The Valley

There is a world that none have broached

though countless have, so near, approached,

wading through raging rivers deep

on whose bed as countless laid down to sleep

in fatigue of the body and of the mind

that started to unravel and unwind,

screaming to that ever-unreachable bank,

succumbing to the water as their sights went blank

and seeking the guidance of an uncaring firmament

with their faith broken and efforts all spent

though a few trudged back down the path they came

none the worse for wear but never the same

for having left untouched that elusive glen

that so teasingly reveals itself to men

only to shy away as one draws near

as prey from its predator, in mortal fear.

Alas! For the futility that here is wrapped

that all human efforts be unconditionally sapped;

I struggle to pen a descriptive word

but that barrier, that river, I cannot fjord.

Laundry Suds

Come, little children. Let me tell you a story.

Let me tell you about the rivers back home

where we wash, bathe and even quench our thirst;

They said pipe water cannot reach our barrio.

Come, little children. Let me tell you a story.

Let me scare you with aswangs, mumo and kapres.

Your mother chides me to stop weaving tall tales;

My father's an albularyo, my mother's a mangkukulam.

Come, little children. Let me tell you a story.

Let me tell you about the okra and the camote,

because to have rice is a feast we cannot afford.

That is why I went to the city and, eventually, here.

Come, little children. Let me tell you a story.

Let me tell you about filthy, muddy unclothed kids,

of crying hungry mouths and illiterate morons,

of my own children I had left back home.

Sunken Garden Sunset

A vast expanse of sky and space,

ever spiralling deep within,

on leaded grass, the moonlight shines

and shows what will be, and what was.

Night approaches, darkness settles;

city noises reach crescendo.

As the degrees drop, and then dive

So movement shatters and subsides.

A blanket of soot beneath dew

descends from high: an empty place.

The glowing embers dying west;

at the north side is freezing mud.

Red points yonder among the clouds

brace a tower lest it should fall.

The deep thrummings of passing crafts

Now echo, and then re-echo.

Pollen flies where only winds know,

I breathe you in and let you go.

The Little Puff

To the North Wind: I hope you know who you are.

Once there was a little puff, born by a little geyser atop a little island. It knew nothing of the world above, for it had been sleeping before the earth sneezed it out.

The North wind happened to be passing by and saw the little puff abruptly expelled into the air. He gently caught the little puff lest it fall to the ground. "Come with me," said the North wind . "And we shall play with the forest." The North wind and the little puff went to the woods, played with the elves and danced with the faeries there.

"Hold my hand," said the North wind. "And we shall play with the humans." The North wind and the little puff flew to the cities, blew sheets of paper and held kites airborne.

"Ride on my back," said the North wind. "And we shall play with the ocean." The North wind and the little puff blew across the waters, bathed in spray and stirred the waves.

"Hold on tight," said the North wind. "And we shall play with the gods." The North wind and the little puff soared higher, past the sea, past the trees and past the kites.

"Are we there yet?" said the little puff.

"No, not yet," said the North wind.

They climbed onwards, past the birds, past the mountains and past the clouds.

"Are we there yet?" said the little puff.

"No, not yet," said the North wind.

They climbed as high as the eye can reach, then higher than that, then higher than both of those.

"Are we there yet?" said the little puff.

"No, not yet," said the North wind.

The little puff was getting impatient at the way the North wind lumbered about. He loosened his grasp and began to fly on his own. He was, no doubt, much lighter and much faster than the North wind. As he flew higher, he felt his light and agile body beginning to dissipate. As he flew higher still, he felt his feathers thinning. As he flew his highest, he could hold his body no more and he floated back down to earth in a million wisps, cold and lifeless.

For he is, after all, just a little puff.

Nostalgia and Grandeur

The lady of the night walks by

in a rain-drenched silver gown.

Her bare feet stirs the puddles;

Her black hair combs the mist.

She walks upon the cobbled streets,

through long and winding alleys.

She lifts her gaze to find the stars

but the sky was overcast.

She peers into the window panes,

and warms her numb fingertips.

She rests her hands upon the sill

and let her tired eyelids drop.

The people are drinking merry.

They ate with silver spoons.

The cat sleeps by the fireplace,

while children stroked its fur.

Outside a trembling lady stares

and leans upon the frozen glass,

contented with the little warmth

against the frigid wind blast,

But one day, she had gone too far

she feebly knocked upon the door.

It opened wide before her eyes

and bid her come inside.

And lo, exactly like it was before,

she found an empty ashen space

No ceiling there could she behold

amidst the burnt and crumbling walls.

Once more, her black eyes awaken

to the cold and harsh reality.

The rain pours down; she walks alone

upon the war-torn cobbled streets.

New Moon

Three creatures howled to an empty moon;

each inconsolable seeking solace.

The dryads in the woods echoed their sorrow.

The banshees by the lake screamed their regret.

The bearer of honor sighed mournfully.

He was a mere pawn in the grand design.

Should he perish, everything else will fail

thus, his repose, he was unfortunately denied.

The bearer of wisdom sat down in dejection.

His call across the ether had gone unheeded.

His days of glory now long gone in the past,

he could weave spells no more, nor elements, forge.

The bearer of thievery had fallen down

far lower than his stealthy crimes.

There was the nausea that he was being watched.

There was fear of an inevitable retribution.

Each had dropped on his knees to pray,

beseeching his own silent, unmoving god.

Yet no disappointment surpassed their own

as no miracle or blessing descended upon them.

For what is honor when one is defeated?

For what is wisdom where all else is deaf?

For what is celerity when bound to the pillory?

For what is a hope raised only to be crushed?

Three creatures howled to an empty sky,

overcast, at a light that was never there.

Kaminari

I am waiting. I long to be free.

It was before history when the first humans were forged, I among them. The overjoyed gods endowed us with gifts that the succeeding generations could only dream of. Each of our creators gave us a part of themselves, each part as powerful as the whole, that we may serve them without flaw.

For years I have served them faithfully, yet fleeting moments found me feeling disturbed, thinking how wrong it all was. I knew that I could fashion a world better than this one: a world driven not by the gods but by power.

However, overthrowing my creators would need strength far greater than theirs. In the years that followed, I succeeded in killing and stealing power from my brethren, the first humans. My trail left nothing more than weak and unknowing mortals.

At last, in a cataclysmic battle, I emerged victorious. Unfortunately, the sky gods, in desperation, sealed me away. Their cumulative strength banished me, yet, their exertions also proved to be too much for them; they could no longer sustain their divine forms.

As I had expected, the seal of the sky gods soon began to weaken. It will only be a matter of time before I overpower the remaining gods. If you ever see a streak of lightning, then, in the world beyond that brilliant radiance, you will see my vengeful form. And if you ever heard the thunder, you heard the gods weakly, but hastily closing the gate.