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?
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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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.
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“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this.
Last night, I carved a path out of this carnal flesh
Wanting to leave the world behind—
Thoughts, feelings
Images, emotions
Flickering like jeers from far-off constellations
Death, this world has too many body bags
And the irony that prison has become a safer place is a shame
Between us, I was the lesser WHY-person
And you were the one with the bigger questions
Transcending physics to the realm of extraordinary things
While I was lost in poetry and daydreams
Detached from the physical body
Passing through astral planes and realities
Talking about death and life
A skeptic and a believer at the same time—
This is how we’ll make love
“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this, love.
Their blanket is the sky.
He listens to their voices, whispering and laughing as they play with the shadows beneath the waxing moon. A girl, about four, stretches her hands. Her thumbs interlock to form a butterfly’s body, her fingers extend to form its wings. Arms high in the thin air, the shadow begins to flap. She is Haya and her brother, Alan, joins the fun.
“Yanam,” he shouts from a distance and the two dancing butterflies stopped. Colored mats cover the pavement. Linen bed sheets create a makeshift room in the dim space that is now a home. The children race towards their father, laugh as if they haven’t jumped over dead bodies during the day. As if they weren’t chased away and reduced to sleeping in the streets.
Their blanket is the sky.
In a parallel universe the night is undoubtedly romantic. In another world the moon and the stars are poetic. But this is reality. The asphalt still smell of blood. Life is still a ticking bomb. And his wife is still dead.
His lips curved into a weak smile at the thought of his wife. For the first time he was glad she picked their children’s names. Haya means “life” and Alan means “rock.” The woman must have seen it coming.
“Yanam,” he repeats and they all went to sleep.
For the months that I haven’t been blogging, I find myself immersed in the world news. Most specifically with the pains and pathos of Africa and the Middle East. What these people are going through is painful in its reality. It is disheartening in its truth.
I wrote this piece few weeks ago, inspired by an article about Syrian civilians fleeing Deraa. I was half-hearted then but decided now that I should go ahead and post it. Just as Banksy tries to make a voice with his art, this is my attempt with words.
Image source: Favim
Each day, we wake up consciously or unconsciously wondering which version of us this concrete world will accept. We tiptoe our way on the streets. We watch what we say or do— or not do. Perhaps this is why many prefer the silence of solitude, the earthy smell of mountains, the lapping of waves. Mankind think too much, trying to turn life into one big stage. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But one thing is for sure, we are not in for an audition. We are all stars.
Here’s to beating our Monday blues. ☕️
It is a lot easier to attribute the cityscape when you think of parkour. The rails, the stairs, the ramps and the elevated structures easily became hotbeds for the nascent enthusiast. But how would you feel about parkour in the forest floor?
I’ll tell you what— joie de vivre.
But before we head onto the climax, let’s start with the [not so] easy walk.
I have been hanging out with random hikers in Cebu and I could say that this group of people– put together to face the heights of Ormoc– makes a colourful weekend. Spearheaded by Shiela and Kevin, I along with Jovy, Idol, Ate Sherlyn and Paul were present from Team Bang. Meanwhile, Phil of Laag Bisaya led the pack with Chiara, Rell, Loche and Hardi. The nomads, on the other hand, were nothing short of dull with Shikienah, James, An Jurvel, and Shandy on the troupe.
Upon arriving at Ormoc City port, all 16 hikers from Cebu were geared with excitement for the major weekend escapade. After a quick breakfast and last-minute shopping for our trail and camping essentials, we set out on an hour-long drive to Brgy. Cabintan where we met our guides, Kuya Oheng, Kuya Danny, and Efren. Also joining the fun were two harkor hikers from Leyte, Dave and Ryan.
We are all mosaic of broken little things, a patchwork quilt of mistakes and missed takes. Some people hide in the hems of denial while others try to embrace these flaws. Some run off to silence, others turn to noise. We’ve heard songs, read poetry, seen art about healing. But do we ever truly heal?
I ended my 2017 fleeing to Binabaje Hills for a sweet escape and I realize there is no better way to welcome the new year than to spend it in the cradle of mother nature. Tucked in the fringes of Alicia is another agri-eco space that is slowly making its name in the tourism scene. Cambugsay Healing Hills, located in Brgy. San Pascual, is a convention of beautiful rolling hills and still waters from the Malingin Dam.
Continue reading “Cambugsay Healing Hills: Your pit stop in this road called life”
I was holding a cup of coffee when I heard her spitting curses from the other room. She was sitting in front of the mirror when I came in, her face buried on a Sylvia Plath. “What happened?” I asked.
She looked at me from her reflection with an expression I couldn’t read, “I’m happy.”
This girl is insane. I try to read her mind but fail. Like I always do.
“It’s too much,” she plainly stated as she flipped through the pages of The Bell Jar. “I keep reading these lines but nothing’s working.”
She has always been fascinated with sad stories and sad songs and everything that has to do with sadness. “What is wrong with being happy?” I asked.
She walked right to me, tiptoed and gave me a kiss. “Nothing, of course. But art doesn’t work that way. I need coffee. And a little bit of pain.”
It has been a long while blogosphere!! I miss you badly. 😭
I can never say I’ve been out for the reason that life was giving me a hard time because, truth is, I was kicking life in the butt. The past months have been nothing but blessings. And while happiness is not a bad thing, I find it hard to get back into writing. For years my muse fed on sadness and the creatures in the dark. How am supposed to handle this too much joy? Please wait for me. 🍃❤️📝
If you could ask for one thing at a certain point in your life, what would it be?
On the last remaining days of 2017, I asked for an escape. But the thing about escaping is you never really can. What you get, instead, is a temporary break from life’s shackles and you just have to make the most of it.
Truth is I didn’t intend to write about this trip. I haven’t even shared much about it in social media. It was, of course, one of the sweetest escape I’ve ever had but I wanted the feelings and memories to cling close to me as much as possible. My friends, however, think I’m greedy. *eyes roll*
So here goes a little sneak peak.
***
On normal days, I could just use a long walk or poetry or books or music or coffee. But what happens when your outside world is just as chaotic as the world inside? Where do you go? As for me, I chose to slip away from the busy streets and head into the land of hills that I like to call my second home— Bohol.
I got the idea of this out-of-the-blue escapade from Marc of @theweekdaytraveler, who recently came from a solo trip in Bohol. When he posted the photo of the Binabaje Hills, I knew right then that I had to flee.
Continue reading “Binabaje Hills: Fleeing To Nature For A Sweet Escape”
