a cup of morning coffee it was her; summer lover. she was around manila. ah, she was made of amber! in april, i knew leila. in may, she kissed me a gift. ‘my prince,’ it said, with my name. a cup without any rift. love; forever was my aim. but, our summer ends in june. she left when the rain arrived. oh, how it ended so soon. teardrops and pain—i survived. the cup is still unwounded. my morning coffee left it. many minutes concluded. ah, it is still warm, i still sit.
I am Gold Who am I if you love me the way I am? If you are willing to be in abundance? I will tell you. Who am I if my skin is coated with shimmering print? Skin of the lion; gift from Artemis. Wild, animalistic, but a prey for you. Who am I if my hair is analogous to the sun? Sunray at dawn, blessing from above. Hopeful, treasurable, the one you desire. Who am I if my paradise is in the underground? Tabernacle for miners, made for worship. Magnificent, ecstatic, a place for you. Who am I if I have the crown of the king? A monarch or a demigod! Royal-blooded, ichor-blooded you love. Who am I if I always wear the fleece of Jason? Attached forever, embedded in the core. Unscraped, indestructible, you cannot. Who am I if you really love me? If you are really willing? Tell me now.
Your Mother has Three Names Have you ever wondered about your root? The Woman of Your Origin? Ah, the Woman from the Tree and Offshoot? About the Woman of Your Kin? Deep inside you, you know her suffering. How she bore the pain in her womb. How she filled two mouths in every dining. You, her child, bring her in your tomb. Oh, how she embraces you with ocean water. Yes, you feel her like mountain wind. Her umbrella is the tree, come to her. Natural love—do not prescind. She sang to you the hymn of the nation. She built the land you are treading. You are her flag, her fondest creation. Her eastern blood never-ending. Be reminded: your mother has three names. For sure, it is the world she holds. Remember your bond with her—playing games. Now, you have grown, your life unfolds.
Once, I Treaded Puerto Galera Once, I treaded Puerto Galera. An island was my space. White sad, blue water—summer aura. I looked up, sun-kissed face. The trees danced to the wind’s mellow song. Mama was calling me. ‘Lunch is served’—the beating of the gong. Afternoon was dilly. I felt the sunset as a goodbye. I left the paradise. The Garden of Eden in the eye. This, nostalgic surprise.
we’re not lovebirds you fly with me. i sing to you like a nightingale. we have the same feather. but, you told me we’re not lovebirds. tell me not to fly with you. i won’t sing to you like a nightingale. we won’t have the same feather. ‘we’re not lovebirds’—it’ll be clear.