soft grumbles

While cleaning my gmail, I stumbled over the very old poems I created while interacting with fellow learners in Writersvillage.  This is the same online university where I met my good friend Tom Spencer.  I will never forget him because when I first dared post a poem for the very first time, it was he who responded.... and with such warmth.  Later on, I will also befriend another best friend, Arlene Lawson, who organized a meeting of friends like Karli Shanklin and FilAmhusband, Alfredo,Molly Critchlow, Glennis and her hubby Harry Hobbs, and my very sweet friend Tom and his lovely wife Kathy, to have a poetry reading at Steveston in Vancouver.   

This poem was written in 2009, upon learning that Kathy had cancer and was dying.  Tom also passed away several months, it could have been years thereafter but his demise was very close to his wife's.   So did Arlene, who passed away in 2006.  These are very close friends whom I have learned to love. 

An Ode to my friend, Tom

I hold my guitar
not knowing what to play
but play I must. It's the least
I can do for you and your pain.
Mindlessly, I start with a C minor
progressing to Am then F to G
until a steady rhythm takes shape

Then I overlay it with a simple line
from a pentatonic mode
stretching the strings to bend the notes
Like a wailing ewe frantically calling its young
afraid it had been taken prey by its enemies.

Tune turns into shrieks and howls
with every fake harmonics rising it
an octave higher.
Distorted sounds come from my box,
amplified cries from deep within my heart.

A tear falls from my eyes
for a friend who needs a hand
to steady his gait while he watches
his loved one slowly disintegrate,
melting like a tiny candle,
its flickering light vulnerable
to the gentlest of breeze.

Lucky is that homeless, dirty child,
unmindful of the scorching heat,
his barefeet numbed to the flaming asphalt,
mouth frothing with sticky saliva,
begging for spare food.

He may be hungry
but at least he still has the gift of life
She will have to bid him goodbye soon
never to see her again until
they see each other in paradise.

I feel the pain of a friend 
whose warm embrace with soft taps on my shoulder
I had the pleasure to enjoy
one cold, spring day in Vancouver. 
He with failing eyes glowed as he welcomed me,
in his arms. She, her stately pose
seemed so sure of herself,
shared with him the joy of meeting
a friend from far away
for the first time.

My guitar now shamelessly weeps
as the melody rises in crescendo
I cry, "While she has morphine to calm her nerves
he can only cry to wash away the pain."

My lament over, I get the key to put
the guitar on its case thinking
I wish he had his own, set fond memories

kept inside his the chambers of his heart free! 

rolly

Why did I have to die?

I did not sacrifice my life
so that you can honor
the land where I fell,
put flowers, burn candle
in my stead.

I did not offer my youth
so that you can splurge
your wealth and look down
on inferior beings you trample on.

I did not fall
so that the rich can
look down on the less fortunate.
that they cannot suffer
with the rest.
that their paths shall be cleaned of unwanted souls,
so that they can eat
while the multitude starve

I died so that my kin can live in peace.
I died so that my countrymen
can live harmoniously among themselves,
sleep comfortably together,
that my neighbors have no fear
for they are ruled with justice
and fair play.

A Beautiful Day

I wake up to the muted patterof the first July showerson my roof.  It has been raining since last night. I can smell the breakfast my wife prepares in the nearby kitchen.  I hear the faint sizzle of the frying pan blending with the steady rhythm of the rain as well.   My guess is that she is preparing garlic rice as I also smell the strong aroma of crushed garlic.  It is a special day as I am to receive an award for exemplary service in the office later in a little celebration that the awards committee prepared for the occasion.This will be followed by a simple lunch. 

                What made last night   particularly different was that it was raining hard -   a welcome respite from the hot summer nights we’ve had the past couple of months.   The summers keep getting warmer each year and it has become very intolerable.  I hate it when I wake up drenched in my own sweat. But last night was different.  I even hugged my favorite pillow and had my blanket wrapped around me.  It’s something I have never done for a long time.  That made me sleep heavily that even a bomb exploding at the gate would not have woken me up.  It was a different night just as different as it is waking up this morning with that strange, unexplainable foreboding I carry in my heart

                I look around to check my bearings and notice that my wife’s half of the bed had been neatly arranged.  For the first time, she woke up before I did.  I wonder what time it is.  I cannot afford to be late.  I have never been late for work.I search for my cellphone tucked underneath my head pillow and realize it is already 5 am.  I really have dozed off well.  I was not awakened by the alarm which is always set at 4.  This is very unusual for I usually wake up even before the alarm sets off and I have to stop it lest it continues to do so every 15 minutes.

                I grab my pillows and fold my blanket to pile them up neatly the same way my wife had done.  I head on to the cabinet to select my clothes.  Again, I remember that today’s going to be different.  Not only is it a Friday, a no uniform day, but I have to come to the office in my Sunday best for the ceremony.   I choose my white long –sleeved shirt, get a matching tie which I put in the pocket, brown slacks then proceed to where my underwear and socks are kept.  I put these neatly on my bed and go to the bathroom for my morning routine. 

                While dressing up, I hear my wife talking to someone while she lays out the table.  I can hear her voice and a man’s.  I wonder who that could be.  I go out of the room and see Peter, a co-worker who rides with me to and from work,seated on the sofa.  Peter is wearing his favorite chequered tie on his neatly tucked in orange shirt.  His shoes sparkle as the light bounces on them.  I am surprised to see him there as I usually pick him up at the drugstore, a few miles on the way to work.  

                “Hey, what’s up?  Why are you here?”

                “I was a bit too early and I figured I might as well come here instead of having you pick me up.” It was then that I remembered that I told him we will go to work earlier than the usual time to avoid any unusual traffic delays.

                “Have you had breakfast, yet?” I asked as my wife prepares the table.  “Come, let’s eat!”

                He obliges as he takes the chair next to mine. 

                You better hurry up! I told you to clean the car yesterday but you didn’t.  Now you have to leave with a dirty car.  That’s several points away from your handsome get-up,” my wife teases.  I realize I planned to clean my red Mitsubishi Lancer before I even start with my morning routine.  

 Soon enough, we are in the driveway.  I kiss my wife goodbye who sort of dusted the car to make it a little presentable. Off we go.  I turn on the radio to check for a traffic update.   I miss it by a few minutes. 

                “I hope we don’t get caught in traffic today,” I said, thinking that Peter might be a little pissed as it was me who asked him to be early than usual  only to find out that it is me who will be the cause of our delay.

                “Yeah,”  Peter responds.  “It’s still early, though,” he assures me as if he can read my mind. 

                I have to be extra careful as we traverse EDSA as the buses plying the road run so carelessly fast.  We are still early as the traffic is light.  As we reach the approach of the Magallanes Bridge that will take us to the SLEX, a bus blocks our path.  I honk my horn and the bus moved a bit only to stop once again while the conductor continues to call on prospective passengers.  I maneuver to the left to avoid the bus and almost get hit by an incoming car.  “Shit!” I muttered.  The car blasts its horn as if shouting: “Stupid!” 

                I wave my hand in apology and continue to drive on.  As I come close to the toll gate, I notice a slight build up.  “Hmmm, that’s strange. I hope that this is only at the toll.”  However, there is a long queue even after.  I look at Peter and say, “Brace yourself.  This is going to be one long trip.”

                “No, it’s still early.  Maybe there’s a stalled car just ahead,” Peter says.  He’s wrong! The traffic situation seems to be at its worst.  We have been moving inch by inch and it has been thirty minutes and we have not even reached the Bicutan interchange.  And there is no sign of loosening up ahead.  I can only see tangled vehicles each jogging for position.  Now I begin to hate myself for sleeping too long.  It has turned into a bumper to bumper and getting worse.  We are stopped more than we can move an inch.   As we approach Sucat after another 45 minutes, I notice that the vehicles are veering towards the right.  There must be something on the left and so to anticipate it, I try moving towards my left, too. 

Just a few meters more and we will be scot-free.  There seems to be a commotion up ahead.  I see a bus  headed north at a south bound lane.  That’s odd!  Then it dawns on me.  There must be a head-on collision.  The bus must have gone wayward and hit another vehicle.   As we near the place, I realize I’m right.  Neither I nor Peter speaks as we anticipate what we will see. 

I have goose bumps as I see a totalled red car in front of the bus.  It is the same red Mitsubishi Lancer I am driving.  I turned to Peter but he is in a state of shock.  Nobody could survive that crash!  I inch forward as cars before me roll slowly to check what happened.  Glasses and several pieces stray the pavement and I can see traces of rubber on the street.  There is blood everywhere.  Several people have gathered and they seem to be pulling out someone from the car.  There is a guy lying on the pavement.  The way he is covered with newspaper, I know he is dead.  As we get closer, a whiff of wind brushes a portion of the newspaper to reveal that the man was in an orange shirt.   A stronger gust comes and the newspaper is blown away and I see that the guy has a chequered tie just like Peter’s.  

A rush of blood runs through me as I get a whiff of the body being taken out of the car.  The guy’s white, long sleeved shirt was torn and just like the guy lying on the pavement, is unrecognizable.   He, too, had a red tie just like mine.  I hear my heart pounding restlessly.  I look at the car’s plate number.  PLJ 386!  That’s my car!  My head starts to spin and soon enough, the world spins uncontrollably.

I open my eyes and hear my cell phone’s alarm telling me to get out of bed.  I realize I am still in my room,.  I look at the clock and it says 5 am.  I hurry to get my things and head for the bathroom.  It is quiet.  I wear my clothes and get out of the room.  Peter is there, quietly reading the paper.  He has his orange shirt and chequered tie! 

 This is the exhibit statement that we submitted to thegallery, Artblado.  Slated to happen in July, it was postponed twice due to the lockdown.  Opening is now re-scheduled to Sept 1.  

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                Wicked is a powerful, negative word. As such, anything related to it, either directly or indirectly, is seen in a bad light and frowned upon.  So why would ten artists embarking on a show opted to be identified with the word wicked?  Simple – it is a word and as such, changes its meaning as it did several years ago.  Words as single units of a language tend to change their meaning because these are the results of an evolving culture. As man uses the spoken word, its meaning continuously changes according to his/her circumstances and experiences unlike Latin, the only dead language, there is.  As the word gay, for example, used to mean happy but now means a sexual persuasion a person has, the word wicked has changed its meaning to the younger generation as simply “awesome”.  For example, "That new spaceship launched this afternoon cost a billion dollars and was made with top of the ine materials! It’s really wicked!”

                 Wicked abstraction showcases ten individuals as they continue their artistic journey laying bare their only passion which is painting. They have developed their own personal styles and are now at the brink of experimenting on a different path which leave their individual selves in a manner that threatens to expose their vulnerabilities as they bare their very souls. Each individual has toiled hard to express himself/herself in a way that is devoid of any exigencies or pressures from outside sources and without any inhibitions.  True to the maxim ars gratis artis, a time honored principle that means art for art’s sake, these free thinking individuals worked on their ouvers without any care in the world armed only with  their intuitions expressing their truth ,  their individuality and aesthetic ideals quietly hoping to create fanfare nevertheless. Hence, it is the art works that are their own excuse for being, the mere raison d’etre if you would and nothing more.  No high-falluting, intelligent arguments that is usually, in reality, pretentious and a sham that could let any naïve individual be sucked in.  No! There won’t be any child shouting “the King is naked!” this time for they have been unselfish in showing everyone their true selves. A coming out of age, like the first buds of a flower peaking at the light of the glorious sun for the first time. A blossoming during springtime, when the leaves of a plant are dampened wet by the morning mists and when bees and butterflies kiss the flowers unwittingly pollinating them to bear fruit. Such serendiipity as nature works not only for our pleasure but our very sustenance. With this collection of works, these artists seem to prove that positivity springs eternal. At this time, we can safely say we have seen their strongest and weakest side during their artistic journey and that is truly “wicked!”