Posts Tagged With: filipino

Compilation of Poems and Prose

A blog especially made for all my written short works, poems and snippets of everyday life. Some you may have already read, others might have been buried in the forever growing void of the past. This is their chance to see the light of day once again. So grab a favorite mug full of cocoa, snuggle in the most comfortable corner you’ve got and enjoy!


She settled like silence under the shade,
serenely her smile spoke softness that swayed
shadow to sunlight and seasons to shift
sorrow to sweetness so slyly and swift.

Like sirens she’ll sail her song to souls
whose solitaire sighs she subtly has stole
And sincerely sets once sullen hearts
to spirited life, from smoke into spark.

She snakes as a sylph solidly past
scourges of sadness, unscathed, steadfast
Smart as a swallow sweeping through storms
springing to burst forth silver lines strong.

Steady and sweet, strong and sure,
subtle and smart, with sentiment pure
She settled in silence under the shade,
her smile speaking softness that swayed.

The Garden

I cannot say just when it grew, this garden full of vibrant hues
But I will tell you why it breathed, what gave the plants their blooming wreaths.

I think the laughs, the joyful days, brought sunlight where once shadows stayed
And gave the fledgling doves their warmth, and mended wounds were once was hurt.
The steady trees, they listened well, even if wind brought storms to yell,
And wavered not, but gave a home, and strength to those who were alone.
And the lush ferns, like emerald gems, outstretched their leaves like open hands,
And gathered rain without a frown, not letting go nor letting down.
The innocence and honesty, was born from life that came to be:
The fawn that learned to skip and run, the jay that sang its first sweet song.
And wonder rose as each new day, brought stories new to share and say,
As bumbling bee and whispering wind, went through with tales that had no end.

It seemed as if it’d live always, forever going through its days,
Until the laughs stopped passing by, and leaves fell down with withered sigh.
The storms soon came without an end, and molded roots, and drowned its friends.
And weeds ensnared the life that once, had flourished with its endless trust.
The songs had ceased, the doves had gone, and shadows chilled and hid the sun.
And the large trees that once had stood, had fallen into rotten wood.

Sometimes I pass where it had been, the garden who had been my friend,
And missed its songs and shining tales, and all the ways it had prevailed.
But if I listen very close, beyond the rain of its dark ghost,
I hear a beat, a silent creep, of seeds still breathing, growing deep.
And wonder if some day may come, it’ll shine again its radiant sun.

This One I Love

Barely up the sunrise still, far the colored dawn
in the dark, blue and grey, light a lazy yawn
cold and chill this quiet morn’, yet warm I am,
holding close this one I love, softly hand in hand.

When you’ll wake this light I’ll find, rising as the sun,
pushing back the lonely hues, bringing life to run,
and your dreams, so wild and far, I’ll beg to bear,
wanting more this one I love’s, happiness to share.

Walk this graceless world, we’ll search, love of every kind,
beauty of the simplest joys, loneliness behind,
sorrow tempered by the touch, lips to weary brow,
being with this one I love, ev’ry lonely hour.

Love my heart does break to find, pain seeped in your eyes,
would I could I’d risk my peace, bring you the blue skies,
kindle fires for your chill, soothe each deepest pain,
sheltering this one I love, til there’s no more rain.

My faith I have, my word is true, I see in your blue soul,
a sunrise sweet, more beautiful, than any to behold,
til then that day arises, I promise you I’ll be,
staying with you, one I love, always, eternally.

Wordly Escape

To utter a word, to lay nakedly,
the truth of my soul, unequivocally,
sews my lips shut, with thorn and thread,
and renders my thoughts, my secrets dead.

And yet write I can, in comfort of prose,
through guise of a fictional character’s woes,
of suppressed remorse, of choked anger,
of unprofessed love, of thoughtful banter.

So say I naught, but write I will,
my secrets so true, in tales deceitful,
where words of written, speak more than my lips,
so long as my fear, I’ve not yet eclipsed.

Aboard the Montenegro Ferry

Four in the morn’, stars spill
like glitter on dark canvas
high above silver black waves
lapping gently by Balanacan peir.

Montenegro floats like a beast whale
ivory bleach and silver pole,
ribbons of green gold mermaid’s hair
twining her glistening form.

Men and woman, teens and children
line up, purchasing tickets
seating by the open dock
their cups of hot soup
curling steam in the wet salty air.

Montenegro lowers her wide ramp
beckoning passengers and vehicles to enter.

A ferry horn sounds, engines hum
stirring ripples in the water
then rolling waves of power
gathering speed into the ocean
salt wind and spray
cooling, awakening, refreshing.

Whilst mothers bid their children to sit
and men station by the open deck
admiring the flying fish zipping over tidal waters
viewing the small foot islands pass
as Marinduque fades in the distance.

Rain Dancing

Grey mists gather low over
rolling sun-wilted dry farmlands, shading, filling, land’s light-tired eyes and heat-smoldered lungs.

Storm clouds growing, graying, swelling, the
belly-roars of its distant thundering,
teasingly shuddering this
thirsting land’s soul.
Now comes the wind, first a
gentle rush brushing soft upon
child-flower fields, now a
sweeping gale testing the strength of
mighty wise-aged orchards.
Wind’s great breath, blowing swift
cold crisp drops of rain, beating now their
fiercely played-orchestra of
run-wild notes against
land’s once music-starved ears, drenching full
with startling cool wetness land’s once
dried well of inspiration.
And my heart fills and dances with all

just before I write.

Her Tears

The music was playing
softly, slipping through
walls of velvet blue, dying
shades of life.

Tears crawled through the channels of
her age beaten face
and only the
blue crystals of her eyes
were alive.

Once laughter
flowed there. I wondered of days when she

smiled gaily
oblivious to this sad
fate she now waited for.

One hand reaches for her, asks
“Tell me your story…”

But she could not speak. Yet the touch
bonded hearts; one heard, understood now
this weeping woman. Saw the remnants of her

fragile, broken dust world
falling away from her
still sea eyes.

The music still played. What does
she wait for? Lips
thin, motionless. Only
she watched
the world tick by, seconds… seconds, and
out her window
the leaves still fell.

And when she passed,
the bond never broke. Even
when the girl that had known her
had left her.

And she was sorry for that.


Leaping along, clumsy now, atop moss-inlaid boulders, following
Sister, young heart, who seeks
some hidden pool to play in, laughing, I wondering if
memories never fade.

Gurgling water flows, splashes merrily up, kisses ankles, cold, clear, crisp as
the shrill of birds, high, flit suddenly –
shadows pass, light dances —

Blinds me, lost, my footing, slips! Sudden pain, arm flays, churns up
mud, dead leaves, debris.

Laughter now. Like water that plays its funny charm
around me.

Sister sweet has found her joy, I, now knowing… haha!
memories never fade.


Last dregs of daylight streak
red and gold, the skyline above
emerald-lush forests of
the mountains.

Quiet, now. Pale lights hum from weary homes, remnants of
their long day’s burdens
sobered now by night’s soft croon.

In the shadow, somewhere distant, the sounds of
slippered feet, many, slap
rain-paved roads. Children race home, but not before
catching one last game of

Night lengthens. Lonely moon, with her
lover’s glow, eases into
the inky velvet skies, her many dreamers
the Stars, alight.

Dog yowls at some
drunk man, lost,
walks away from mistresses
some familiar kareoke song spilling from
his lips.

Standing long on my balcony, watching
all across the island.

Queen Lydia’s Lullaby

When sunlight sets like blood-stained tears,
And bends your heart to weep,
Who’ll speak soft words like lullabies,
To sigh your pain to sleep?
And in the night of summers gone,
When dreams are but shadow,
Who’ll bear away the nightmares far,
And keep the wicked low?
In mornings lost when darkness stays,
forever in the sky,
who’ll paint the black with diamonds bright,
‘til sunrise lifts up high?
In secret groves where thorns do grow,
And villains lie in wait,
Who’ll guide you far ‘til all is clear,
And perils do abate?
And of a sea where waves do drown,
And muddle up your mind,
Who is the calm to reflect well,
The answer you must find?
Who is the prose that speaks your heart,
Who is always your friend?
Who is the heart that hears your fears,
Who is your guiding hand?
Your mother, child, who holds you now
With soul that shall now give,
These promises that have been sung,
So you may always live.


To a symphony
of songbirds and crickets
and the warm yellow and emerald green
kaleidescope of the rainforest’s
early morning sunrise,
I wake with content
in the barrio.

In oversized shirt and cargos
and rubber chinelas
I pedal my bike
down rainwashed streets
passing children dressed in school uniform;
plaid skirts, khaki pants, white shirts
all who rise early
for their 7AM classes
yearning instead to play
sepak takraw and lusong-tinik
in the barrio.

And at the open-air market
the vendors call out
selling with cheer, and merry laugh
as if every day is Christmas
rice cakes, putu, bibingka
my pesos for their homemade treats
their grins and joking
a priceless gift
in the barrio.

The haggling calls
of fishermans’ wives
cry out from the seafood stalls
carried along with the pungent stench
of tilapia, bangus, shrimp, squid
adding to the overall chaos
of motorbikes and jeepney engines
as the marketplace breaks to life
when the afternoon comes round
in the barrio.

And I ride back home
full of brittle plastic shopping bags
as gangly young men sing harana tunes
to blushing young girls
and busy old men grimace broken tooth grins
chopping down banana fruits
from sagging roadside trees
while their lovely wives
prepare adobong manok
or carneng asada and rice
at their homes’ makeshift clay stoves
in the barrio.

Soon the town falls sleepy
in night’s starry cloak
and the huts and villas
light up softly
with kerosene lamps or candlelight
as the busy husband retires
not to bed but to Pare’s home
where drinks and pulutan
and Kareoke galore
add some humble festivity
of a simple night
in the barrio.

Beach Runaways

Mother hasn’t called
for dinner just yet

so they fill their hunger
with joy

two kids, racing
by great beach shores
holes in rubber chinelas
pockets empty of change
but filled
with shells

ragged they are
in second-hand clothes
still brightly their smiles
do light their eyes
and sweetly they cry
from dry dust lips
laughter and songs
with the roaring of
the ocean’s shifting waves

Mother calls
for dinner

which can only fill
a cat’s belly full

so they fill their hunger
with joy.

Street Flowers

In congested city streets
where smog and smoke
choke the air
and noise like
firecrackers bursting
on a New Year’s eve
deafen the skies
with lost yells
of stressed pedestrains
and vehiclists

a flower girl
hands out
paradise from fingertips
the scent of
and gumamela flowers

sifting through
the coarseness and concreteness
of this tumultuous city life

like a flower that grows through
a crack between
grimy pavement streets.

Categories: Creative Writing, Philippines, poems | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment



Night had come across the rain forest. It had rained during the day, and the scent of dew on moist orchids and crisp green foliage hung thick in the air, while an endless orchestra of crickets played alongside the wind rustling through the trees and a nearby ravine’s gurgling waters.

Tikbalang stirred in the dark, deep in the forest, far from where the village man slept with his  family in fragile nipa huts. Tikbalang, part-man, more horse, creature of an aborted fetus sprung from the earth to guard earth’s elements. His name was Lupa, guardian of the earth.

Lupa turned his equine head to observe his surroundings, dark stallion eyes scouting the sleeping forest, flared nostrils breathing in the humidity and sweetly damp earth. Through matted mane were tall, barbed spines like small ivory tusks lining down the back of his powerful neck. His chest was dark-skinned and ribbed, glistening in the moist air, and he stood upright with muscled, thick haunches and large hooves. Two elongated arms that just barely touched the floor, a mix of horse and human, worked like pendulums beside his body as he navigated through the sprawling forest.

Dim memories passed through his mind of the traveler he had encountered earlier: a young Filipino farmer with a brimmed straw hat and a basket filled with papaya and mango. Upon the farmer’s approach, Lupa had hidden himself in the forest’s lengthening shadows against a cluster of thick Indian Banyan trees. If the farmer had worn his clothes inside-out, perhaps Lupa would have let him alone. If he had asked permission from the forest guardians to pass, perhaps he would have let him alone. But he did neither, so Lupa chased the farmer but the farmer fell and he trod on him til the earth mixed with papaya and mango blood. He had only wanted to lead him astray…but his death was already a memory, rapidly disappearing with the ever growing and dying forest around.

Lupa arrived at a clearing where the half-crescent moon danced above with spiraling galaxies and wind-beaten clouds. Three tikbalangs were already there: Tikbalang Hangin, Tikbalang Apoy and Tikbalang Tubig. In the center of the clearing was a three-month old miscarried human fetus, half-decayed and its gender unidentifiable. Tikbalang Tubig had collected the child’s body when she got news of its death. Somewhere far away, a woman still grieved its death.

For the rest of the night, they stared at the fetus, praying for its return from limbo, and just before sunrise, they buried the body in the ground. If their prayers went answered, the fetus will return from death in the form of a Tikbalang.

With sunrise approaching, the tikbalangs left the clearing. Lupa was accompanied by Tubig and together they trekked further into the forests where the multicolored birds still danced in thick canopies by the hundreds and the monkeys lived with no fear of being hunted by man. They reached the top of a mountain which had a sheer waterfall drop down into an emerald green lagoon. The sun was already high up, and the clouds were a mix of grey and white across the blue faraway skies.

Then the rains began to fall, piercing through the sunlit skies like drops of gold-illuminated gems, and they were married.


Some Notes:

Lupa: Means “Earth” in Filipino

Hangin: “Wind”

Apoy: “Fire”

Tubig: “Water”

*According to Filipino Folklore, it is said that a tikbalang is getting married when it both rains and shines

Categories: Creative Writing, Horror, Philippines | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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