I wrote these poems for a contest (DLSU Annual Literary Awards) about a year ago. I’ve changed my writing style since then but I’m still proud of these babies because I believe they were the turning point of my poetry style. (This was also published in the Malate Literary Folio some time ago, methinks.)
1 – Blue stapler
A blue stapler, smaller than the usual, solitary on top of a righthanded girl’s armrest until spirited away by a large hand, played with for a few seconds before being returned, and then, just as warmth leaves the metal piece, caressed by its owner.
A blue stapler, designed with a smiling frog print, picked up by a small hand, thumb resting on top of the metal frame, and used to fasten three pieces of paper before being borrowed by another seatmate, leaving both the hand and the armrest empty.
A blue stapler, blue as the sky on a May morning, returned on top of the armrest, unmoving until swiped by hands intending to stuff the object inside an equally blue pencil case.
A blue stapler, smaller than the usual, solitary inside a girl’s pencil case until taken out and placed on top of a water bed, and stared at by its owner as if the warmth she hoped it kept diffused from the metal in colors of the rainbow.
2 – Skyscrapers, Guitars and Pianos
When the lights went out and all
she had were skyscrapers instead
of candles, she wished on them.
So on her way home, riding a van
with no one she knew, she saw
city lights and she wished on them.
So while relishing the view of
tower after tower, billboard
after billboard, she played a song
with guitars and pianos in the
background while wishing. So
she saw the lights and played the
song and she found a little spark
in her eyes once more. Because she
felt out of luck when the lights went
out, but with skyscrapers and guitars
and pianos in the background she
found herself wishing once more.
3 – Orange Light
Orange light turning into mist, enveloping thirty six shadows, gently grazing the hours etched on their faces, all the while the tune of rushing cars and a nearby food chain echoes.
Thirty six shadows revealing their faces as the chatter of returning home joins the chorus of noise, a dozen lined up across the parking lot, five in front of them and the rest laughing in the middle.
Hours etched on their faces, lines formed by a day of tapping door to door, the figures come to life with the conversations that weave their existence at that one place in that one night.
Amidst the tune of rushing cars and a nearby fast food chain, the setting sun generously illuminates their spirit and interlocks their hands as they wait for their ride back to the province where the buzzing would not be the same.
Orange light turning into mist will be the last they will remember for the day, not the ride home when their thoughts would be sleeping but the moment they stood, thirtysix figures in the middle of a parking lot with the day not yet quite ending.
4 – Stillwater
You do not disturb still water;
A mere gush of breath sends its surface rippling,
obstructing the peace built upon decades of silence
and the conniving of the universe.
You do not disturb still water;
A touch from the smallest of fingers creates tension,
only for a matter of moments,
before the shield tumbles, washing away all in its path.
You do not disturb still water;
A single leaf falling from the unforgiving tree,
tears a contract between heaven and earth
by planting a kiss on the flimsy glass shinning in the sunlight.
You do not disturb still water;
The humming of the crows circling the sky,
shakes the crystal reflection enjoying its long slumber
and blows away a lullaby composed by clouds floating about.
You do not disturb still water,
and believe you could stay afterwards.
5 – Slam Silence
Concrete slams onto her chest as she hears the words echoing from the second floor.
Almost nine in the evening when she suggested a whisper,
and now eleven with the shout still haunting her thoughts.
Ears ringing and her world turning red, she feels her feet already running,
her soul already fleeting and the rest of her morning dissolving
into places that do not confine her words.
Invisible hands cover her lips as steam escapes her clenched fists.
But even the wind could not tame her fire,
as it burns down the little of what she had left.
Only after does she find chains locked onto every fiber of her being,
and does she feel the absence of herself.
The moon weeps with the words she could not say.
pollenpiggy 