he ancestral house seemed smaller, today seen with eye glasses
The pathway seemed shorter, the mangoes grow loftier
It was once open field across the hill
Mushrooming subdivisions had blossomed
The little flower orchard had vanished
But anyhow we felt it would still be remembered
Harrowingly different, but pretty much the same
There was an unfamiliar children’s “bahay-bahayan”
On that path that we arranged
In front of that sagging waiting shed that stands
Beside the curve, where the old Mango tree grew
Surprisingly, forty years folded one summer day
And hurriedly become a springtime of our memory
of many growing trees, of many festivities
a spot where I wept one night after my mother died
and spent longer, in starry-starry nights holding newborn offspring
Yes....it is all there, in that small ancestral home
Facetious, but I'm glad they kept the wooden parrot
It has the same green eyes
That big black statue of St. Roque, along a stony pathway that we laid
still sits behind the curve, where the old mango tree grew
Categories:
harrowingly, allusion, beautiful, color,
Form: Enclosed Rhyme
Stuck in the middle
of a pandemic crisis
broken
in a time
of do or die
all I think is
your deep blue eyes
and your killing
heavenly smile...
You are
my last stop on earth
where the flowers of hope
blossom in full
in a place assaulted
from a pandemic virus
in a world
harrowingly beautiful...
Categories:
harrowingly, analogy,
Form: Free verse
Cancer's Calendar
Two months...
to die.
Two months to live.
No choice but
still...
your choice.
Two months and the
Too Short
becomes the
Harrowingly Long.
Categories:
harrowingly, cancer, death, life,
Form: Free verse
The ancestral house seemed smaller, today seen with eye glasses
The pathway seemed shorter, the mangoes grow loftier
It was once open field across the hill
Mushrooming subdivisions had blossomed
The little flower orchard had vanished
But anyhow we felt it would still be remembered
Harrowingly different, but pretty much the same
There was an unfamiliar children’s “bahay-bahayan”
On that path that we arranged
In front of that sagging waiting shed that stands
Beside the curve, where the old Mango tree grew
Surprisingly, forty years folded one summer day
And hurriedly become a springtime of our memory
of many growing trees, of many festivities
a spot where I wept one night after my mother died
and spent longer, in starry-starry nights holding newborn offspring
Yes....it is all there, in that small ancestral home
Facetious, but I'm glad they kept the wooden parrot
It has the same green eyes
That big black statue of St. Roque, along a stony pathway that we laid
still sits behind the curve, where the old mango tree grew
Categories:
harrowingly, beauty, voice, weather, work,
Form: Pastoral