Words and Invisible Cords

The Chronicles of Narnia Tells us of Mr. Beaver's honest question: Is Aslan safe? To which the answer was a resounding 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you. When Lucy Pevensie met Mr.Tumnus at the Lamppost The little pensive girl was told it marked  The beginning of Narnia Chronicles of a vast, unfolding adventure Of turkish delights, and alegories That escape the imagination Find their expression in the subtle sweetness Of a trap.  Chronic pain of tarnished innocence Swells thru the thickest snow Freezing life to numbness. Until Aslan breaks the frigid suffering With his roar that cuts thru the darkest forests He isn't safe But he's good. Chronicles of incessant wanderings Find their respite in that ever so tall Lamppost Ushering the way back When we all need to leave.

Thin, long, black probe In my artificial sleep Tissue in the gut, taken. Under the light, smeared It was focused, zoomed While I waited, long. Shutting my world In silence I filled the hours With busied nothingness, until -- The day I sat in that freezing, quiet room, He pushed the paper, white as his coat The precious word he underlined, 'Benign' - focused, zoomed, magnified And the skies became bluer -- Life, sweeter.

Opposite an upholstered seat Bleeding with aged dust Shy, alone. World map painted on the ceiling They serve the world’s finest coffees But I only had water, fish and chips. ‘On the Wings of Love' Fills most of the free space in the air Muffled by giggles and talks of trade. Fine people, they come here It was once my dream And just like the one who painted the Pacific Ocean on the roof Vision can make the seas Fly To the moon. Note: When I was still a university student, I used to think that Dome Cafe at Shangri La Mall in Mandaluyong City, Manila was a cafe for the rich and the famous. I once saw Piolo Pascual there. I wrote this when I decided to try this cafe during my vacation in July 2018.

Cold, crisp, jovial air Wafts through those marginal spaces The promise of the remains of the night Condensed juvenile giggles. Note: Inspired by a group of students loitering outside the Library at Nex Mall, Singapore on a rainy Friday night. It was a cold night in Singapore. 18 degrees.  

Liquid clouds form  Dancing garbled rainbows Restless, ever moving Taking every bit of space On my spectacles. I sit still oblivious To the black, small ants That wage a war of formic acid Against my calves whose screams Are only manifested in small, red dots. Sunsets, indeed Have their ways Of arresting time, and torment. Note: Inspired by the sunset at home in Mindanao. I just finished my afternoon tea when I wrote this. 

The days are slow The wind blows fast I stand still Time machine. Note: Originally written on a fast food tissue paper some time in 2013.

Text on brittle, acidic papers Soprano crescendo from the pious women of the church Belting archaic hymns of the gates of heaven And the power shuts down in a snap. In a snap the light bulbs glare Charged full by the day tonight they are proud And the singing resumes Pious women, belting archaic hymns of the Gates of heaven. Words on acidic papers, sheets of hymns They glow, they beat, they speak To the living who sings the archaic hymns Of the gates of heaven Shining ever brighter than the emergency bulbs on the ceiling. Not a verse interrupted When the power shut down in a snap The pious women of the church Resume in their high pitch singing The archaic hymns of the gates of heaven. And the body lies still Doesnt blink, doesnt twitch Impervious of the momentary darkness Subdued by the high pitch singing Of the archaic hymns of the gates of heaven. If not for the light bulbs And the soprano singing of the pious women I would have never understood

What is it in a mother That we so long desire Must be the touch, the care The gentle strokes when they brush our hair With the same fingers that held The soft, small head Of their infants in the crib. When does a mother think of her time When every passing moment  The cord that was cut  Still lingers and connects They feel a tug Whenever we are bugged. Why is it most mothers Make stories in the air They color it with hope and share And let the wind carry them With so much grace and flare They burn like fireflies  Oh, that sight we hold dear. How do our mothers Carry loads with finesse  The curves in their backs  That jolt a thunder when they snap How is it they still pause And carry us through the doors To the sweet respite of our homes. Invisible cords.

It looms in a corner The door ajar I wonder what hinders it Must be stones, sand and dust. Polarised dreams Cuddling bears  Cracks and creases to fill Memories to generate. From dust, stones, sand by the door To dust, stones, sand by the beach All the blues ashore Pounded by the waves. The ripples and froth that surface Washes the footprints away People, events come and go But the ocean is there to stay. Note: Originally written on white paper I posted on the cabinet by my bedside. I was about to go on vacation.

Purple seats  Draw a series  Of diagonal lines Parallel yet bidirectional They are empty On a terminal Whose carpeted floor Absorbs the shock Of the world left behind It is quiet Across the thickest glass Tails and heads and bodies move Colors and prints  Long, lofty  They are huge The doors open It is cold  It is warm You are now helpless But surrender is freedom Fasten your seatbelt And enjoy the flight The cabin  Is pressurised. Note: Wrote this while waiting for my flight at Changi Airport 

Empty benches Benches with passengers asleep Waiting for the shifts of time From time to time They toss and rest m any weary members These benches m omentarily hold es caping souls. Flights of comfort Flights of relief Sustain the wind beneath those giant wings Fear    Excitement       Regret.                       On the ground destinations become real Fear. Excitement. Regret. Condense into clear windowglass tear-drops While the engine blasts its final blow Torching the clear, fluid thoughts Into vaporized fumes. Sweet and bitter vapor of escape Pores open to breathe a sigh of relief A burn should you linger  Longer In grief. But a  cold damp of reality arrests the vapors to turn wet and wild Raging currents Every solid form of truth you refused to confront before Once again turn into loose vapors you see  On the other  side of your airplane window. Do not open the door. Note: Wrote this while waiting for my flight at Changi Airport