Skip to main content

Haunting Tulips

Standing, I am standing

On this partially arid soil

Overlooking a foretold place.

From my son's cheerful tone, 

It was the land of their bliss;

My lips could not help but open ajar

By the grandeur. 


"This is where I will be planting my seeds," 

Echoing in me persistently.

My son in delight―his eyes did not lie.


"Father, I am not okay..."

The latter had forced me to laugh.

I stared at his hazelnut eyes―

Our truly few facsimile―

I could tell from his lips

The shouted grace. For that is a man's temperament,

From my ancient roots I revere!

I had been waking up with contentment

For I hold on to the identity of a man.

I had always been doing it while displaying my veins.


It was Wednesday afternoon of July 19th when I visited;

The flowers I had placed upon the Bermuda grass months ago were still intact.

I sat where he sowed the monsters

that devoured his abyssal reality.


Therein, autumnal leaves clung on my shoulders,

"Are these you, son?" 

Pledging my servility to my ancient roots.


I gave you what you wanted;

I was the best father?

Yet, nostalgia of 2017 is still haunting.

A yearlong wait for him to ring the bell.


Finally, I laid nine petals on my jeans that his mother used to weave.

My late wife, spare me.


Rome, son, dear, I ask for forgiveness;

Could you still smell it? These tulips are my elegy.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and  introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet,  I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!"  I still know how to stay still  when everybody sings me one.  My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel.  Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything  is still made of infinite loops,  as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.
Post a Comment
Read more

Conveyor Belt

For like a conveyor belt I lay before you my present: prosthetically decapitated head; well decorated with crystals; synthetic beads; a barbed wire pierced through the iris.   Hungry men before me: I examine, I hear the borborygmus, tingling sensation when my plastic bones crack and break the ceilings. A mirror on the wall   where mother used to lean her idealism against. Now rest the rusts, webs of a Black Widow, which is not native to this house: as her now demeanor,   as her now demeanor, repeating, reeling and reeling as I sit trying to weave, for my soft dreams have now become plagued long before I dared to sleep my heavy. As a belt: I lay my body as they try to fit the loose holes to fit my thinness. My insides as they churn   from a deafening machine audibly discernible so my father could hear, yet faint as his late regrets.
Post a Comment
Read more

Pisong Rizal

Kinalakhan ko ang sabi-sabing nasa piso si Rizal upang madaling maabot ang mga tao. Naalala ko at pinakatitigan ang kaláwang ng baryang ito ay ilang taon na ring naglalakbay: pinambayad ng mga alaala; naging kapalítan ng kendi; gamit pangkiskis sa kongkreto; pinang-ukit sa pangako ng pagmamahal sa isang bato. Hanggang sa ipinambato sa fountain na kinalakipan ng pangakong pagmamahal o dalangin ng kagalingan. Ang pagpapahalaga ay humigit sa pisikal na hitsura nitó—umikot-ikot hanggang sa maging panagdag na lámang sa mga okasyon, sa handaang hindi sapat ang limang pirasong perang papel. Pisong Rizal, kawawang káwal ng lipunan; naging limitado sa sukling kung minsan ang pagtanggap ay labag sa kalooban. Kabaligtaran sa mga naniniwalang magsasabing siya ay minsang nanahan sa ilalim ng marmol— nakahimlay nang walang pag-aalinlangan kung paano iikot ang sikulo na kinabukasan ay magmumula sa gatilyo ang kanyang kamatayan. Sapagkat dalawa lamang ang bahagi ng barya: ang tao at ang ibon— isang ta...
Post a Comment
Read more