In Andres City where my feet grew up
Old street lamps draped nights gently flicking,
I trace childhood with pangs of reminiscences
Where shadow games turned into flamed delight:
Strange, guava trees now ripped by huge skylines--
And Manila founts with blooming shrubs...gone?
I recall pastimes deigned for carousal
Mimicking summers of Roxas Bay's glow.
Etching the ancient plaza of teenage bliss
My shoes roam, this scene now a memory;
Trimmed with fiestas-- folk dances I rerun,
Embracing the girl and young adult in me.
I look and absorb, for the moon will blush
Never exactly as it hangs fair tonight...
And though my heart sinks, it will not forget
Each moment which lives within--ever graced!
9th Peace Premiere
Is there any life vibrating nigh more
Than of youthful love holding mutual hands--
Spirited love of hearts that founts from core
Of twosome exploring still old dreamlands?
That of an old couple I saw once when
On a seashore-- life’s tide waiting to die,
Still keen to walk together far as can,
A lifetime of journey’s end looms when nigh,
Geriatric hands too gnarled, yet clasping firm,
Their wrinkled visage still so radiant,
Hearts beating slow and pulse unsure to come,
Northward bound still their fondness’ gradient,
Let youthful love be a nigh bit selfish,
The old one has no angle to catch fish.
____________________________
Sonnet | 09.12.2008 | love, old, youthful
Note: An unusual sonnet, the first four lines, a quatrain, asks a question and then a Volta happens. All the remaining ten lines seek an answer, and the ending couplet seems to resolve.
Be it mantra or pilgrimage,
Brahmin or deity ye engage,
Destiny, fortune, fate,
Doc, guru how so great,
As is faith, so are fruits of wage.
__________________
Translation | 08.10. 2025 | faith, pilgrimage, god, destiny, doctor, teacher, trust
Note: This Subhashhitam talks about faith and trust called shraddhaa in Sanskrit. Bhagavad-Geeta also says the same thing. Man is made of faith that founts from inner being. As is man’s faith, so he truly is.
Sattva anuroopa sarvasya shraddhaa bhavati bhaarata |
Shraddhaa-mayah ayam purushah, yah yat shraddhah sah eva sah || Bhagavad-Geeta 17.3 ||
Mantre teerthe dvije deve daivajnye bheshaje gurau |
Yaadrashee bhaavanaa yasya, siddhih bhavati taadrashee || (Subhaam)
Serpentine artisan in Eden
Crafting a second creation
A molten piece of idol
By the dexterity
Of word of mouth.
Tongue lures ear
And then à tongue kiss
To the ear, both soulmates
Titillate the neurons of the body
Stir the impulse of all senses
All segued to Judas kiss.
Telepathist tool
Transmuting visions from pluto
To reality on earth.
Forked-tongue town crier
With cymbal and gong
Improvising a dissonance
Of glossolalic tales
To the age of gullible gullivers!
Ear, O hear!
In that gaping cavity
There lies lie lair
The sword of Damocles
Gliding and Churning honey gobs
From its cavity to founts of lies
In every public square.
Like the big lie of Hitler and Goebbels
To the holocaust.
Let not all thy senses,
Emotion, reason, and conscience
Trust her tongue!
Upon the eve of dying
she could not speak.
And all her opened tear ducts
Sprang awake
And flooded forth from
The founts of creation
A new sea.
Oh, yes!
She cried a sea of tears
Because her words
Had passed the door of possibility,
Because her boys
Would not be there
For her to comfort them,
Because, perhaps
A whole life
Needed to be grieved.
How I loved her.
She could hear the simple, humble things
That no-one else could hear,
That I would trust none other
Than her heart to listen to.
It was like having my own wise, quiet mom, again.
And now on the eve of dying,
Now she cries,
And the seas are flooded with light,
And her form rises lightly
From her bed,
And she is gone
- Except, perhaps, for a single tear
If life did not have glitches,
Then of what would we complain?
There’d be endless founts of riches
And no one would be in pain.
All our nervous tics and twitches,
Since they all would be in vain,
Would just vanish, as would itches
And from kvetching we’d refrain.
Though this fantasy bewitches,
In our lives it’s very plain,
We must cope with all the pitches
Hurled, which no one can explain.
Joy of pleasure, a child of poor parents,
Bliss alone founts from a perpetual spring,
Joy fancies scores of fond uncles and aunts,
Never lasts long the song they choose to sing.
Being a moth made of mere moments nigh,
It sleeps all day, to wake in glare of night,
O Bliss, thou art a dancing butterfly
That spreads its beauteous wings in Nature’s light.
Perhaps I should call thee a honey bee
That gently sucks nectar from a flower
Beetle, nor ever a black bumblebee
That plums and cherries a whole would devour.
Thou art a Lark that no rain clouds would chase,
The bane of joy of pleasure’s to be blasé.
__________________________________________
Sonnet |04.10.2010| joy, pleasure, bliss
Poet’s Note: Mundane joys and pleasures are carnal and they never last long, unlike bliss that founts from deep within. As a popular poetic imagination goes, an Indian Lark, called Chatak, drinks directly from raindrops falling in its widely open beak. It prefers to go thirsty but would never appease rain clouds.
Hairy spiders do not grill
steaks on consecutive Tuesdays
due to alternate-side-residency-
restrictions in bushes on parkways
Nevertheless, if seeking opportunities
to slake cracked-throat-thirst
Welcome to the Wetlands
where founts of poetry burst
Have you ever felt from a song
A song that reminded you how you can live
The rush of the wind, the desire to climb
A quickly-building monument to the beauty of creation
How quickly a mood changes with a play
The sorrow of loss, a lament to the sky
for what was not lost to you
what you may never be lucky enough to lose
A mournful numbness, a malady of words, a sea to be swallowed by
An arrogant strut behind what they have done and claim to do
A hyperactive child in a candy store
An invitation to someone else's moment, a happy party
A strut in saying something how it is, sauntering up to your boss's reddened face
A spontaneous guffaw from a line so out of place
A dance in a language you cannot understand
Siphoned emotions from founts
Some people urging you to drink from
Some urging you to bathe and not drink, to not feel
Some that were left and coyly watched
Some that were abandoned
Some that were trapped in amber
How could where we live, where we choose to drink, not say a lot about us?
Such a pure crystallization of what is so slippery to say
Just what are we to make of the angelic,
Afresh from battle, bearers of good news?
A construct quaint, a worn-out, ancient relic
Of bygone days the church just needs to lose?
No infant cherubs splashing 'mid fresh founts,
Limbs delicate and mirthful in the sun,
Scripture portrays more ominous accounts:
Isaiah, David, Daniel, all undone.
They barred up Eden's door with flaming sword,
Of Balaam, made an ass ere he did heed,
And, most feared, came avenging for the LORD.
But when the host proclaimed God as our need,
The tides they brought, of joy, not dread or fear,
With one great voice announced, "The King is here!”
Pennies, dimes; silver dollars rare
are flung into cool water where
passers-by for a while have stayed
Do dreams from fountains now cascade?
Since some who come are well aware
when tossing coins into the air
forgotten oft are wishes made,
can dreams of theirs from founts cascade?
But strangers who are in despair
will wish a silent fervent prayer.
Such hopes will shimmer and not fade
inside the fountainhead’s cascade.
Pennies, dimes; silver dollars rare
belie the dreams of founts’ cascade.
July 14, 2020
for the Strand Completely New (10),Any Form,Any Theme Poetry Contest
A choir of rainfall on soft stones
Bookmarked by wistful nature
Sweet melancholy shelved for
Another day in bed with a book
Yet he opens not only his heart
But windows and soulful founts
Pitter patter from musty pages
Chorus of dew mellowed to words
The roof leaks his wallet is empty
As the mind gathers metaphors
A lonesome apostrophe beckons
Dangles caresses cuddles a stanza
The poet has forsaken a world
Of power greed stark domination
Alludes to breaking their mould
Lavender scent creeps into verse
Sensual meaning drops off fragrances
Lights a passionate fire becomes one
With a precious deluge in anticipation
Precipitates tender longing of harmony
24th February 2020
When you are with no companion
and no one can read your very silence
When you are brimmed with joy
and you find no sign of warmth
When your solitude is lonely
and you cease to feel the wonder
When no single wave in the air
and you have a longing to breathe
When your heart denies its throbs
and your tone becomes still and cold
When none can hear the drops of your wounds
and you can't even swallow your sighs
When the night has no stars in his sky
and no dream dares showing a face
When no other alluring path to walk
and no thirst to reach satiating founts
When both, mind and heart share your pen
and no single paper in your den
How couldn't there be a life
that would save lives!
How can I envision my world
without you, my poesy!
The stooped gait
the squinting eye
A curmudgeon sure
personified...
Yet when from parted lips
his timeless treasures poured
The very Founts of Wisdom
yearned for even more
Poets around the world gather right here
Over mounts and founts where muse is found clear
Expecting greatness from Poetry Soup
Then finding it when you need to recoup
Rehabilitated when you feel at home
Your sweet quill shall pen the perfect poem
Simplistic yet deep I do write sometimes
Or a long acrostic poem that rhymes
Utterly amazing poetry site
Put our hearts together and let’s go write!
Relieving your angst from a long hard day
Open up that journal, do it your way
Caring for others when kindness is yearned
Kaleidoscope of cultures we have learned
So gather in love; for this gift is earned
!
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Written: August 21, 2019
-luloo
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