ngiti mo sumunog sa puso ko
mata mo alipimin kaluluwa ko
kapag ikay nakatitig sakin
napapaso ako sayong mga tinging magpakailanman

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

Ang lakas ng ulan
Pero, nandito pa rin ako
Naghihintay.
Ang lakas ng paghampas ng ulan sa aking likod
Pero, nandito pa rin ako
Naghihintay

Ang unang tingin niya sa akin,
Noong pinanganak pa lang ako
Ay hindi tinging na ibinibigay ng nanay
Ang mga mata niya
Punong-puno ng alat na makikita mo lang sa dagat
Dahil, hindi ako parte sa mga balak niya.

Pero, baka dahil lang sa kanyang konsensya
Pumunta siya sa ibang bansa.
Niyuko niya ang kanyang ulo para maitaas ko ang akin.
Binuhos niya ang kanyang pagkatao para ako’y makakain.
Kahit hindi ako parte sa mga balak niya
Minahal pa rin niya, ako.

Kaya, nandito ako, naghihintay.
Sa harap ng libingan ng kanyang nanay.
Ang lakas ng ulan
Pero, nandito pa rin ako
Parang noong
Nandoon siya para sa akin.

Saksi ako sa bawat tingin.
Saksi ako sa lihim na pagdapo ng paru-paro sa iyong bukirin.
Saksi ako sayo at sa kanya.
Saksi ako sa pag-aari mo sa kanya, gamit ang iyong mga mata.
Saksi ako sa lihim na pagsulyap.
Saksi ako sa labis na pagiingat.
Saksi ako sa lahat.
Pero ako, nasaksihan mo ba ako?
Napansin mo ba ang bawat tinging binabato ko sayo ?
Naaninag mo ba ang pusong dumadapo sa mga ito?
Nasaksihan mo ba?
Ang pagtago ko sa likod ng mga pahina,
Ang paghikbi ko gamit ang musika,
Ang sakit? Nasaksihan mo ba?
Na sa tuwing napapagod ka kakahabol, ganon din ako?
Na sa tuwing masaya kang tinititigan siya, ako naman, umaasang tititigan mo?
Nasaksihan mo ba?
Ang pag-asam kong sana,
Sana ako nalang siya.
Sana ako nalang...
Sana ako..
Sana...
Hanggang kailan ako kakapit sa mga natitirang sana?
Hanggang kailan ko panghahawakan ang paniniwala kong "baka"?
Ang paniniwala kong baka ikaw...
Ikaw na tama at ikaw na Mali,
Ikaw na oo at ikaw na hindi,
Ikaw na meron at ikaw na wala..
Ikaw na tanong, at ikaw na sagot. Ikaw na.
Paano ko nga ba mapapakawalan ang mga titig kong biglang nakulong sayo?
Paano ko nga ba mapipigilan ang kamay na pipigil sana sa pagtakbo mo?
Paano nga ba?
Kakayanin ko pa bang saksihan ang bawat ngiti, bawat tingin, bawat paghikbi na hiniling ko sa bituin pero sa iba dumating?
Kakayanin ko pa kaya?
Kakayanin ko pa..
Kakayanin ko..
Kakayanin..

M.U (Mag-isang Umiibig)

Minsan pinangarap ko
Mali,
Araw-araw pinapangarap ko
Na sana tingnan mo rin ako
Tulad ng tinging ipinupukol mo sa kanya
Pero itong tangang to hanggang pangarap lang talaga
Bakit? Kasi di mo naman ako kilala

The sweet sound of innocence
from rampant fits of laughter,
Lemon bars embellished
with a coat of sugar,
Cartwheels in
the freshly mown grass,
the taste, the smell
forever engrained in my mind,
The sweet, syrupy
cherry lollipop,
tinging my tongue,
ever-so-slightly reminding me,
nagging me to feel
this nostalgic desperation,
for a time and place
that no longer exists.

I don’t know you yet,
But I’m scared I won’t ever get the chance
And there is still so much I want to tell you.
So I hope tonight you’re listening to
The sun whispering secrets and promises to the earth
While the stars play sonatas and symphonies
with a crescendo that Shakes beliefs
and crystallizes my voice in the wind
I hope it’s carried to you, wherever you are.
I hope you feel what I’m feeling right now
And know you’re not alone
And wherever you are
Whoever you are
I love you
So put down your blade
For you should only bleed with the moon
Life’s the gift in your veins and
Your wrist was meant to be kissed by lips
Untie your noose,
Use the rope to tie the backyard swing
Someone someday
Will pump their legs so they can
Fly and kiss the universe
But that’s not the only thing I want to tell you

Like the mother that gives up her unborn
Tears in her eyes for the
Countless nights she won’t be able to
Tuck her daughter into bed
And tell secrets of the strength she possesses
That she’s so much more than beautiful
her legs are strong enough to carve her own path
And someday she’ll find success buried
Inside her own bones
Read her son fairytales
Of how to love gently
Break the stereotypes
Because It’s okay if he cries
There’s strength in tears
She has so many lessons and stories to
Share but
She’s only 16 and she’s still a child herself
this is the second time
Her mistakes will burn scars in the empty space
Between her arms as she cradles regrets and
Kisses the soft skin of an imaginary cheek
right below the should-be reflection
Of herself
There’s still so much she wants to tell them


And there’s a girl wandering the street alone
who’s given up believing in anything
Except empty promises and lies
The same night her god died in
The arms of a stranger who
had too much to drink
Bruises on her thighs
And stale breath burned into her neck
Knowing no amounts of soap could wash
The filth away, not even the sun is bright enough to guide her
When her eyes are stained with black cigarette ash
Not knowing there’s someone out there that
Has the stars to bring her safely home
that there are empty hands aching
To hold her
show her there is so much more
Than wrists and razors
That Heaven can be found
In hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows
a safe arm around her shoulders as they toast
One another by the fireplace
But she’s already given up
With the barrel to her chest,
She takes a deep breath
and pulls the trigger
While miles away in foster care
In a run-down room with
three beds and tear stained sheets
is the lonely other half with stars in his pupils
A smile for the hope of making a home
Despite the promises of homes that’s been constantly broken
He keeps his strength in ink
so he keeps on writing
And even without dinner for a week
He’s full with dreams of
A home he would’ve shared with her but
he’ll never know that except for the pain in his chest
From never hearing the voice that
Could sing back his heartbeats, a muse
with hands that mirror his lifelines
But tonight with no realization of the could-be family
He’ll press his pen to paper;
Writing poetry for the girl he’ll never meet,
folding his words into a paper airplane
That he can release to the atmosphere
And pray it finds her, wherever she is.
There’s still so much he wants to tell her


And
I want to whisper secrets in your ear
Of every nightmare I’ve ever had
And how I believe you can turn the falling sand
Into dreams
Give bodies to the ghosts
Of those who haven’t died yet
I want to tell you stories of
My grandmother under the Tuscan sun,
Losing everything but still believing in her dreams
And how with shaky hands from world war II bombs
She signs her name on the Ellis Island wall
An Italian accent tinging her tongue
As she learns how to dream in English
Of how she joins the American war so she can
Shakily hold a diploma and finally
Teeter on the edge of the precipice
Singing songs of triumph and kissing
The things she dreamt of as a child
And with those same shaky hands
She’ll hold my mother and kiss her eyelids
Not once resenting those explosions
Because fate has a funny way of
Bringing you to where you were meant to be
And she was meant to love the American man
Who stares down at his new born child with
A new kind of gentleness in his smile
And these are the things I admire the most

But I also want to tell you how I’m terrified
Of how I’ll inherit my grandfathers disease
(the same man with a gentle smile)
Of mania in iridescent white
And depression so deep you drown in blue
With his OCD mannerisms and bi-polar Medication
he shakes too.
And sometimes I’m convinced
That this shame will be repaid
With my own set of pill boxes
Mapping out every white and brown tablet
That I’ll take day after day
To control the chaos
To control the hysteria
To bottle myself up in chains
So I can say no to the shining razorblade that
Beckons to release the pressure of
Red (blood)
White (highs)
And blue. Deep deep blue.
He has chocolate brown eyes just like mine
So maybe that’s not the only thing
I’ve inherited

I want you to be someone I hold
Under sheets kissing your forehead as you fall asleep
Both feeling holy as Jesus as we finally let go and cry
Knowing that our tears will reach their hands into the sky
To pick out the brightest stars
and light up one another’s face in the dark.
Invincible but not invisible in your embrace.
I want to tell you of all my dreams and how I used to
Pretend I had superpowers
Pretend I could fly with a red cape
i want to tell you
Of how I still sleep with the moon as my night light
Because I’ve always been scared of what lurks in the dark
And
When I look in the mirror
I don’t really know who looks back
but I still think life is beautiful
When you’re looking for pictures in clouds.
Most importantly I want to tell you
I love you.
I don’t know you yet,
but I love you
And I hope when I pass you on the street
Not yet knowing your name
I will dream of you.
And someday when I come across you again
In some coffee shop on the corner of
Reality and make believe
I’ll have the courage to ask you to
Stay and talk a while
The steam from your Chai washing away
The stress from your face
As we both realize this is it
So let‘s start with our names and explain
there is so much we need to tell each other.

The prairie sun hung low,
Slipping toward the hill,
Just touching the top of the lone cottonwood
Leaning away from the country road.

He stood in the doorway,
Removing the tattered chore coat,
Taking off his muddy boots,  
Saw his mother,
Standing, looking out the window,
Half expectant in her pose,
Half turning toward him,
Where he stood.

She'd looked out that window
More than 25,000 times, he figured,
Watching the ends of days,
Year after year,
Storms coming, or no,
Soft breezes blowing,
Opened, she'd listen to the prairie sounds:
Coyotes and owls at night,
Meadowlarks and roosters in morning,
Hawks shrieking and cicadas by day,
And people sounds:
Children and grandchildren laughing, crying,
Neighbors closing the latch and coming near,
Her husband, clearing his throat...
The memories returned at the window,
While she was standing there.

Through the galvanized screen the world filtered in:
Earth-rich scent of coming rain,
Strong tobacco smells of men lounging after lunch,
New-stacked hay beside the barn,
Springing grass and budding trees....

She'd waited at that window, too,
For her husband to return,
Or one of the ten boys and girls
She'd birthed and raised in this old house.
At 97, she was nearly blind,
Could only hear a little,
Spoke seldom now,
Covered her swollen legs with a woolen blanket,
Even in the heat of summer.

Her idea of exercise were precarious journeys:
The toilet,
The table,
The bed,
Her old easy chair,
And the western window.

He, the youngest son, a bachelor,
Comical in his words,
Steady in his ways,
Owned an easy-going laugh that set his friends at ease,
Careful in his manners, never meaning to impose,
Ever ready to lend a neighbor a hand,
Became the one to stay with "Mother,"
After his father died the lingering death
Of a man who'd lived to groan that he'd
Survived a bull's trampling.
(Well, "survived" was just a word, meaning
Prolonged misery preceding untimely death.)

"Mother, what you lookin' at?" he asked,
Fresh in from chores,
Wanting supper,
Knowing vinegar pie and hamburger hotdish
Were waiting in the oven
Because he'd placed them there.

"It must be time for breakfast!"
She turned from the window,
One frail finger pointing at the sun,
Struggling now in the branches of the tree,
"The sun is coming up!"

He stood behind her.
"Where does the sun come up every day, Mother?"
He asked softly.

She looked at him, confused.

"Yer lookin' out the west," he spoke again,
"The east is over there."
He pointed to the other side of the house,
And she, uncertain, looked again
At the dying sun, now setting,
Easing carefully into the western pool of night.

A few high clouds glowed red, tinging now in grays.

"Sun's going down, Mother, and nearly time for bed."

He put the plates on the table,
Walked her to her place,
Helped her sit,
Scooped their plates and cut slices
Of the home-made pie.

Red sky at night meant he might get the last
Few truckloads off the home place tomorrow
Before wind or storm flattened everything to the ground.

Tonight it was supper and settling his mother to bed,
Washing some dishes, and putting things away,
Before some reading and a solitary evening...
Before the coming of another day.

Today, I watched a heavy insect of
indeterminable species
repeatedly slam into the wide picture windows
of my college library’s
third story as I read a book
analyzing one poem
Teilhard de Chardin wrote
after carrying casualties
on a stretcher
all day
from a war for which no name is presented
to me.

It is inferred de Chardin's time tells of world wars,
yet his poem deals with virginity
and mothers
although of each he was in just one.

Resistance to our ****** urges
and the potency resistance drains
was compared to
minute prosperity provided by the pursuit
of retaining 'innocence'.

The book was named "Eternal Feminine"
and its author's argument functioned
as a double victory for remittance
to a cloud kingdom
and shivering loneliness
seen through invisible barriers
on earth.

Hooray!

He seemed to be
rationalizing the struggle
with sickly pleasure
from repetition of denial.

But I lost interest in his foolish, war-time words.

Watching the flying thing reverse directly,
then continuously speeding ahead
into various windows
which were thought to be bare air,
confused and jolting with every attempt
and frantically circling in my sight,
I was led to thinking of a
demolition derby
at a fairground to which
my parents brought me
each year
of childhood
in the Autumn.

I watched, fascinated
machines stave-off
self-induced decimation
until the very last collision, after which
their motive force removed itself
rushing off to pilot
some variant of bumbling insects
and stretchers
in the form of French theological poets
throughout the past
carrying bodies
into the hands of a college student
backing up determinately
to burst through, toward the one who bares
no sons, who may become warriors
or demagogues.

This kind, secular Hannah
crosses my vision
walks out
beyond frames and doors,
clothes flowing with her
body, like a
sweet corona
sweltering with unseen heat
the fading horizon
of my day.

He sees her reflection on the moon.

Now he may not see space’s vacuous expanse
while
she may not be able to touch time’s clear fabric,
although they each feel
glass’s frozen liquidity
in silence.

Each
continuously strikes their head
against motion’s transparent barriers
with force
stubbornly flapping
into matter
with passion
and wings pulsating
toward a new direction
which does not seal them off
to the outside
of a building
in which they would be swatted,
punished for what they are.

Then the moment passed
and the sun’s thousand year combustion
had reached my neck
and penetrated matter
to massage me;

for eight and a half minutes
it travelled
toward a shadow I pushed
across the table
when the sun suddenly was helpless
to tell me where I ended,
which windows I flew through.

I was on top
de Chardin’s stretcher
as he looked at me to say I shouldn’t
charge in that way,
but I fell down
when he let go
or he evaporated
when I doubted he had lived.

Pressing my cheek against the glass
I reversed my propulsion
like the flown insect
and sounded again
my body's tinging
reverberation
on every surface.

Sa bawat araw na lumilipas,

palaging inaasam ng puso

ang bawat salitang malumanay **** binibigkas,

bawat galaw **** nagbibigay tono sa uniberso,

bawat tinging nagpapahinto ng oras,

bawat ngiting nagbibigay kulay sa mundo.

At sa bawat bukas na sinusundan ang mga kumpas,

palaging isang Obra Maestrang Ikaw nakikita ko.

As the compact square drifts into my mouth,
Cocoa fireworks ascend, shooting up at the speed of light,
Leaving the milky texture tinging in my mouth.
As heat slowly melts it; as it grows not up but down,
I can feel it slide smoothly down the tunnel that is my throat,
Still descending into a dark crevice,
Never to be seen again.
Fairtrade is one of many kinds,
Like Asian, African, American of our race.
A saviour object, one that can give so much,
To change the lives of millions,
To give them one thing that most people need.
Hope.

Solitary, lie-back moments; of being in the coziest of places surrounded by the most mundane yet magical. Melancholy has a way of tinging itself with those little nuances of memory, and those little nuances of memory tinge themselves with shades of bittersweet and sad recollection over time. Silent reckonings, simplistically suppressing thoughts - all huge contradictions to the slow, natural motion of letting the waves wash over you.

Is this emotional maturity? Is this a step forward? Life is always full of too many intricacies to tell for sure.

The familiar scents of tearstains and revulsion being punctuated by the occasional flicker of light ahead; pain and perseverance, hope and the promise of heaven.

We are so full of contradictions - concrete, grounded beings yet with so many abstractions and complexities in our heads. A constant grapple, a relentless cycle. Coming back to places of washed up memories has this effect on you; but you pull through, you plough through quicksands, you pick up the small rationalities that have gone astray, and you move forward like you’ve always been doing before. It’s the only thing we know how to do.

Walk on our own, on our own two feet.

And pray that whatever knocks us down, will never be enough to sink us.

Desperate light eases through the curtain
Gentle moon gives way to dazzling sun
Gorgeous baby sleeping with streams highlighting her hair
Lashes tight and dark, windows shuttered and mind forlorn
Somehow sleep seems impossible as the wings of birds beat outside
Suddenly the night has gone, it's over and passed
Everytime I glance, my eyes scan the face of her
Peaceful with regular breathing, slowly rising and falling
Breezy and cool so very typically morning
It feels good but the warmth of her body is intoxicating
More comforting, relaxing and serene

I dare not look at the clock
For even in this short period it will have moved inexplicably
As the gesture of the sun traces a path across the wall
Filling the room with a lilac presence
The tinging of the wind chime reminds me of gentle cows
Moving to and fro on the Tyrolean mountainside
Their bells swinging on leather bands
Closing my eyes again I imagine green fields
The aroma of the air coming through the open window
Describes a distant place of calmness and peace.

Jan is still sleeping and I gently touch her hand to find it cold
Having been outside the covers for some hours
She does not stir
Above me the crystal at the window is sending tiny rainbow spectrum
Dancing in mad little circles, alive on this wonderful day
I feel so at rest, so in love and fortunate to have and to be
Mornings are fresh starts and gifts for us to savour
How lucky we are to have them

I crave to talk to you about it
However what exactly is 'it'
A whirlwind of issues and trouble, interlaced within my thoughts tinging in red

I wish I could crawl in the comfort of your Autumn coloured arms and nestle my fragile body into your portrait masterpiece.

I wish you'd try to understand,
That this pain wasn't planned. I don't choose to feel a wave instead of ripples, that salty water steals my air because of the force it holds.

I long to explain why I feel drained, why simple tasks are no longer natural and it hurts to walk on glass.

The heat of the sun.
The beat of the drum.
Bells tinging,
Jingles jingling,
Cow Bells ringing,
Children laughing,
Men singing,
A powwow.
An intertribal.
What flies over head?
A mystical friend.
The eagle came to join.
We danced as it flew over us.
It circled watching us from afar.
When it left,
We felt blessed.

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion'd limb
Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair,
As they design'd to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and, as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,
Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents,
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad
And fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man,
Fretful if unsupply'd; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay.
He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd load,
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight.

...

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science; blinds
The eyesight of discovery, and begets,
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind
*******, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore, still, blameworthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free,
My native nook of earth! . . .

...

But there is yet a liberty unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs
Of earth and hell confederate take away;
A liberty which persecution, fraud,
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind;
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more.
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from Heav'n,
Bought with his blood who gave it to mankind,
And seal'd with the same token. It is held
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are august, but this transcends them all.

...

This is what heartbreak looks like.

It is the soliloquies you wrote to him at midnight while crying

It is the formality a smile and the absence of warmth

It is the nausea and the ***** because this mornings breakfast just didn't have the heart to stay with you

He didn't either

This is what heartbreak sounds like.

Silence
Breaking
Static

This is what heartbreak feels like.

The burn of your concerned friends eyes into your back

The burn of the shame tinging your cheeks red

This is what heartbreak is.

You
Me
But not us

Never us

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportion'd limb
Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair,
As they design'd to mock me, at my side
Take step for step; and, as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,
Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man.
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents,
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest,
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad
And fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man,
Fretful if unsupply'd; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay.
He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd load,
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft,
His broad keen knife into the solid mass:
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,
With such undeviating and even force
He severs it away: no needless care,
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight....


'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Except what wisdom lays on evil men,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science; blinds
The eyesight of discovery, and begets,
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind
*******, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore, still, blameworthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free,
My native nook of earth! . . ....


But there is yet a liberty unsung
By poets, and by senators unprais'd,
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs
Of earth and hell confederate take away;
A liberty which persecution, fraud,
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind;
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more.
'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from Heav'n,
Bought with his blood who gave it to mankind,
And seal'd with the same token. It is held
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath
And promise of a God. His other gifts
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,
And are august, but this transcends them all.

call me a witch... I heal myself
be the person
you have the courage to be
swimming in the green blue sea
like a little fish jumping
out of the Ocean a little bell tinging
I hit the ground on my feet
the smell of oxygen holding me up
breathing full deep breaths of air
the ringing in my ear my head clear
in thoughts to mind making this world
into the sought of the living air
the souls of my feet the atomic radioactive
energy of a Star the Earths center core
thru the uniting with nature a body temple
using its physical senses touching life
a swarm of bees wings the living strong faith
defeating hypocrisy nature shines
the hungry sheep looks up a witch
I heal my self on the wind and rank
the mist a seagull inland whispers the notion
that understanding of the Universe
is a responsibility to know your truth
is this life of oceans waters lands and air
your birth your being is the future growth
of life the Universe playground to be
all you can love see mature believe life
the infinite soar soar create from the core
of Star Earth planet get the inside right
the outside allows primary reality
sew little dragon-fly over come self doubt
believe you are enough of life to soar
you live in a private sanctuary no negativity
living in a life others do not understand
our mystery world of happenstance....
                                                              gjmars  7/9/15

Journal

I sleep in in pools of sweat, awakened regularly by nightmares. Body clenched tighter than a rusted vise. Still, the nightmares are more pleasant than my waking hours.

Journal

It is late in the afternoon and I finally have a second to jot down yesterday’s nightmare, sleeping and waking. The dream began with a strong feel of reality to it. I was lying in the trench half asleep; my body folded awkwardly in the dry dirt corner that I had cleared for myself. My journal pages were scattered all about. Many discolored, some with dirt, some with blood, and others simply with the wear of time. The ink on each sheet was blurred to the point that I could not make out any of the words.
The only disconcerting thing was the quiet. I could not recall this much quiet ever, at least not for many months. There were no explosions or tinging of bullets bouncing off our make shift metal trench tops. I heard no one making lewd jokes or screaming out their night terrors. My voice had been stolen as well but I had no clue as to how or why.
I looked around and found no one, not even Billy or Captain Owens. At first there was a sense of panic, but I finally relaxed. I was alone. There were no machine guns or artillery firing, no one screaming orders. I could sit here and read my books in the sweetest solitude anyone has ever known. I gathered the unbound journal pages around me, and put them in their proper place and order. Then, I pulled out and old copy of Grimm’s fairytales.
Without warning I felt hot hands pulling on my, shirt. Hard fingers crawled struggling across my back and chest trying to pull me down. The harder I struggled the more their grip tightened, pulling me down faster and faster. My body was slowly being swallowed by the earth. The dirt consumed me inch by inch, stealing every breath I had and replacing it with clots of mud. I could feel worms trying to burrow their way into my skin. I coughed and sputtered in horror.
Despite my terror, I thrashed against the earthy hands. My eyes were clouded dark brown. I could feel fingers clawing at my face. Then there was a sharp slap stinging my cheek. I clenched my fist to punch the earth. Even so, I was still unable to see anything or breathe. I raged against whatever it was.
Then I heard Billy shouting, “Get up you idiot, it’s a gas attack.”
I scratched at my face struggling to find the air, until I finally realized what was going on. My face was covered by a gas mask, and Billy was yelling at me.  I fixed the mask properly to face and took stock of the scene. Everyone in the trench was either struggling to get their gas masks on or helping other soldiers, who were stumbling around blinded by the green gas cloud, attaching theirs. One man was even putting a large strangely shaped mask on a horse. Panicking, several of my compatriots rushed over the top and were mowed down by enemy planes. Amidst the chaos I stood stupidly, still not helping at all just coughing and wheezing. I turned to look back at my spot and in the foggy haze I saw dark brown dirt arms receding back into the ground.
A part of me wished those hands had strangled me; a part of me still does.

Journal

Dreaming darkly, I dared to climb some jagged precipice. My hands were dusty with gravel and moist with sweat making, each grip harder than the last. Barely a foot below my feet the sharp stones began to crack and shift. A section of the mountain started to move rolling into the shape of a clenched fist. The sound of stone scraping stone stung my ears. The fist pounded upon the side of the cliff shaking loose rocky bits, then larger bit of rock as well. Grey and black speckled stones pelted my head dangerously fast. Foolishly forgetting my current task, I raised my hands to protect myself. With no secure footing on the rock my weight pulled me backwards and I fell straight into the sharp stone hand. The monstrous hand shook me side to side.
Then I heard a moaning. At first I thought it was me, certain that in some concussed manner I was making noises without meaning to; however, I was not. Even though, I was hanging upside down by one leg, I could still see the face of the cliff very clearly and very literally.
One rock eye opened, up then the other, blinking rapidly as if they had not been opened for a thousand years. The irises were grey and jagged like cracked stones, but the pupils seem to be like a mirror. Inside I could see two reflections, one overlaying the other. The first was a young man, clean cut and shaven with warm hazel eyes and a smile. The other was an older man. His face was much leaner. The hazel eyes were bloodshot with bags so deep under them that you would swear he had been punched in the nose. His hair was now worn recklessly, and thin **** covered his face.
Staring fiercely at me but with a tinge of pain the mountain cried “my arrrrr ou hirtming meee?”
Without thinking I laughed. The indignation was obvious. The mountain’s eyes glared at me. Then another stony hand exploded from the rocky formation. Clenched in a fist the new limb violently pounded its own face, clearing a clutter of loose rock and dirt away until an orifice could be seen. Then it repeated “why are you hurting me?”
Before I could stop myself, I laughed again. Infuriated, the mountainous creature shoved my left foot in its newly formed mouth and bit down hard. I screamed in agony. Then I woke up. My entire body was pulsing with pain and my lower left pant leg was wet again. I tried to pull the fabric from my skin but stopped when an intense pain shot up my leg. I was bleeding again. Where the hell was the medic?
I was no expert but, I was pretty sure my leg was not supposed to smell like rotten eggs. I tried to stand but stumbled. Angrily I pushed off against the side of the hole and managing to rise again, only to wobble and fall face first in to cold wet dirt. Chewing on a bit of blood and mud I shuffled around in the dirt for a while trying to get up. I spit out the dirt but was too afraid to call out for help. Suddenly, I remembered why. I was the only one left.
      Last night we all went over the top. Captain Owens held the barbed wire back as we rushed over the rough incline. Bits of brown earth exploded around us as we pushed forward. Most of my mates moved faster than me. Billy was blasted and fell four or more yards from my feet. I pivoted around his bullet riddled corpse. Screams of rage and terror sounded in the darkness. I think, I managed a couple more yards before a bullet cut clean through my calf.  Even with a bullet in my leg, I managed to make it a little further until I slipped on some blood slicken grass. I tried to brace myself but fell face forward into a lump of warm sticky something.
When I realized I could not stand up, I began to drag myself backwards. The enemy’s bullets sounded a strange earthly percussion around me. Inch by slow agonizing inch across the cold, ******, muddy earth I managed to drag myself back down into our dank hole. I found my corner and decided to wait for help. I am uncertain if someone will come to help me.

Journal

This morning as the sun was slowly rising, I managed to pull myself up just enough to see the barren landscape. The grass is gone, the trees are gone. The earth is a massive wound, scattered with bullets and ****** bodies. Thankfully, the gas attacks had robbed me of my sense of smell, or the stench would have killed me. I think, I was slipping in and out of consciousness.
     As I was trying to pull myself out of the hole, I saw a red wolf running through the dead earth. A sharp spasm of pain set my whole body a spark, and I cried out. The wolf turned his head scowling and growling at me. Even though it was many yards away I could see it eyes. The irises glowed forest green, piercing me with an almost accusatory stare, as if to say this is all your fault.
We sat in a holding pattern for several minutes before it realized that I was no threat. Then it slowly sauntered over to the nearest corpse. After a few carefully placed sniffs the wolf began chewing on the face of the corpse. Even though, I should not have been able to, I could hear the crunching of the bones and the squishing sound of flesh being gnawed off the dead man’s face.
I closed my eyes for a second, and everything changed. There was no wolf, the chewed up body was nowhere to be found. In the distance I heard the sound of several wolves howling and running towards the ****** battlefield. I lost my grip and slid backwards onto a thin line of barbed wire that ripped my shirt and tore strips of flesh from my back. I would have screamed but all I could muster was a soft whimper and a moan before I passed out again.

Journal

I don’t know why I bother. It hurts so much. My lips are chapped, my skin is fevered fire, and the blood I have lost. I should be dead. I would have shot myself, but apparently in that mad dash I lost my bayonet and pistol.
Last night, or was it this morning, whatever that last time I passed out was, I dreamed I was sitting in an open field. The earth was quiet growing and glowing with lush green foliage. The clouds were cotton ball cumulus forming a white, light blue, and grey chimera. There was a shimmering pond of pure blue water. Not clear but blue water. Inside the water I could see a distorted rippling version of the sky.
Within the watery reflection a black dragon danced in and out of the cloud. Its scales rippled silver, grey, black, and green as the beast twisted and turned with more grace than a world class contortionist. Its sinuous body straightened as it burst through another batch of clouds, dispersing their massive puffiness into tiny little puffs of white, grey, and light blue smoke.
I turned my head from the pond to see if I could spot the monster in the sky, but it was not there. My gaze found its way back to the pool were the beautiful beast was getting closer and closer, but when I looked back up it was nowhere to be found.
Again my vision returned the blue body of water. Ripples began to rapidly form on the surface and collide with a loud and thunderous crash. The dragon was closer in the reflection but still nowhere to be seen in the air.
      I could feel its breath at my back and see its teeth in the reflection. Its long snout curled in a viscous grin.  The mouth dripped steaming acid drool burning my skin. Two rows of teeth filled the top and the bottom of its mouth.  The outer rows were jagged and yellow, while the interior rows were dark brown and flat.
By the time I realized that I should, run it was too late. I felt the fierce face of the famished dragon envelope my torso and chomp down. My body convulsed with burning agony. I screamed, as I felt the furious beast chewing and swallowing me. I awoke to the sharp stench of sweat, ****, *****, and ****. My pants were stuck to my body, and I could not stop shivering. I manage to find another pair of pants. Painfully I struggled to remove the contaminated britches. Switching out the ****** and ****** pair for a slightly cleaner pair, I sat mute.

Journal

The sky is dull grey with no clouds. It’s just another dreary day, so if this is anyone other than myself. Then let me say hello or goodbye. It’s all the same in the end. We come and go in such a rapid succession that it seems almost pointless. I do not know the exact whys and how’s. I am starting to think there is no rhyme and reason. These dreams waking and sleeping are no worse than the horrors of reality.
It could be real or not, I am uncertain. As I write this, I feel I may die soon. Which means that it is up to you to figure out what all this means. Because, I am tired of struggling, searching, and hurting. I am tired of the bullet, bombs, and bayonets. I am tired of seeing my friends bravely face down a gruesome death. I am tired of the darkening of my soul. My spirit is too heavy with the horror of it all, but most of all I am just plain tired.

Nagseselos ako pag may ibang sayo'y nakalapit,
Habang kayo'y magkausap, 'di ko maiwasang mapatitig,
Sa pasimpleng hawak niya, at tinging malagkit,
Kamao'y napapayukom, paano kaniya nalalapitan? —nakagagalit.

And I find myself alone,
Brought to this place
Where we threw cigarette butts
Down the storm drain.
I feel the memory of you drowning
Inside of me.
Breathless, reaching,
I hear church bells ringing and tinging.
I think for a moment
That you're God might be on my side tonight.
I remember vividly your fear of heights
And popping balloons
And I sigh through pursed lips.
Why in the end did we become adventurers of a lost faith?
You and I,
We should have listened when the philosophers told us
That God was dead.
Because instead tonight I feel cheated
And disbarred.