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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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creative writing

Chances Are

Chances are the water’s shallow
Chances are the water’s deep
Youth outgrown yet still a callow
Cowed to silence, afraid to leap
Her heart’s atwitter — a jumbled prose
Wind blows, her mind’s split
Stuck between dabbling her toes
Or simply plunging right into it

Photo via Unsplash


Sharing this very first poem I wrote for this year. It’s a small piece that carries my worries about life and writing. I took long break from both — spent almost half of 2020 floating, waking up to aimless days, switching between concern and indifference about the world. For a while, “seize the day” felt so distant when you have very little to seize. Thankfully, time and time again, I am reminded by something or someone to focus on the little things that truly matter.

Here’s to better days! 😊💛

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?


Yesterday, one of literature’s most iconic figures celebrated his birthday. Edgar Allan Poe is an American writer whose written works are known for its unique style. His short stories and poems are often characterized as dark and mysterious and at times macabre.

This particular piece is one of my favorites of his. It leads one to ponder the thin line between a dream and reality. How do you separate what is real from an illusion? Where would life falls under?

Let me have happy instead

Change my mind
Melt the strand
Of icicle that pierced
This chest

Let me believe
In magic,
Mermaids
And fairytales

And if, in case, you can’t hand a happy ever after—

I’ll have happy
Let me have happy instead.
I’ll take it any time,
Any day.


Facebook memories reminded me that I wrote this piece three years ago on this day. A lot of things have happened since then, but one thing remains: I’d still choose that happy any day. Sending virtual hugs to those who need it. 😊💛

Vignette: The forgotten pages of whines

The excitement of being lost wears off rather quickly(p.21). As bad luck would have it(p.31), the fantasy was primarily an adventure story(p.33). As I grew older(p.35), I spent half my waking moments repairing(p.50), retaining some degree of dignity(p.65) over the years(p.66). I cannot tell you how long the ensuing battle lasted(p.81) — years(p.104), a few days(p.102), an hour or so(p.114). Why is it so difficult(p.175) to perfect the art of whining(p.186)?


Weekend cleanup led me to discover this piece written on an index card. I cannot remember what particular book I was reading or when did I jot these lines down. I’m curious to know though what’s on my mind that day… What struck a chord in me? Was it the thought of losing our childishness and childish spirit? Was I missing the outdoors? What was I trying to whine? Is this piece even finished?

Photo via Unsplash

Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson

Featured poems and spoken word poetry

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –


Who loves Emily just as I do? I know I keep repeating this but I just adore her, her dashes and her poems. This piece takes us on a poetic exploration of the cyclical nature of life and death.

Wrap-Up | November 2020

Monthly Blog Update

So, we are down to final month of this challenging year. I know it has been hard all of us but I hope everyone is safe, sound and thriving.

November — the month that was. It’s when half of the world transitions from autumn to winter. It’s when dead souls are honored and bounties are celebrated. It’s when creatives around the world try their hands at National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).

I guess for me it would be “Nah, no writing November.” Anyhow, here’s a quick wrap-up.

Things I’ve written…

Continuing my #throwbackpoems, I have shared two from IG this month: Two Ghosts and Her name spells resilience. November 11 also marks Fyodor Dostoevsky’s birthday who would be 199 years old had he lived today. To commemorate, I shared Writer’s Quote Wednesday – On knowing, thinking and doing.

Books I’ve read…

My book collection is still continuously growing — all thanks to online resellers and Booksale. And despite the rise of scammers online, I was lucky enough to transact with kind and honest people who helped me find the books in my TLF (to look for) list. For this month, these are the gems that I got:

  • The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe (Php180 @a_bookworms_closet)
  • Famous Tales of Mystery and Horror by Edgar Allan Poe (Php150 @a_bookworms_closet)
  • Isle of Dogs by Patricia Cornwell (Php25 @Robinsons)
  • Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes (Php44 @Robinsons)
  • Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn (Php125 @Robinsons)
  • After Nature by Purdy (Php39 @Robinsons)
  • Walden by Henry David Thoreau (Php100 @mgaaklatnitanna)
  • The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy (Php125 @mgaaklatnianna)
  • Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood (Php85 @mimilybluebooks)
  • Politically Correct Guide to the Bible (Php75 @mimilybluebooks)

For some bookish thoughts, I have written Book Talk: Books or movies? A reader’s dilemma. and
Quick Notes: The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood.

Meanwhile, I kept getting sidetracked in between reading with all the chaos brought by typhoons, work and politics. I was able to finish two books though: Letters To My Son by Kent Werburn and Life of Pi by Yann Martel.

A big shoutout as well to LibriVox for their free public domain audiobooks. I was able to revisit once again the good ol’ favorite, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes this month.

Places I’ve been…

My SMS friends and I got a chance to catch up and hike the Spartan Trail for the first time after lockdown. The heavy rains weeks before brought the trail to life. The riverbed was filled with water, the leaves were greener, the wind was cooler — it was the lovely day indeed to convene with nature. I went back to Spartan Trail on the third week of November, this time with James and his colleagues.

Posts I loved…

My virtual presence during this month was faint. I didn’t get a chance to read other people’s posts or interesting reads from the likes of Brainpickings/Medium. Let’s strive to do better this December, shall we? 😀

Two Ghosts

She finds loneliness in crowded hallways
He finds isolation in busy streets
They are two ghosts, breathing
Living in silent screams

On a bleak night she finds solace
Amongst stars he finds peace
They are two ghosts, breathing
Chasing madness and dreams

Her name spells resilience

Free stock image: Unsplash

she can be the phoenix
rising from the ashes
the knees uncurling
to stand again
the heart— all beaten
slowly mending
give her a crown of thorns
she’ll be pain’s forebearer

MS

we molded this valley of memories with love

i wouldn’t call us
a mistake
this empty valley
that we left behind
once flourished
with laughter
and though the poppies
were long gone
and the river’s
drained with love
i have memories—
i’d go back to them
as I trudge the earth
until, one day,
the trails lead you
back to me

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