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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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D’verse Poets Pub

Youthful Memories

I still have the love letters men, or perhaps boys, sent me in the past years. On some days, I read and laugh at these innocent displays but, on most days, they remain tucked in the bottom of my drawer.

It was back in high school when I first stumbled upon John Keats. Since then, my young heart have been and will always be envious of Fanny Brawne for having a man write to her with so much love and warmth.

I remember, once, a man said he’d write me a letter. I spent days and nights in anticipation but it never came. What happened in between that promise and my waiting, I do not know. Perhaps gone are the men like John Keats. Or maybe love just simply changed.

the moon casts its shine
upon the aged letters—
youthful memories
MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: Handwriting hosted by Kim.  🙂

Scanned image from Rebloggy. You can also find more of Keats’ letters here.

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These Eyes Are All Yours

These Eyes Are All Yours

The day is slowly fading into the night and I look outside from the glass window with anticipation. My eyes search the star-speckled sky but you are nowhere to be found. Perhaps you’re hanging on the other side.

Two hours. Two more hours until I get to see you, my love. My greed for you is burning. It is almost a sin. What should I tell you this time? Ah, poetry. I wrote something about you— yet again. I will read it later on. And music! I was playing Ed Sheeran’s Perfect a while ago and this beautiful song never fails to break my heart. You probably heard this a hundred times but you know I just have to say it.

There you are. Waiting just outside the lobby, casting your light to the branches. Curious how one tree is almost bare-naked while the other is thriving. We will talk about this too, but for now let me stare in silence.

oh dear winter moon
these eyes are all yours tonight
and all nights to come
MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: Fuyu No Tsuki hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. Technically, we do not have winter on my side of the Earth. But we do share the same moon, right? 🙂

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Nights and Lights and Silent Cries

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Nights and Lights and Silent Cries

Beneath the deepening sky
On an empty street veiled by nighttime
Her eyes lay lost in the lights
And the world was muted
Not even the wind dared to howl

Drawn to the trail of light
She wandered—
And wondered
With the lights grooving before her
Why do tears fall from her eyes?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Groove hosted by Lillian.

A few weeks ago, a certain voldemort and I went out to the busy streets around IT Park to shoot the trail of lights from passing cars. I have always love long walks and quiet nights but during that time, it was different. My senses were all aware of the noise, the lights, and the chill of the night. Perhaps it has something to do with my agyrophobia or something else. Nonetheless, the shoot turned out all right. Looking at the pictures, though, made me think: despite the colors of the night, there will always be someone looking at them with sad eyes. Which led me to this piece.

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What Visits In The Night: The Healing

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What Visits In The Night: The Healing

Another night has passed
Of whispers and deep sighs
But she no longer hides
From the fears that now subside
The memories still linger
They flicker like the stars
These visits are what heal her
So the bedroom door’s ajar
MS


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Leave the porch light on hosted by Lillian. I remember writing for MTB before about the memories that visits in the night. These are memories that don’t just leave because the other person might have. What would you do? Do you let them build you a ruin? Or do you let the night be your healing?

Image Source: WeHeartIt

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Good Ol’ Times

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Illustration by Pseudooctopus

I used to think real-life love stories were as easy as the owl and the pussycat’s. I used to think that a song and a guitar could make it last. That a dance by the light of the moon is enough. But he is no owl, nor I was a cat. We were two grown-ups who lost our foolishness. Who stopped believing in the magic of the stars. Who stopped yearning for a pea-green boat by the shore. Who stopped walking hand in hand. Ours is the real life and theirs was a fairytale. We were no longer naive. We had too much reasons in between. It is sad but it is true.

The moon remembers
Good ol’ times of make-believe
With a woeful sigh
MS


In response to dVerse’s Monday Haibun: Fukuroo–Who? Who? Who? hosted by Victoria.

My earliest fascination of owls started in grade school when we were asked to reenact Edward Lear’s The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. Looking at it now, it seems to be a nonsense poem but, back then, it was sweet love story for the little me. ❤

Ah, how time changed love and our idea of love. 

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We make the floorboards creak at night…

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We make the floorboards creak at night…

We make the floorboards creak at night
You and I— tiptoeing, barefoot
Your whispers tickling my ears,
Hands slithering my back
The crickets chirp teasingly
As we dash to the grassy field
Ah, how can the world sleep
Without watching the moon and stars?
MS

Art illustration by Anders Røkkum


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #43: Creak hosted by Grace.

I remember when I was a child, I used to sneak outside just to watch the night. I would climb the rooftop — careful not to make a noise but the roof always manage to betray me. There, in the open, I would lie to watch the moon and stars with my mom shouting at me to get back down.  “Five more minutes” , I used to ask.

Here’s to the lovers of the moon and stars.

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dverse

Downpour

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Downpour

The sun bathed me with its warmth as I leaned on the ledge across the waterfall. There were tourists around me trying to capture a photo of this cascading beauty but I stood there— dumbfounded. For days and nights I tried to look for a sign to lead me where broken hearts go. I breathed in as if an inhale is all I need to get the courage to let go. But it wasn’t. The water plashing into a rocky pool down the cliff reminded me of how I helplessly dived right into your arms. We all fall, yes I know. But what happens when you can’t pick yourself up again?

I’m listening to the sound of downpour. I don’t know which one is worse, these tears or the waterfall?

the water glistens
listening to the silent cry
of a restless soul


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: Water hosted by Bjorn

Recently, I have been wandering around Cebu with an adventure-seeking new found friends. I haven’t been writing and reading enough here in blogosphere— which I miss terribly.  However, this reconnect with mother nature has awakened my inner voice. My hopeless romantic muse.

A friend took this photo of me in Mangitngit Falls. This piece is a sad one but don’t waterfalls remind us a terrible fall? 

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One Sigh At A Time

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One Sigh At A Time

I loosen my grip
Of your memories
One sigh at a time—

Join the crowd
To unhear the sound
Of your voice
Watch the city lights
To unsee the colors
Of your eyes

One sigh at a time
One step forward
To being free
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #40: Free hosted by De with her piece, When Towes Fall. Image source: Pinterest

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What Would You Do?

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What Would You Do? 

What would you do
When the thin line between
Right and wrong blurs?

When the outcries of the dead
Scream justice but the world
Responds with more deaths?

When humans refuse to be human
And the border that protects
now destroys, what would you do?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Border. Today, Grace asks us to write about borders— physical or imaginary boundaries.

The image is above is a a painting by Filipino artist, Juan Luna, entitled Spoliarium. Our country and the people are in great divide right now with the ongoing war on drugs. Thousands are already dead but counting still goes on. When did death becomes the answer?

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