It’s been a long hiatus but I’m finally gradually getting back to blogging and content creation. Unfortunately, this is partly due to the COVID-19 pandemic and most of us are stuck at home trying to make sense of everything that’s happening around us. I just wish everyone is safe and in good health. I also wish to extend my deepest and sincerest sympathies to those who have lost their loved ones as I did. Just hang in there.
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.
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.
Piso pa rin ba?
O mas malamig pa sa piseta?
Ang agahan, pananghalian
at hapunan na pinagkasya
sa isang maliit kakarampot na supot
para ipagpalit sa pangarap
na papsikel, tutunawin lang
nang panandalian, isisikmurang sa paparating na pantawid sa tag-init.
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.