The Forgotten

We call each other by name.
By song, by touch.
By any peculiarity we disguise ourselves with.
Yet in this crafted hour
I call you by that which you don't recognize.
And so when you hear my voice
You will hear it a stranger does, detached,
Ephemeral as a distant echo that glides unto valleys
And at once is gone.

There will be days when even my face,
Familiar as a well-loved toy,
Will cease to exist.
And in its place, only a vague countenance
Of colors and brush strokes,
Only bits and pieces of letters
That must have once resembled notes
Written haphazardly
On walls, tabletops.
It will be like waking up from a dream
and realizing that even the waking up
Was unreal.

I glide in front of you
Like a feather.

If I Could Buy More Time To Be A Poet

If I could buy more time to be a poet, I would

Take you somewhere we can be alone

In an abandoned castle perhaps where our stories once lived.

I'll read my verses and you will listen

And not understand a thing but we'll hear the walls shake

And the ground will feel like water under our feet.

You will lean over for a kiss when it is over

And I will give up my lips like giving up my pride

Knowing that words are currents that must flow through skin 

Before they can enter the mind.

And one day you will realize how the words

That did not make any sense to you

Were actually the prayers that you have left

Unuttered, folded away in a secret place

That even I cannot reach.

Garden Apathy

It's a crisp Monday morning and we see
Desmond tending to his garden.
And what a beautiful garden it is--
Rows and rows of fairy cabbages,
Ballerina lettuce that dance
In glittering tutus all day, sweet uni-corns.
There are the weeds, of course,
Weeds that get angry when Desmond pulls
Them out by the hair.
But they're blind and cannot see the fate
That await them.
Desmond chucks them into the fire.

Hey! The pumpkins shouted from not far away.
Over here, young master! Our throats are parched
And we need our sparkling cider.
Hey! The sexy orchids cooed from their vines.
We're bored, come and tell us a story.
Hey! The pretty sunflowers called out.
We need our sun, get us away from this shade.
Hey! The sergeant tomatoes growled.
You think you the boss here? We the boss here!
Hey! The sweet peas.
Hey! The potatoes.
Hey! The carrots.
Hey! The purple yams.

There's so much work that needs to be done.
Desmond does not complain.

Down by the south fence, a lone apple tree stands.
Desmond goes over and picks up the rotten apples
Fallen to the ground.
They're bruised all over and they look at him
Without a word.
And because they're useless and good as dead,
Desmond decides to love them the most.

He throws them to the fire together with the weeds.

Response

You say I am lazy but the truth is I am

Afraid of the flare of the lamp that gropes

For my eyes, terrified of the endless

Catastrophic pillows that smother my dreams

While wide awake at two A.M

Staring at curious shadows

That clamor to be vulgarized

Unsure of who or when or where

And why.

The world is governed by chance

Is not a cute adlib.

It is a war cry.

Paglalakbay (by Joi Barrios)

Bawat pagsinta’y paglalakbay.
Paglalayag sa malawak na dagat,
pag-akyat sa pinakatuktok ng bundok.
Sumasakay ka sa pag-asa,
kumakapit sa pananalig.
Bawat pagsinta’y paglalakbay.
Tandaan:
Huwag kaybagal at baka may hindi maabutan.
Huwag kaybilis at baka may malampasan.
Sa pagitan nitong paglalakbay, saglit na humimpil.
Salatin ang pawisang noo,
hagurin ang napupudpod na talampakan.
Kumustahin ang sarili,
na minsa’y nakakaligtaan sa gilid ng daan.
Huwag hayaang mapagod ang puso
sa bawat paglalakbay.
Ngunit huwag,
huwag ring papigil sa pangamba
kahit ang paroroona’y hindi tiyak.
Walang huling biyahe sa mangingibig
na handang maglakbay
nang may pagsalig.