and-run victim, bloodied and abandoned
on the beach like pebbles, shells, white sand,
overran by waters, moving to and fro.

(Written with the super-typhoon Yolanda victims in mind.)

Faithful Friend

There is no other comfort
amidst the wavy turmoil
compared to the light of truth,
in God we can rest our soul.

Dance amidst the roaring tide
of whistling stormy roar,
cling to Him our boat our guide,
anchor as well as the oar.

Though we plunge into abyss;
do not fear the darkest end
for He is always with us,
Emmanuel – our faithful friend.




worms fly.


they soar high

not because

they have wings,

but because

they are like jackstones

strangled around

the vulture’s claws.

Of dust, paper, and steel

Is that silence in the white space
where there are no words to read,
unsure of where is here or there,
the near or far, the up or down,
or only stillness where time appears
congealed, undefined? Am I floating?
The pavement, unseen, sticks to my feet.
What is the sound of black smoke when
a poem burns like Twin Towers,

Its lines collapsed onto a heap of bodies
of pages, dumped from that sky?
On the ground, the papers lost their meaning,
the words had split apart. Is there art
in twisted metal, shooting from piles
of concrete and shards of glass? Or
in the new daylight against pale walls,
and broken windows, against the remnant
of left-over mist among the dead?
Or in derailed lines of thought,
scattered on the dust-covered ground?

Worm Offshore

Life has been worn thin before
to the poorest of the poor;
now, they are the worm offshore.

They became the bait, therefore
food for the gods who adore
mammon and wore bare’s store

of last ore of hope to soar.


These past three years
a fruitless dabbling
the forgetting when must
to what purpose
on whose back

a citizen from inertia
the timelessness of sloth
as if the flutter benefitted need
or fury hid the intent beneath its parade

no the snipping must occur unnoticed
not the garishness in belief or of profession
the plodding that refuses to see end
the weakening that continues too tired to cease

these are the instruments of change
gutting ambition of any belief
not even the rectitude claimed in withdrawal
just the reminder about ancestors this sojourn spends.


Some hearts are born winners,

Others struggle as lonely hunters

Chasing dreams within their reach,

Which suddenly slip through their fingers!

Boston from where I sit

I-93, red and orange, leaves shifting, falling
with the breeze, cool, warm, early light
from sun rays, speed past like darts against
the morning sky, the golden dome, the freedom trail,
the youthful smile, the pavement under shades
of trees, the coffee cup, the bagel, in open air,
the turnpike, to say good-bye to clam chowder,
to Denny’s, to autumn, red trees, red socks,
the red, bloodied earth, soon snow-filled mountains,
and to hundred pairs of feet.