tonight, i succumb to the whips of life
like badminton swings
fluttering me to the other side
of the court
***
for a poet
scrambling for poetic diction,
the most difficult part in writing a poem
is choosing the words to end it.
it requires a certain finality
like a fruit falling
to the painful embrace
of solid grounds
***
like the t'boli weaver
who capture designs from dreams,
we live taking risks in conjuring
our desires to something tangible--
something creeping between our fingers
yet we refuse to feel
***
late night walks in this city
reminds me of security and stability
despite the orange, gloomy light
from the lamp posts,
painting the city with tinge of sepia
that approximates its rudeness
***
i know my comfort is beyond that door,
where the room is darkened
and lies infest like snakes
beneath greening fields
and only your skin
illuminates a solitary flicker
and i begin to feel the drifting warmth
of your breath between my palms
***
we reluctantly swim
into our neighbor's pond,
with white lotuses
guiding us when to breathe
and raise our heads up high
to welcome the afternoon sun
***
i can never be poetry
to a poet writing about midsummer's pain,
the moon's phases
and the asphalt craters in his streets.
for in between the phases of the moon,
i can be midsummer's pain
filling the asphalt craters
in the poet's streets
