You are the reflection...

You are the reflection on the pavement of a rainy day,

Mirror of the sky painted briefly by shadows of a bustling world.

Where is my soul but in your image?

Eternity will reveal your beauty glistening in the memory of water.

Dedication in unpublished Master’s thesis, Culture, Corruption, and the Prospects for Change: A Statistical Study (March 2009)

You are the reflection on the pavement of a rainy day...

Coffee

COFFEE

What shall I say of coffee?

He is a brown man

Made from soil,

Pressed into shape,

Fired shiny,

Waxen as a lizard,

Hat white like dried-out shells,

Pulling at reins of a rearing horse,

Hooves sharp as pickaxes

Kicking up bright clouds of lime.

 

Early morning he is a dark and fragrant visitor.

He makes his diffident presence felt—

Memories of fresh bread,

Woody nuts,

Heady camphor.

 

Coffee fragrance is a medicine man

Opening his cabinet

To relieve slumbering burdens,

Heavy luggage hauled around

By traveling wakefulness.

He hands out syrups to sweeten unfulfilled dreams,

Hot poultices to soothe unforgotten nightmares,

Energy drinks to answer a world ceaselessly ringing,

Tonics for the family,

Ointments for friends,

Bandages for the heart.

Originally published in Brew Your Best Year (June 11, 2014), an online publication of The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf

I love coffee...

Fort Santiago

FORT SANTIAGO

To José Rizal

I visited your cold, stone prison.

Bereft of spirit,

Empty of words.

Your cell rang like footsteps

Inside a bell. I could not

Imagine you alive.

Supine, you lay

Motionless, a pigeon

Strangled by the hand

Of forces greater than

Your idealism, stronger than

Overpowering sentiment—

Your love of country exceeding

Your love of life, a pearl.

Yes, you penned poems, essays,

Two novels. You wrought

Drawings, paintings, sculptures—

One famous piece:

The Triumph of Science over Death.

Buildings, cities, towns, streets

Today carry your name.

Yet you are not deathless.

You are dead,

Slain by migrant necessity

Born of want, poverty

Pulling grubs from the soil,

Nailing down rusty iron sheets

To fashion flimsy shelters

Soon blown apart like paper

By tornadoes, locusts

On annual rampage.

But wait—now I see you rise,

Arms bound, marching off.

As if on a stage, players assemble.

Your back is to the firing line.

At that moment of volley

I see you transformed:

You turn—shot as a traitor,

Dying as a martyr.

Despair spinning into hope.

Originally published in Philippines Free Press (December 31, 2011)

Also published in Eastlit (December 1, 2014)

Bust of Jose Rizal, Kepaniwai Park, Hawaii