finding peace
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The sunflower always faces the sun;
down-crested when it’s gone, only slowly
raising its head from horizon to horizon.
Amidst the early vestiges of the day
the morning glory opens itself to the sun;
and fades before the sunset paints the sky.
It’s good I’m neither; no sun to define me.
NaPoWriMo 2023. A poem on a specific plant.
When people say they love the rain,
they really mean they love the cold weather;
the pitter patter of a light drizzle
on the window, the concrete, on things that don’t quite matter.
When people say they love the sun,
they don’t mean the scorching heat of summer;
they mean the possibility of all sorts
that would have been for naught if not the wonderful weather.
When people say they love the wind,
they mean the breeze not what ruined their hair;
a gentle caress as if a lover’s embrace
instead of a gale that tore through their life asunder.
So when people say they love you,
to what extent can you believe that be true?
NaPoWriMo 2023. Catching up to last week’s Sonnet Sunday.
It’s not
real.
It is
now. Tomorrow,
next week,
year.
It’s not
what should be
the past; it’s what
the past should be.
Not the last, but
should have been
what was.
It is
all that I
hoped had not,
or that it be not
what was
—is.
That it never be
, or today be a lot different.
But as much as I want,
what has happened cannot
be changed. What is
will remain what it is.
NaPoWriMo 2023. A poem built on negation
come nightfall brave the light of stars
rising from the ground. man did not make
the forests their own with pillars
of grey. they stole the stars and planted
their own in the concrete jungle. man no
longer see stars but the stars stare back;
come nightfall brave the heavens torn down.
NaPoWriMo 2023. Off-prompt
i carry your heart with me(literally
your heart) and i shall not live without it (or i’ll die
as you had; after which we’re one finally—
in heart that once was yours)
i fear
rejection(that my body can’t accept you)after
i wake(and you watch over from the after life)
and i hear you—your heart—as it beats your
melody and sadness strikes like the surgeon’s knife.
there was the gaping hole you left behind
(the gap of your loss, the reminder of you
ever present in me who continues to live on
in melancholy as the memory of you runs anew)
and this shall make my nights unbearably hard
i carry your heart(as it’s now my heart)
NaPoWriMo 2023. A parody/satire of a famous poem.
after [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] by E.E. Cummings
It’s been a while since I’ve written a tritina
with all of its circular movements
that begs me a story.
Even when tongue tied, it drags out a story
from within me. How have you been, tritina?
Let’s play new movements
together. By song or dance, we’ll let movements
paint the world, and us, a new story.
Then we’ll know you, tritina.
Tritina, let’s dance to the movements in our story.
NaPoWriMo 2023. A poem addressing the poem.
Lay down the sails, raise the anchor,
on the journey we go. To where? To where
all the anxious sailors go. Off the harbor,
atop the waves, into the ocean we oar.
Where’s the heading, where do we go?
The moon in our sails, see it wax so;
we’ll point the sails to the stars we follow,
leave the ship in the currents’ tow.
To the end of the earth, the end of time,
we sail for dreams too high to climb.
In our dream of dreams, forgive our crimes
to our past selves and how we lost our prime.
We’ll sail and sail off the horizon
in regrets and hopes. Finding lost passion
where we lost hope, toward the sun
clueless to when and where we’ll find land.
So lay the sails, raise the anchor,
and on the journey we go. You now know where,
let your problems go. Off the harbor,
into the ocean, our hopes be our oar.
NaPoWriMo 2023. A sea shanty.
She’s a ray of light—you never know
what to expect. How can she not see
what I want her to, but see those
I don’t mind as much? Like sailing at sea
and beaching on a whale, I’m a bit lost.
I’m stuck in a forest undecided on spring
or autumn. Caught by dogged petrichor,
the brief silences between birds singing
leaves melancholy like tea turned bitter
from being too hot or left too long brewing.
It takes careful attention to make tea;
you can’t let it steep for too long,
or you’ll ruin it more than slightly.
Even the temperature can’t be too wrong
or you’ll run it aground very quickly.
“Angelica”, echoing off Broadway,
“by your side”, “satisfied.” Maybe
you’ll find yourself talking in a way
you don’t hear yourself. Maybe see
where you got lost and find what to say.
The silence blinds me; like parang I
know what to do but reality gets
in the way and the noise flashes by
that stuns the rest of the world quiet.
And in darkness, she passes by.
NaPoWriMo 2023. An attempt on the Twenty Little Poetry Projects. I did my best to get all twenty, but this is at most 16. Less if we’re really strict on the scope of each. 
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