soft grumbles

...they’ll whisper sweet things

and make you untrue

so be good to yourself

that’s all you can do...

Wonderful Baby

Don Mclean


I planted a seed inside my head
when I was a toddler, you see.
It was to be taller than a redwood,
mightier than a baobab tree.

Its thick leaves would rustle
as the wind blew.
Haven for birds and tiny insects,
it would grow the sweetest
fruit one shall ever see

But as time flew, it heard
murmurs from supposedly
well meaning men.

Slowly, the leaves dried,
fell to the ground.
Its brittle twigs broke,
then its branches
until there was nothing left
for they have chopped down my tree.

rolly

# posted by rolly @ 3:50 PM

I have never seen
the moon blink.
It stares at me all night,
watching every step I make.
Sun down till sun up
witness to man's folly

I have never heard
the moon whisper.
It talks to me
of endless nights
of women's screams
as monsters whip touch soft skin
tearing their flesh to turn them mute.

I have never seen
the moon taste salt from the sea.
It knows the taste of salt
from fresh blood of naked men
silenced by the vital fluid's flow
until there is no more.

I have never envied
the moon. It sits there
helpless playing with the tides.
If only it can manage
the minds of the corrupt,
calloused conscience,
there might not have been
destitutes.

rolly

How many would live to be ninety five
living alone, with nothing
but a penny
in his pocket?

How could he be left alone
living in pain, homeless,
begging for food?

How can his country betray him
when he sacrificed
everything including his life
fighting the enemy
so that we
can live in freedom?

The folly of time
is on this decrepit man’s shoulder.
How could we allow him
to live in squalor?

He does not need statues
erected on his name.
All he needs is food to eat
a roof to sleep under
until he does not wake.

But then,
we don’t make
statues of mere foot soldiers,
do we?

I could have been looking at your silhouette
as you block the view of the moon,
its white luminescence
betrayed by the golden glow
of my tiny candle
rendering every contour of your face
like a Dutch painter’s chiaroscuro.

The stillness of the black night
is punctuated by the sound of a leaky faucet
with ladle dipped in a half-filled jar
slowly filling up with tiny droplets.

I am like a tiny lost ant
frantically searching for the trail,
minding my bearings or forever
be gone.

I am a bee
hovering over a flower
waiting for it to open
so I could kiss her,
pollinate
propagate

When shall you grow
to be a lady? Alas, I can’t wait
I shall take you now
with my expert hands,
wild imagination
and my craft

rolly

The old hag thinks she can haggle
her way to heaven.
She goes to church every morning.
Rosary in hand, she kneels her way
from door to altar while her favorite brew
laced with arsenic, bitter gourd,
acid and goat’s blood
stews in her earthen pot.

She listens intently to the sermon
while her room is decorated
by named voodoo rag dolls
speared with a hundred pins.

She thinks she can bribe
her way to heaven.
She donates money to the parish,
gives alms to the poor,
and brings food to church employees
while her magic wand
and flying broom are all set to go,
waiting for her command.

What she did not know
is that the way to heaven
does not have a price.
It is not for sale.


rolly

One day I will just quit
and make it all go away.

No more chasing sirens
snaking my way
on busy streets.
No more sweating inside hot
congested trains, or waiting
for fully packed buses on dangerous,
dark corners.

One day I will just quit
and make them go away.

No more overly active teenagers
hooting and shouting for no apparent
reason. No more lazy, disrespectful
students to make my head boil with their
insolence.

One day I will just quit
and make them go away.

But...

No more birds chirping
lovely tunes as I smell the flowers
kissed by morning dew.
No more sweet smiles
to greet me in the morning.
No more hearty breakfasts
prepared especially for me.
No more tight embrace and warm kisses
when I bid you goodbye.

No more?

Ah, I will just have to wait
until I am no more.

rolly

Browned by the summer’s heat,
this once viridescent land is dry.
Blades of grass lie motionless.
Leaves as brittle as glass
cling to thirsty branches.
Nary a cloud drifts
through the sky.

Land feels like the devil’s furnace.
It has become a cesspool
infested with gnats and rats.

Then the rains come.
It pours and pours
until the land can hold no more.
Desert becomes a sea
of brown mud, thick like spoiled chocolate
drowning everything in its path.
And so it is every year.

We were promised Eden
But we were discontented,
tried to turn nature into what pleased us.
This droll irony we brought upon ourselves
thinking we are mightier than the mighty
is taking it’s toll.

Remonstrance is not an option
to those who caused the ignominy.
No magician’s sleight of hand is applicable.
We do not need illusions when faced
with real adversity. We wait hoping
we do not perish this time.

rolly

I walk this parched earth
dried by a fierce sun
grown fiery with age.
I lick my dried lips
longing for a cold, wet drink.
I think about this thirsty land

bathed with blood
of kin and countrymen
for centuries fighting enemies
that come relentlessly.
When will this bloodshed
stop?

Not when greed remains.
Not where there still sits a patch of land
worthy to plant rice, grow crops,
where carabaos can muddle in mud.

Not with gun-toting goons
warlords keep with their gold.
Not when all efforts exerted
to keep the ballot safe -
for nothing.

Not until all the pockets of mortals
have been drained in favor of the gods.
Not until all sweat and blood
has been poured so that a few can live
in comfort.

Not with every able bodied soul
will erringly choose the highest bidder.
Not with every vote cast is not counted
and those that was not cast, counted.

When will we ever be free?
When will we ever see the light
that shines on our neighbors?
Maybe not now but hopefully
it is not never.

Labels: elections