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;

had

had

enough

of them   s o m e   years

before –

screwing their women into

illegitimacy

& 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

backpacks,

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

instead.

 

 

 

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

each

and

every       day,

 

as   they   g y r a t e                             that

way

&         this,

scalded by his scorches.

 

he merely sneers

&   glares;

some     times

just sulks;                                                  skulks

behind

the nearest nimbus.

 

theirs’ is NO choice.

 

they     thirst   for

some   sort     of

 

salvation.

 

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

y e a r n i n g l y,

 

before

this   final  decollate

           wilt

i

n

t

o

 

desuetude.

 

 

 

Amen

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.

Evaluate

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

ignoble
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.

Bond

Bond

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

Found

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.

Poor Party

There is an urgency in thinking that,
to first and foremost see an absence missed
if only for the sake of certitude,
a loneliness can surely cease when met

in mutual presence. The eyes, peculiar,
pretend to hide the spark, initially
dismissed because the mouth could not protect
the heart that has already leapt in bounds;

sufficient unto courteous pleasantries
without the graces social standing asks.
The poor do not profess amenities
nor make excuses for a humble feast;

they simply are. And so the marvel moves
in clumsy second chances finding out
that first encounters are not accidents
and that the present laughter highs a five.

If there was need to fib somewhat it was
not contrary to sound precepts of good
one wills another when the truth, at bay,
can save the night and stall the day’s demise.

Goodbyes were long as if to pat the back
until at home it rests with fond recall
of bonding with the likelihood of blood
that, although not umbilical, was hot.

The topics were diverse, flooded the mind,
the punctuation only once as though,
on cue, it snaps as, every now and then,
it rises, pauses, soars again to shine.

Salt of Sadness

Who cannot plumb the visibility
of a body severing itself from sense. Its
mind no longer sentimental
for overtaken by a sinister

surprise. The kind that labored to excuse
discovery as hardly qualified
wrong. It was only opportunity
taken. A test of mettle. No big deal.

It did not after all begin with him
bad influence being what it is. It
came to pass that criminal intentions
found their way into a company of

friends. And fun. And joy in holding metal.
The borrowed courage. And forgotten point
of no return. Yet in spite of choices
his, the option that he took was always

want. To take. To try. To thrive. In selfishness.
The first was a mistake. Lamented loss
of youth and years of aging with his sins.
When freedom came, he celebrated it in jest

and fell again. The suffering he did
not feel was borne by family. Because
they wanted him to learn that for his love
no journey is too far for them to fly.

The second fall was more than agony.
No sooner had the miles receded than
the threat of yet another relapse loomed.
As he scorned the prayer of his father.

Mutual Misery

‘Tis said that easily woe finds its way
to gravitate towards a kindred wound
and, found, rejoices in the unity
of heretofore strangers joined by pity

they could not have felt for neither self nor
company. Exchanging disappointments
never had a worthier diversion
until shared by innocent retelling

of the past that crisscrossed perceived failures
with surprised delight. Who best to render
judgment without bias but whose values
have been shot as never to amount as

hot. How odd that in the analysis
of standards their audience took for granted
their simplicity because parochial
and clad in iron disciplinary

gut. They even now have time to banter
and laugh as they look back. The eccentric
were not they. They did not only beg to
differ. They knew their conscience better than

dictated will as well. They chose the path
the others eschewed as unpopular
because unique. And trodden by those who,
like them, have certitude egged on by faith.

So let them catcall, crow and even curse
behind their front more than the meaner back.
There is no prayer for a mirror that
reflects only the synonym of wrath.

Rejoinder to a Prayer

Prayer is the pulse without which we don’t
bless. Or breathe at all. Or even borrow
from our basic need to communicate.
Sons cannot reach out to brothers and their

daughters will not feel the expectation
coming from the kindred spirit in a
home detached from presences inactive.
When seasons with the snow start flaking down

we’ve made assurances that through the frost
nothing will impede our inclination
to prepare our children and within us
pamper the child that never quite grew up.

Their inherent sweetness is sufficient
stockings will be to the rafters lambent.

Cinquain

Today

he realized

he is no longer the

boy on the plain of the mantain

he climbed.