I’m finally up and about. After a long break, I figured I’d focus on my art sites here and here, then convert this blog into a public service platform, instead. I’d still drop poems and quotes every now and then, of course.
But since my laptop broke down two days ago, I’m up for the challenge of blogging from my phone. I know it’s like writing under the moonlight, blah and blah. But, hey, what choice do I have?
Have you blogged from your phone? Tell me how it went.
And, finally, we came up with a more compound one, attempting to study, if not defy, the limits of style, structure, and media, thus, departing from the margins while keeping space, as we know it, undefined, so to speak. With the book’s dynamic approach to an age when we are all subject to compartmentalized outlooks and fed with a prepackaged sense of identity, it’s a challenge to insist on finding meaning and value in ubiquity.
Continue reading here.
Sometimes, while you’re trying to outsmart time behind your work desk, you meet with your thoughts and ask questions you dare not ask your kitties. Then you try to find a way to impart that conversation to any surface you can find. And when you do find it, the universe simply opens up its doors to usher you in.
View more sketches and scribbles here.
Piso pa rin ba?
O mas malamig pa sa piseta?
Ang agahan, pananghalian
at hapunan na pinagkasya
isang maliit kakarampot na supot
para ipagpalit sa pangarap
na papsikel, tutunawin lang
nang panandalian, isisikmurang
sa paparating na pantawid sa tag-init.
Pabili po ng ice candy…
Piso pa rin ba?
-Armineonila M., 2017
A shelter of robins, his heart
breathes into mine flowerbeds
of ballads not thorned nor pitted
heartbreaks upon which spikes
may delay the casting of spring
when seasons run miles apart
to dance rivers with our thoughts
our fountains, deep in the roots
will meet among the shadows…
Now, if only…
these words were so a garden of ours
as if I were a Wordsworth, rhymed
and you, a village his, a path shared
with the daffodils in a dream without
but we are no such garden, still, under
the metal clouds, wired with gavels
silver chains to our roots, rust a staple
and time, our enemy, is a wall sprouted
by shallow ponds, pawns to vultures
for within its arms we’ll one day wither
and settle unto grounds, craving for rain.
Half-empty words wash away
the narratives, spilt favours,
modern fatigue —
we owe the landowners —
as our worn out pleas
flee in silence.
Our kins rode the wings of fate
in begging fashion,
shoveling their own
craving for death.
We mourn for old debts,
for we are tiny pebbles
in a shore of gluttons.
What purpose do our lips serve
when we speak pass the clouds?
While we cease to embrace
the pen with our tongues?
We dug out the snare, fist and spine.
They fed on our spirit.
-Armineonila M., 2016