jornales

for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

here there where (at qarrtsiluni’s ‘fragments’ issue)

day in the park

a cat eats weed flowers. my dog sits on the bird bath. a mom spreads a picnic blanket for baby’s feeding bottles. three crows swoop in on my bag of popcorn. a weed flower sticks to my dress.

the baby drools. on her blue bib. the sky turns golden.

i gather my crumbs under the blooming junipers. i pull up a heather. a squirrel flies over my head on a twig.
chippers chatter.

my heather turns blue. the baby picks a dandelion. the sun slides down. over skies a swarm of snowbirds fly home. i have no wings.

silence

silence is not the absence of sound. a sheer wall in the mind perhaps. a blockade for the heart. one cannot hear a heartbeat. the whooshing of blood in and out of ventricles. blubbering air in the lungs. a grumbling emptiness in guts. random complaints from muscles trapped in passions.

silence as gaping space traps what fills air waves. winds that fissures slurp. secrets blossoms share. coughing of uncouth machines. grating wheels those dumpsters edging out magpies. the cawing of crows to be understood. marble chirps colliding with fresh acorns among the pines. sonatas on toes around the rim of dreams.

births are seeded in silence. in secret. the first cry is a child of silence. wakefulness its gender.

new calendar

first day of the year. just another grey day. a pall on the new calendar. as if what makes a difference really doesn’t.

the ticking clock. a distant squawking of a crow or better yet, complaint. deep sigh of engines passing by. the trudge goes on.
i look on the cypress with a creeping sense of sorrow. the deep cold dark in its twigs. holiday gifts piled beside it now debris.
a black garbage bag rests folded in the bin.

i gather the cards. wishes slide off my fingers. a bag of pebbles waits to be planted in the vase. like wishes that might take root, i would have to water them each day.

blue notes waver in the light. as if there’s something i should know.

death still

death still on the shore. no breath lapping sand. the bay water clear as eyes. a selvage edge of secrets. a quiet suspiration under a translucent film of air. a shimmer that wavers underneath over shell shards.

emptied mollusks. spawning stones. furry algae. fibrous weeds.

dead still but not sealed. only walled in. like your eyes, when you stare within. an absent look. a vacant thought. like i’m not there.

http://qarrtsiluni.com/2012/08/21/here-there-where/

A special piece for me. All four reveal how I really write. Most of it have somehow strayed to a few of my haiku or tanka or even haibun. But this is me. I thank qarrtsiluni for this 2nd acceptance and publication.

I’m sorry for the vacant days. I’ve just been so busy with projects and the writing of a Sunday column for a broadsheet, Business Mirror Philippines. I’ll strive to catch up soon. Thanks for your continued support!

August 22, 2012 Posted by | fragments, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

red (for One Shoot Sunday)

photo prompt by Walter Parada

the truth about red:

my heart is like a man’s
although it flickers not throbs
as the Sun I am absent at the zenith
but in living things i lend my flare

my color is red not gold
as Red i seep in or withdraw
i blossom vermillion in camellias, azaleas,
or metamorphose into the rose

when blossoms shed petals,
leaving a litter of brown scraps
i desert the flowers
or blaze in berries, persimmons—
when juiced i spurt red

after coupling with Earth
i, as the Sun, leave it with
fire for smoldering births

find me, Red,
on chipped off terra cotta bricks
a mitt of rust on stray feet
a red organdy dress
to lift the shroud off grieving
i drip red on tubs of basi
shared after evening prayers
flaring on a monsignor’s cheeks
chanting a Te Deum

i pull Red out of my chest
to cloak archbishops
in carmine the color of fresh blood
the blaze of martyrs
who bleed for others
drain their heart out

but locked in self
i dry out a heart turn it black
blood when it dries up
that’s me, a two-faced Diablo
the apparition sneaking in at night
death masquerading as love

a bouquet of red carnations on Fridays
seething trees through bumpy rides
a stone in the moonlight rooting on a mango tree
a branch for a splint on broken bones
a face bruised by kisses
scarlet spears in childhood dreams
your name on my breath
a deep breeze

i, Red, am also the Sun swirling down
on a violent hand
but soften on pink tulle over the fields
coaxing you to reach up to me
scooping you to turn in my arms
switch off your fears
to smoother you with my most tender tinge
i, the Diablo slung in your heart:
you‘re freed

*basi, fermented sugar cane, native wine in the northernmost edge of the Philippine archipelago.

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry where I can’t resist the challenge as the other poets and artists who congregate to share their love of art and poetry in this site. Check us out!

May 22, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Shuffled seasons (for One Shoot Sunday)

photo prompt by Greg Laychak

The narrow aisle flows a river to a wall
Of white thought

What squares of light have no glow
On the surface of water?

Who spawns the flat bed of dreams my steps
Struggle to cover?

Imprisoned by air I breathe a stale paradise
Of jasmine blossoms

I hear the rain a hissing of limbs on trees
But the moon does not rise

Day ends at my door night turns the stars
Upside down

‘”Where is your walker?” “Excuse moi?” What tongue
Speaks in this land?

“You cannot leave without it?” “Why, who’s heading out?”
The grubs I picked wriggle

In my closed fist I am growing a butterfly
No one knows

In my bareness I feel drenched in dew my bones
Misaligned rattle

“Now let’s go back in.” “Who has left her?”
No one comes today

I draw a caul on the day withdraw into night
Retrieve what’s lost

The sign posts melt on the flowing river
My hair long undone

I shuffle the seasons: in my eyes autumn leaves fall
But cherry blossoms

Oh, he rises to me my cane I draw my arms a lover
Now my wings

Copyright (c) by Alegria Imperial 2011

Written with an image prompt by Greg Laychak for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry, winner of the 2011 Shorty Award for the Arts, the inimitable gathering place for poets and artists. Share with us as we do ours your art or poetry and your thoughts. Check us out.

April 24, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

absolved (for One Shot Wednesday)

swallows burst into our crude mornings
their flight staggering on false winds
we gaze aghast

this fractured air birthed on false moonlight
unpredicted

our beggar voice fades into whimpers
fluttering splintered among fallen blossoms
the unabashed camellias bared

a scandal unmasked by a rude sunlight
our bleeding unabated

we slip into the brambles our sobs drowning
in the chatter of winds the river grumbles
about our tears

a sorrow tarnished by ageing stars
sputtering at dawn

a mourning heron ceases lending its grief
we recover our lips on pin drops of sky
the brambles open up for the wind

a chorus of ripples washes our bleeding
steps curl on our tears we rise

white among rhodoras
absolved

Copyright (c) by Alegria Imperial 2011

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry, winner of the 2011 Shorty Award for the Arts, the inimitable gathering place of poets and artists where they share their love for their art while nurturing each other. Come join us!

April 19, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments