My Universe in Verse

According to current thinking, the observable universe is about 93 billion light years in diameter. I am no astronomy expert and the likes of Edwin Hubble would probably disagree when I say that there was a time when the universe molded itself into the right shape to fit just two people.

That day we hiked the trail to the peak expecting to find the place crowded with campers. But it was uncommonly empty. Right then my selfish side wished that no one would ever come. Coelho must have known that when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it. Because no one did arrive. We had the billion-star accommodation all for ourselves.

I’ve always wondered what they meant when they said that the universe is infinite. Were they referring to the cosmic wonders from without or to those from within? That night we measured trajectories — not of falling comets but of falling hearts. At daybreak, I caught a momentary silhouette backlit by the rising sun. My sunset man. And what astronomers have not observed is this: sometimes all the mysteries of the universe is found in someone’s hand.

the wide universe
seized to be scientific—
poetic, it was

 

 

---

In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: The Picnic hosted by Gina who challenges to share some picnic themed poems.

Here’s one of my favorite memories with one of my favorite people. The title is inspired by The Universe in Verse, an annual celebration of science through poetry hosted by Maria Popova at Pioneer Works and The Academy of American Poets

Head over here to join the prompt!

On histories and mysteries

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

---

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.

Head over here to join the prompt!

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?

---

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.

Head over here to join the fun!

Memories Sting

I wake up with scattered thoughts of you. Memories tossed on my bedroom floor. I tiptoe as I reached for the remote control, aware of what could happen if I step on one of them. A headline flashes from the flat screen. Today the world remembers the 140,000 deaths of the Hiroshima bombing. I can already hear you laugh. You, in your black shirt with that big bold quote that says “Fuck Imperialism”. You like women who can’t spell capitalism and it’s exactly the reason why you held my hand. Because I hated the numbers.

Outside, the world is a limbo. Cars going to and fro in a dull locomotive pace. I remember you complaining how God is a lousy screenwriter. On how this universe has become lopsided because he has rounded animals and humans but fucked up with the food chain. Men killing animals. Men killing men. “What madness!” you used to yell.  God, I miss you and your opinions. Those random sarcasm that turn into a long eurhythmic condemnation.

I calculate my decision as I snug on my pillow. What are the odds of living if I get up on this bed? I remember hands wrapped around my waist, soft kisses on my nape. You gave a scientific inquiry on how long can hugs last. I got up because my answer still has not changed— infinite. Today the world remembers the 140,000 deaths of the Hiroshima bombing. I have never seen the Little Boy’s wrath. I have never washed my face with blood. I have never ran away from death. I have never fought my way to live. But those 140,000 men must have felt far more torment than this heartbreak. And so, with shame, I must carry on this fate.

the wind whispers woes
of the dead and the living—
how memories sting

---

In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: Peace Memorial hosted by Frank J. Tassone and Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle #206.

Image Source: Favim

Head over here to join the fun!

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

---

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

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

Head over here to join the fun!

 

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

---

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? 🙂

Head over here to join the fun!

Breathe, Then Move Along

On some days you will find yourself on the edge of a cliff. Your hands will be holding on to nothing but the rough and sharp boulders that will only leave you with callouses and wounds. Your knees will tremble at the thought of falling. Of failing. And that every single cell in your body will be in a crazy delirium.

On these days, I want you to take a deep breath. To feel the warmth of the sun. To let the wind tease your hair. Listen to the silence and hear the beat of your heart. It’s probably beating too fast but it will slow down if you give it a little time. Breathe.

And then move along. If you must walk or run or crawl on fours, do it. You will be scared. You will be scarred. But isn’t that how we grow? Let the callouses be your pride and the wounds be your drive. Be the trembling mess standing bravely at the edge of life.

‘Neath the gloomy sky
Leaves sway to the wind’s rhythm—
Blow your fears away

---

Waking up on the right side of the bed, here’s a little haibun to kiss away our Monday blues. Have a great week everyone! 😀

Good Ol’ Times

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

---

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. 

Head over here to join the fun!

Downpour

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? 

Head over here to join the fun!