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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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D’verse Poets Pub

I dare not change

woman sleeping on bed under blankets

I weave stories even in fabric
Seams laced with tell-tales
Of yesterdays, todays and tomorrows

Coffee stains
Wrinkled sheets
Lipstick on sleeves

From collars to buttonholes
I know their stories— wrote them
Even when all is said and done

I dare not change
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille: Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes hosted by De who challenges us to play with the word, “change.”

As I read this over and over, I can’t help but think I could have written this bottom to top. Well, I dare not change. Either way, here’s a little something. 😉

Photo Credit: Unsplash

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

 

 

Lifetimes in retrospect

The sun has sunk and risen
And past felt out of touch
Like the silence after a curtain call
Or the dying embers of a fire
I watched it for the last time
In retrospect—
Swinging from pain and joy,
Trance and frustration
Memories tumbling out in smiles
At times in tears.

A demon waltzed into my subconscious
Where the loneliest of the loneliness remains
It asked me with indifference:
Would I live it all again and again?
Lifetimes flashed before my ancient eyes
Days that lifted me up
And those that worn me down
Lulled to sleep by the thought of recurrence
I said I would—
Until I move on to another life.

MS


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Time and What If? hosted by Merril who challenges us to look at time backward, forward, inside, and out. Ponder it into a poem. Then wonder, what if?

I was supposed to write about this before 2018 ended. But life happened. So anyway…

Last December, I dived into the philosophy of Nietzsche which eventually led me to the idea of eternal recurrence. This thought experiment asks us not to take the idea as truth but rather asks us what we would do if the idea were true. As the year was coming to a close, I took a retrospect of my short two decades. It was far from being perfect and in its most pragmatic way, life has shown me the beauty and the ugly. If given the chance to live it again exactly as it was as Nietzsche posed, I would. Until the universe agrees that I’m ready for the next.

Happy new year! 🙂

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dverse

On histories and mysteries

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I remember standing in this corner of the street. A once timid soul staring blankly at the stoplights, waiting for a signal if I should stop or go. Cars speeding to and fro with blaring lights, I remember my heart beating like a drum. Too afraid and too cynical if I could make it to the other side of the road. Seconds turned into minutes, I waited until the hour hands forced me to move along. Day after day, this has been my routine. Until I found you you found me.

Eyes on the map, you were looking for this corner of the street. Strange and hilarious — that is how I thought back then. Perhaps you heard about the girl that was always stuck in the crossroad. Or you wanted to know what magic draws her to this place. And so in this corner of histories and mysteries, things have changed.

I no longer dread the stoplights. My feet now know when to stop or go. And when I’m afraid or cynical, I have a hand pulling me close. Leading me to the other side of the road. Heart still beating like a drum, I know it wasn’t because of the speeding cars. It was something else. It was you.

The trees kept quiet
As a new story unfolds—
Two souls, one crossroad

MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: Transitions hosted by Merril D. Smith who asked us to write about change, but specifically, to write about a transitional time in our life.

This specific corner in IT Park has always been a special place to me. It has inspired a number of poems before— and it still do. Looking back at one of the pieces I wrote, I find it amusing how things have changed. I used to write about chaos, but now this place reminds of being brave.

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dverse

Birds, worms and decays

animal, bird, black and white, favim, google, nature, photography, tumblr, vintage

dawn breaks,
and the early bird sees
where to fill its breakfast plate
flying high above the land
of lofty, mighty lords—
in the brown patch of the earth
the worms wriggle
from decays in its burrow
feeding over hungry peasants
deprived of tomorrow
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #67: early hosted by Kim.

Three days after I wrote a tribute piece to the working hands of mothers and coconut farmers, the Philippines awakened to a dreadful news. Nine sugarcane workers, including two minors and four women, in Sagay City, Negros Occidental, were brutally murdered by unidentified men. As if we never had enough of the 1985 Escalante Massacre, the 1987 Mendiola Massacre, the 2004 Hacienda Luisita Massacre, the 2016 Kidapawan Massacre — along with thousands of killings in the context of the peasant struggle. This war against the people and war against the poor is sickening.

The palace shouts of Red October. Now they got blood in their hands.

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dverse

i love her but her hands

Image result for working hands black and white unsplash

i love her but her hands—
from her graying hair to her calloused feet
my heart brims with love

but her hands bring me pain

hands the held our family together
hands that gathered woods to cook meals
hands that eased her son’s worry
hands that brushed her daughter’s hair

loving hands
selfless hands
working hands
praying hands

i love her but her hands
tell of stories that are too painful to read
veins detailing the days
she strained herself to fatigue

last night, i found another scar
from hands bearing the day’s hard work
she broke twenty extra coconut shells,
my mother said with pride

a look at those hands gave me pain

loving hands
selfless hands
working hands
praying hands

i never thought my mother’s hands were that small
some days they’re clasped forming a zipper of prayer
some days they’re clenched into a fist thrown in the air
a reminder of the empty promises of the present and past

i love her but her hands—
from her graying hair to her calloused feet
my heart brims with love

if only i could make those hands my own.

MS


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Beauty in Ugliness hosted by Mish who challenges us to  find the beauty in the ugly. Image by @nate_dumlao.

As I struggle to find a topic for a poem, an image kept on poking in my head. It was my mother’s hands. Aging as they are… and tired. I was raised by a family of farmers, generations deeply rooted in agriculture. Although I was not of much help in the rice field (if playing scarecrow as a child counts), I was exposed to copra making. I remember the sweat. The late nights spent working. I remember my parent’s tired eyes.

This piece, aside from finding beauty in the ugly, is a tribute to the coconut farmers in my country. In the face of politics and empty promises, I hope they find justice to their plight.

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dverse

out of sight, i’m out of my mind

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the moon beams with your smile
and i weakened to my knees
like a madman, i hunt the streets
but the night hides you in vain
leaving memories on footpaths—
the aroma of coffee
the sweetness of ice cream
the taste of both on your lips

i love you
and there is no other way
not to

out of sight, i’m out of my mind

deny me
anything, everything
but not you

we got ourselves drunk in love
and left each other thirsty
these memories won’t suffice
but with them, I’ll survive
and until then I will cherish
the aroma of coffee
the sweetness of ice cream
the taste of both on your lips
MS


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Twisted Adages hosted by Jilly who challenges us to  craft our poetry around an adage (or two) that you must change in some significant way.  And since I am missing someone today, here’s a shoutout to the good old adage, out of sight out of mind. This little piece beg to differ. 😉

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dverse

A Homo’s Inquiry

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earth—
ripe of evolutionary changes

a come and go
of fire and ice
death and life

species emerging
taking places of those lost:
arthropods
dinosaurs

humans—

killing the land
killing its own

are we heading towards another extinction?
or is this some faulty evolution?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #63: Feel the Earth move hosted by Kim and Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’s Photo Challenge hosted by Nekneeraj.

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dverse

When the Night Warrants Death

I have just spent a night among the trees, out in the cradle of the mountains. I thought I’d carry the memories of that fun night a little longer. I thought I could look at the moon with a smile. But not tonight.

Tonight, anger simmers in me at a constant roil. I want to wail and rail against the world. This heart feels as if it might break through my ribcage from an intense revolt. For the first time, I hated the night. Not because of an American post-apocalyptic horror film but because of something vile and real. They come in uniform with their hands of steel. Filling the night with a staccato of gunfire, leaving men half blown off, fatal wounds in the head or face. I hated the night for they come in it. And they warrant death.

This quiet is piercing. The night is orphaned from the sound of crickets. I wonder if they knew. I wonder if they are mourning too. I wonder if the crickets offer this brief silence to the stolen lives of the dead just as I do.

The night cries justice
A long pause from the crickets—
Can somebody hear?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: The Sounds of Koorogi hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. This piece might be a bit digressing from the topic but I hope it counts.

Currently, my mind is in rigor from reading about the death of seven men from Antique. They were rebels, members of our local red fighters. The AFP came in the middle of the night to serve “arrest” warrant to two men but it ended with death instead. What really happened, only the crickets know. This shouldn’t be a shock, they say, for the body bags have been pilling up. But it still makes me sad and mad. Especially when I found that one of them goes by the pen name of Maya Daniel. I came across this poet last 2017. He writes poignant and painful poems, each is a cry for freedom, liberation and resistance from oppression. His death marks another voice silenced, another pen deprived of ink.

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dverse

Arms

banksy

in a perfect world
arms are safe haven—
body parts
wrapped around your waist

they are not pieces of steel
sending you to hell
or to heaven
at point-blank range

in a perfect world…

arms bring bodies closer
not bodies enclosed in boxes
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #62: Thinkin’ Inside the Box  hosted by De Jackson.

For some reason, today’s prompt reminded me of the rampant killings in my country and the world as a whole. 😦 The image above, Soldier Flower Gun Boy, is another guerilla graffitti from Banksy that has stirred the minds of many with its irony and juxtaposition. The image speaks for itself.

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dverse

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