Midnight Musings

This is night life, she speaks. To no one but herself and her virtual pen.

Over cups of milk tea, she drinks drop by drop.

The cool wind that blankets her skin, the sensible pages and the momentary silence in between. There is an odd, yet pleasant chemistry along her Clementine, his ragged old guitar and those papers that ‘sing’.

She sips again. And again. And yearns for the mysteries of the hours between the nightfall and the dawn.

She captures a thought.

The flavor is called nostalgia. It tastes like a tension between joy and tears.

Photo credit: Cacao footage | Stock clips & videos

Sa Bawat Pagtingala/ As She Looks Up

Sa bawat pagtingala

sa buwan at mga tala

naghahabi ng wika,

awit at tula

ang puso ng makatangnagkukulang sa salita

Buntong hininga.

Sasambit na lamang ang kanyang dila,

“Isang himala”

English Translation: As She Looks Up

As she looks up each time

to the moon and the stars

she weaves a language,

a song or a poetry

this heart of a poet

who runs out of words

Sigh.

And all that her tongue could utter,

“A miracle”

Painting Diaries

she wipes her cheeks,

grabs the paintbrushes,

strikes some streaks,

an empty space that gushes

colors, beautiful colors.

“Are they my tears?”

she stains her collars,

smiles,

forever wonders. 

Photocredit:http://shellielewis.wordpress.com/2012/06/19/pour-painting-part-2/

Words

in two faces

they come

 

the said

the unsaid

In the dead

of the night

the latter—

jailbirds

behind bars

 

words—

 

kept in

the dungeon

of silence

for a judgment

that no one

can query

 

the ink blots

in the empty sheets

as they

come alive

 

to plead

to mend

to break

to forgive

to heal

Photo: Painting by Artist Sarit Jacobsohn’s @ buy-acrylic-paintings-art.com “Breaking the Silence”

(Written in 2007)

Gumamela

a lady in red
as dusk commences, calls me
in grace she stands and brags
her charm, she likens to a ruby

Photo taken at Ipil Dormitory, UP Diliman

A Prayer

arrest my heart

to capture Yours

that I may breathe

Your desire

 

may Your heart

be my

wings

Photo credit: http://www.motionartsmallacoota.com

This Empty Garden Seat

The shadow sits with no one

But the soul of

This empty garden seat

To capture a pause the world can not give

To drop a tear the world can not see

To whisper the stories of his lonesome heart

To no one but this quiet garden seat

The greens and the blues closely overhear

The shadow stands up

Leaving a countless memories

The world may not remember

But this  garden seat forgets never

The shadow leaves the fragrance of his memories

Wafting through the nonchalant  air

To a Memory of a Summer’s Ray

She walked past the shadowy glasses

Reflecting the the eyes of the cloudless sky

She waited for a face that would bring her back

To a memory of a summer’s ray

To a look she met from hundreds of days

He probably must have already written on the air

That look perhaps, or surely

She doesn’t really know

She looked down to her  feet asking where to go

The familiar aroma greeted her instead

That fragrance that brings hundreds of reminiscence

That which whispers her to invite a pen, a paper and a wandering mind

To talk over cups and cups wandering thoughts

Chamomile tea sounds  appropriate for the moment

She closed her eyes as she sipped

The taste of nature right in her senses

Her eyes open with a wish to see a sign of him

The office workers chatting with fellows and some pages

She sits back

And begins to see him

in a poem.

Bliss, Blue and Serenity (Tanka 短歌 )

Summer day over

sand and their innocent dreams

the clear sky watches

the breeze feels; the sea listens

bliss, blue and serenity

Listen

As hope listens to this musical rendition
a minute transcends to a momentary illusion
to see where you are and wonder
whether these hymns are sung meaninglessly
by this heart that has never known
the encounter of two souls falling
for an awakening dream
But I trust in the Hour that will make me sing these
when your countenance is imagined
by a countless remembrance and a sweet narration
of a prose untold not in my fanciful soliloquy
but in an inescapable reality

I have built you in my philosophical dreams with queries
of whether you are in an existential, real
or some far ideal reality that time has drawn
But even if clock would age eternity, I would wait
for that moment when we’d walk into the threshold
of each other’s stories and anthem

Walk each mile closer to mine
And listen because I am still asking
Yes, I am
I will never be tired of asking

where you are.

(Feb 2011 ; Nov 2012)

Painting by Mike Carr a.k.a China Mike @http://schiffphotography.blogspot.com

A Midnight Dream

She fights for her thoughts as an indomitable warrior
fights for the people’s liberation from
The nights of terror that must unface

She sings the hymn of the soul and the Divine
the music of quietness that shouts at the ears
of arteries beneath the chest that beats
She listens to her own breath
She cries and sobs the bitter-sweet angst
She weeps

again
like a child and a century old mistress

of life.
She counts the hours with daydreams
and colors it with illusions
Alive as the crimson, and multitude of memoirs
She scribbles with her blood

She dances with her silhouette and the trees
to the air that seduces
her cerebral to ecstatic serenity
She frees
and freezes from the coldness that
hypnotizes her spirit to an ephemeral escape

She smells fragrance in beguiling pages as it transcends
her to antiquity and ages
She kisses every impending notion voices may arouse
and argues with her sensibility

She devours their charm of wisdom like a hungry wild
She lives in an empty sheet.
where she finds a sacred asylum

The ink blots
She awakens her sanity

(April 22, 2012)

photo from pinterest

Your Last Days

in your last shortest days
we’ve poured our love the longest
though that time was our darkest
it was our best

 

-For Papa
June 14, 2016
5:52 PM Sunset
Libingan ng mga Bayani (Heroes’ Cemetery)

 

Almost Qarah

She turned her head to her right

She caught your eyes in sight

You smiled to her delight

One, two, three, four, five

She’s locked in gaze alive

Swiftly hypnotic,

Beautifully chaotic

Five-ish, afternoon before sunset

You met but never met

Graveyard of the brave hearts

An unknown story departs

A pair of wheels

A pair of strangers

Gaze exchangers

 

Let It Rain

Real Neat Blogging Award

I have been nominated for this award by 4 Year old Adult from Taiwan.  Thank you so much!

The rules of the award are as follow:

Insert the award logo onto your post.
Answer the seven questions they asked you.
Thank the blogger who nominated you.
Nominate other bloggers and ask them seven questions (let them know you’ve nominated them!)

The questions and my answers:

1.What’s your favorite movie?

Choosing is hard but here’s my top 4. In no particular order: A Beautiful Mind, Jose Rizal, Les Miserables, A Walk to Remember, Heaven is for Real

2. What made you start blogging?

It started out as a breather from all those academic writing I needed to comply for graduate school. Since academic papers would require you to squeeze thoughts from your head, I missed writing what’s really in my heart. Soulful writing is just a thing I love to do when I’m quiet. It’s like listening to yourself. After taking them to WordPress, I’ve also realized blogging is a neater and a more organized way of keeping my written musings instead of having them just hidden in my little black journal or in some writing them on random papers, tissue papers, receipts and the like 🙂 And then there goes my first liker and follower from another part of the world. I kind of  freaked out like a child because I couldn’t believe that a stranger from another country reads my work just a minute after posting it:) Meeting and interacting with fellow writers virtually are the perks.

3. Do you prefer reading fiction or non-fiction?

I like reading both but that would depend on the plot.

4. Are you a morning person or a night person?

I can be a night owl or an early bird. It depends. haha I would need the companion of a cup of coffee at night though.

5.What musical instrument would you love to master?

I have two in my bucketlist: guitar and violin. When I watch people who can play them or any musical instrument, I feel like I’m listening to a magical creation each time.

6. What’s your favorite color?

Blue. I never get tired of the sky and the sea.

7. What’s your favorite childhood memory?

The most vivid perhaps would be when my mom was just teaching me to read before I even started school. Because of that I had an early interest for reading. And then when I was 5 or 6, my dad brought me to shops to look for dresses. I still remember his face while asking me, “Which color do you like?” It was joy to me.

The nominees:

http://lorriebowden.com/

Traders Note

Routine Dreamer

Kelzbelzphotography

Jisbell22

Thea Zabala

Annie Jaden
Lorrie Bowden

Tropical Affair

Congratulations! 🙂

This is how the writer writes

How does her mind meet a thought?

Sometimes it is that magical coincidence of words crossing ways

like serendipity

    — finding something good she didn’t even look or ask for

But at times, too, it’s just one smelly ‘spell’

when her mind meets (or never meets) a thought

like constipation

   — ‘laboring’ so hard

         or feel

        like waiting a decade

        before something ‘glorious’ comes out

This is how the writer writes.

photo: loyola.edu

When Life Asks

What is a miracle without the impossible?

What is Grace without the undeserved?

What is a rainbow without the rain?

What is a sunrise without the darkest night?

Versatile Liebster Blogger Award

Versatile Liebster Blogger Award.

She Remembers

Is he a million footsteps away,
or just a face she crossed today?
She remembers a smile,
a voice for a while,
from hours and a mile.

That Day

that day when we brought
melancholy to love songs
nostalgia to rainy days

our faces faded

photo: http://8tracks.com/explore/depressed+depressing+rainy_day+sad

She Bleeds, She Queries

Is it the wound of her soul

that grieves,

for the universe has swallowed

her courage to gamble

what might have been?

 

Is it the wound of her soul

that paints

the shades of fear 

of suffering

from surrendering?

 

Again, she queries,

“Which pain is greater?” 

 

(September ___, 2014)

Painting credit: Broken Heart by Patricia St. Clair http://www.paintingsilove.com

(September __, 2014)

Now

now, the sky is bluer than blue

now,  the grass is greener than green

now, twilight is brighter than bright

now,  the  night is closer than the day

but still my heart gropes for words

now, to you I have to say

Why She Writes

Why She Writes.