Dandelions' Springtime

An oak made friends with

the swallows on crying skies;

Amongst your restless waters, I slumber.

Dripping June, petrichor, dark horizon;

It pains me -- serenity, cold weather.

Front of a post office, I stand alone.

Rain -- relentless, forlorn -- erstwhile letter,

As soon as the sky clears, will I go on?

Miles away, will my poetry reach you:

Tired eyes amidst forlorn skies,

widowed, decried, severed are those ties,

like scarlet ribbons as smokes rise,

beneath Manila dreams and crimson lies.

Behind despair and melancholies, you cower,

your head can never get any lower,

for you thought not they would sever,

Again, June came -- uninvited,

shadows glimmer as I think about

those endless sleepless nights

I conquered under transcending stars.

Dark grey, the ashes of my collar bone.

Citylights won't break your heart,

as someone used to tell me.

Just recently, they did --

my heart torn apart,

hollow, and the blue bird residing in it

silently died.

I hope you will remember,

the cold breeze at 8PM,

walking home from school,

the footbridges we once knew,

the songs from 3 years ago,

and the many uncertainties

and realities we weren't afraid to face,

I just hope you will...

For I always will,

yes, I always will...

10:54 PM, June 1st,

have already forgotten

the lessons in Taxation and Business Law,

but not your ethereal smile

during those long ago days.

Embroidered with moonlit verses

and unremembered dandelions,

uninvited, June came -- again.

And as someone used to tell me,

Summer's tears and plastic cups,

daisy fields and apple pies,

geography, two-fold maps,

monsoon breaks and silver skies;

the zephyr -- it chills, it wraps;

the season -- it weeps, it cries.

Another story's begun --

Green umbrella and amaranth rains,

we were lost in the warmth

and cacophonies of an unfamiliar place...

You are my undoing -- my relevance --

a hunter in mythology

and in the celestial equator;

and I am a dandelion -- a pensive one --

someone who finds verses

and paragraphs in the serenity

of your storied eyes...

Oriented south-upward,

a depiction of my sadness and tranquility,

an unfinished sonnet of Rilke --

the constellation of Orion

in the blazing summer sky.

I'll long for you again;

you flee once Scorpius comes,

and in an avenue

of my lost dreams and tales,

there, I search for your scent,

as if the wind knows you won't be there,

as if the night sky forbids you to be there...

And I'll long for you again,

amidst the silence of this obscure place...

I'll wait for the time

the seasons will again allow

the serenity

of a brilliant summer firmament

embroider my hair

with your shadows, laughter,

I once dreamt of

poppies and windmills,

cobalt skies, sedimentary rocks,

and an unfamiliar road.

And there's a book on my bed,

page 42 is folded,

an unknown writer,

a melodrama with an unexpected plot...

And I don't know

where this poem will take me to,

but I can't stop writing --

consumed by my randomness.

I remember a day in my life,

a heavy rain on a summer day,

a dandelion on an autumn night,

I once knew you,

among those pine trees,

I just knew...

that I once dreamt of

(an unfamiliar road that leads to

long lost smiles and mundane laughters)

2008, a highschool boy who dreams to fly,

mustache, heavy books, decorated mindset,

seated at the row 2nd to the last,

classroom walls with posters of national heroes,

in the air is the smell of floor wax

and chalk dusts...

History books by history books,

teachers by teachers,

we were taught about

our country's darkest times --

the Hispanic colonialization,

the American and Japanese occupations,

and the Martial Law era.

I wasn't born during those times,

but I won't forget

the thunder that struck me

when I watched a video of Ninoy being assassinated...

He could've gone away,

stayed in the US for good

and history will still favor him,

but he chose to come back,

proved that Filipinos are worth dying for.

2017, a slacker, a Degree Holder,

still dreaming to fly,

traffic jams, job requirements, undying persistence,

a dandelion on the roadsides,

streets crowded with people who turn a blind eye...

History changed...

People now call the Martial Law era

the greatest time our country ever had,

and Marcos as the best leader we ever had...

Why? Because we have a President

who is a liar, a mysoginist, a murderer,

a rapist, a racist, and idolizes Marcos.

1977, Martial Law era,

Boyet Mijares, 16,

eyes gouged out, nails ripped out,

skull bashed in,

his Father wrote an anti-Marcos book.

2018, in mind, in heart, in soul, in actions,

a Filipino...

This place is not Copenhagen,

but this is Manila,

and just like London,

it deserves to hold the skies

of your ornately-colored dreams.

Unlike Paris,

a man will not build a tower

in you, Manila,

to have a promise made

under your stars,

but with just a monument

of a hero who proved

that pen is mightier than sword,

I promise to scribble

poetries for you.

With forgotten words,

I begin to forge poetry

in your stars.

And no matter

how much I wish

to those Manila stars...

I will never be able to understand

why he has left Prague

(when that place

plays the piano

of the girl she loves)

just to reap sampaguitas

from your heart, Manila.

His poetry

cannot be written

in your lonelines...

but, Manila, don't forget him,

'cause his love for you

is more than pure.

Manila,

I so tried to count those stars

and find the constellation

of a hemp

that's stuck in your heart,

but I found myself trapped

between your history

and unravelled sorrows.

Love is always pure in Manila,

and love is always pure, Manila.

You, Manila, are the reason

why a famous portraitist

would paint about

bright sun-drenched countrysides,

why my Big Brother chose

to die behind those

enduring, rustic,

and formidable walls,

the reason why his poetry

will remain forgotten eternally.

Beautiful like his poetry

that will never return

is this city

He was a curator who speaks softly about springtime dreams, flowing stars, maple trees, and Vincent Van Gogh, he’s always loved the constellation of Canis Manor and drawn Killua Zoldyck on illustration boards using pencils out of boredom, he owns a gallery which houses 40 paintings, with 3 barely hanging on the wall.

Who am I to know about pastels and easels? About canvasses and paints? I might have made an impressionist artwork if I am too educated about it, I can’t even use a protractor nor a compass, can’t even comprehend your horoscopes and introspections, all I can do is measure lightyears through my poems, watch September pass by in a jiffy, and adore Don McLean.

I can’t understand the gray in the strands of your hair neither I can stay by your side, because the artist that I am isn’t enough to decipher your abstraction.

Still… I can write about your gestures, silly remarks, and the way you walk on willowed roads…

Haven’t visited your gallery in a long while now…

I wonder,

are the three paintings with dandelions in them

still hanging barely

It feels as if I’m walking on a pathway full of wilted azaleas, and the northern mountains look like the darkest landforms I’ve ever seen… This place looks like the local market I’ve known, it’s just that this used to be where your footsteps camp, where your stories linger – the footsteps and stories of a poor boy who picks up thrown balls for a living. You dyed your hair last night, and I don’t know how hard everything is for you, I can’t be good enough for anything and everything even after getting a bachelor’s degree, even after turning 21. I am still that kid you yelled at and beat up for unknown reasons, and I’ve been living my life finding the courage to pursue my earthly desires, and yet… I can’t be capable enough…

because my heart’s not strong enough to build your empire, to build my capital city, all I know is to write something only I will consider poetry,

because my mind’s not strong enough to memorize the entire Pi chart and the atomic mass of every element, I am not genius enough to be a scientist, not talented enough to be a superstar, not good enough for a writer or a human resource officer…

I, too, want to help this family, pay for utility bills and other expenses, I, too, am tired of unemployment.

At the end of the day, all these times,

I just want to be the best son

a poor man who used to pick up thrown balls and now drives a garbage truck for a living

I want to travel the space with you,

find out how the universe began,

how planetary flybys happen,

how the Kuiper Belt looks like,

and how solar winds and solar flares

affect the Solar System…

I think that’d be much better

than sitting outside

and singing about how crazy life is,

because the Earth has been a place

for sadness and melancholies,

for lost lullabies and forgotten songs,

a sanctuary of lonely souls,

of my desires to be with you…

…but time, space, and even dimension

won’t allow me to…

So, I want to create my own

Big Bang Theory alone,

and maybe… just maybe,

I’ll be able to travel the space with you

and leave everything behind –

the pain, the emptiness, the void

in my heart,

and be filled with celestial poems