Verses and Fears Whispered Lines, Muted Rhymes(in framed sequences) ilang libong ulit na kitang pinaslang sa aking gunita paulitulit ka pa ring nabubuhay sa aking mga tula. the birthday i first counted my years my infantile fingers flashed not the many spaghetti paper plates mother said she kept for me, but the few times i saw his gnawing presence gripped the sunday times sundays he lurched on his narra sofa that always narrowed down on me. fiesta photographs in baptismal album reveal no bouncing baby no overweight black&white baby mother swore she dazzledanced to the santo of my day. ilang ulit ka ng pinaslang ng aking mga tula muli't muli'y bumabangon ka sa gulanit kong gunita. confusion i could not define why i raged against fatso falsities tagged on me when i was not. yet mother insisted i was but wasn't me. and it was i who was quick to fight for sunday times sunday comicstrips on mondays that he is gone, and the phantom becomes me becomes tarzan becomes me becomes nancy becomes the little child fatso that really wasn't me. tinula ko nang maraming ulit ang kamatayan mong sa alaala ko'y sa malamig kong luha kinatha. narito ka pa narito ka pa. i learned to picturepuzzle what he was when he was not home on his narra sofa. i learned to wordpuzzle what his tongue would lash out while my brains would squirm out every little pain everylittlepain from his weekendbelt and sundaywhippings. i lie on my face on his narra sofa praying by sweat and tears and spit and screams that fridays shouldn't have nights saturdays mustn't come sundays should be mine alone with my sunday times sunday cartoon. kinatha kita nang paulitulit sa kamatayan ng luma kong tula bakit kailangan mong magbalik sa mga butil na luha kong nanlalamig. scars of innocence i thought drugged verses of my youth had effaced, the midnightsongs he threw out of my unlit potsmokefilled rock&roll room. he possessed me but not my hurts. my memory his property. my verses he dismissed. but he never partook of my pains. the morning i walked away with a knapsack of pains i raged my youth against the fascist night. my clenched fists maybe his but not my fight. my verses he may not want to read alright. and i never allowed him touch my songs again. does it hurt as much as when you don't write, she asked. when am hurt i write; when i write i get hurt, i said. my poems my pains mypoems myfears. O God, make not me my children's poetry. Clay Model the one lastiko i buried beneath a mountain of dirt and fears was a little child alone. and so i pen this child in me. a thousand times i stabbed my tantrums deep into the mound of dust and tears hooking out nothing dripping out more tears. gone was my lastiko. the one lonely toy i lost on flattened earth beneath my feet wet by the warmth of my fevered urine. a little child's triumph wallows in a mix of dust and tears then a man takes form out of urined clay. to catch a wandering byte, we all should be in time; to find a lost character, we must find a home -- the Net, our abode, is a resounding metaphor! --JongCalderon Other Pages and Poems HOMEPAGE: Weatherman's Dome The Net Has Become A Bad Habit WeatherForecast In FreeBytes Far Too Many Of Us Friends Listen Adam&Eve's Internet Chat Prose As A Rose Mathematics Of Our Connection Missing the Net Framed Lyrics For A Jazz Album: Uncut Whispered Lines, Muted Rhymes Signs Of The Times Choose Your Art Stranger Still the Ways of My Pen Tagalog Song Heard Over the Net Tenth of Mnemosyne OpenEnded Open End Between Us Stands an Ampersand Cruising on Edsa Tanghaling Tinanaw Ko Identity Links&Mails, Connections&Chains TekaMuna...WalaPa Mga Anino ni Mang Ano Walls for the Anti-Nowhere League Red Like Guthrie Links&Mails, Connections&Chains2 Iloveyou Is A Verse Soul Intercourse Love Me Dream Sequences 2 Deaths --------------------- LINK: The Poetry of CesMillado Thank you so much! Please visit again for updates. Mabuhay!
the birthday i first counted my years my infantile fingers flashed not the many spaghetti paper plates mother said she kept for me, but the few times i saw his gnawing presence gripped the sunday times sundays he lurched on his narra sofa that always narrowed down on me. fiesta photographs in baptismal album reveal no bouncing baby no overweight black&white baby mother swore she dazzledanced to the santo of my day.
confusion i could not define why i raged against fatso falsities tagged on me when i was not. yet mother insisted i was but wasn't me. and it was i who was quick to fight for sunday times sunday comicstrips on mondays that he is gone, and the phantom becomes me becomes tarzan becomes me becomes nancy becomes the little child fatso that really wasn't me.
i learned to picturepuzzle what he was when he was not home on his narra sofa. i learned to wordpuzzle what his tongue would lash out while my brains would squirm out every little pain everylittlepain from his weekendbelt and sundaywhippings. i lie on my face on his narra sofa praying by sweat and tears and spit and screams that fridays shouldn't have nights saturdays mustn't come sundays should be mine alone with my sunday times sunday cartoon.
scars of innocence i thought drugged verses of my youth had effaced, the midnightsongs he threw out of my unlit potsmokefilled rock&roll room. he possessed me but not my hurts. my memory his property. my verses he dismissed. but he never partook of my pains. the morning i walked away with a knapsack of pains i raged my youth against the fascist night. my clenched fists maybe his but not my fight. my verses he may not want to read alright. and i never allowed him touch my songs again.
does it hurt as much as when you don't write, she asked. when am hurt i write; when i write i get hurt, i said. my poems my pains mypoems myfears. O God, make not me my children's poetry.
Clay Model
the one lastiko i buried beneath a mountain of dirt and fears was a little child alone. and so i pen this child in me. a thousand times i stabbed my tantrums deep into the mound of dust and tears hooking out nothing dripping out more tears. gone was my lastiko. the one lonely toy i lost on flattened earth beneath my feet wet by the warmth of my fevered urine. a little child's triumph wallows in a mix of dust and tears then a man takes form out of urined clay.
Thank you so much! Please visit again for updates. Mabuhay!
