PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Sa Parang

(Ang Bukang-Liwayway Dito, O Doon, Noong Takipsilim)

(In Tagalog Language)

Nag-iisip kung

paano rin gamitin

—ang mga tao

Dawn,

Is at hand,

Your woe,

Nuisance will be,

Gone!

How dark will it be when it dawns on us

That there is no one left who's right?

I've never seen an angel bleed

Till I stood with knife in hand

I've never seen a devil cry

Till I looked once through it's eyes

You were my drug

Long before I acclimated

Long before withdrawal

I needed you to survive

I can feel your eyes on my back

Can't you hear me?

I'm silent on the outside

But screaming on the inside

I'm soul-lost

I can't find who I am anymore

Maybe I'll be fine

Perhaps I will survive

But I just don't know if

I can outlast your memory

If I lose myself in drugs and dreams

Or fly away to places and things

To fill the gap you left behind

Consuming body, soul, and mind

But there is no need

To conjure dreams

When life comes

In such radiant colors

They say Pandora is to blame

Her curiosity brought us pain

And fear of darkness in the night

But there was hope in candle-light

From the dark, a light will shine

Before the day, the night has gone

And now we know it burns so fine

That is why it's called, breaking dawn.

And maybe, just maybe

That which dies gives birth to something new

Sun,

Peeks again,

After an interval,

Bringing the same,

Fun!

PINK RIBBONS OF LIGHT

Each morning the sun's presence
gives of himself as presents
wrapped most days in streaming
pink ribbons of light

-saiom shriver-

http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large/pink-ocean-sunrise-patrick-m-lynch.jpg

Mary wakes from
her, troubled, uneasy
sleep. She turns and
sees Alice behind her

looking at her. What
are you doing here?
she asks, sitting up,
looking down at the

child. Wanted to be
near you, Alice replies.
You can't come into

my bed, what will

they say if they find
you here? Mary's voice  
rises higher than she

meant. They won’t,

Alice says, no one
knows. They'll miss
you, Mary says, look

for you, and if they come,

what then? The child
sits up, rubs her eyes.
I'll hide, she says. Mary

sighs, lays back on the

bed, looks at the ceiling.
The child lies next to her,
head on her thin shoulder.

You can't do this, Alice.

But I have, the child says.
Your bed's lumpy. If they
find you in here, I’ll lose

my job and God knows

what'll happened then.
There is black spider
creeping along the dull

ceiling, slow movements.

We mustn't tell them,
Alice says. She runs a
small finger along

Mary's arm. You can't

stay here, Mary says,
you must go back to
your own bed before

they find you've gone.

Don't you love me any
more? Alice softly asks,
looking sideways at the

maid beside her. Yes,

of course I do, but this
mustn't happen again.
I'll be gone, then who

will you have to love,

now your mother's ill
and locked up? Alice
frowns and looked at

her hands, small, white,

pink. Mother used to
let me into her bed and
cuddle her. Her pink

fingers join and she

makes. I'm not your
mother, Mary says,
I’m just a maid who

wants keep her job.

Alice looks at her.
You said you'd be my
adopted mother. Mary

looks at her biting a lip.

Yes, I did. She looks
away, at the window
where lights begins

to show. All right,

but you must go back
now, before you're
missed. Can I come

another time? Alice

asks, her bright eyes
gazing. Yes, if I say so,
no creeping into my

bed at night unless

I know, Mary says.
Alice nods her head.
Best get back then,

she says. Be careful.

I will. And if I’m seen,
I’ll say I was sleep
walking, Alice says.

You mustn't lie, Mary

says. Should I tell them
the truth then? Alice asks,
smiling, getting down

from the bed. Be careful,

sleep walk just this once.
The child nods, opens the
door and closes with a

click. Mary gets out of

bed, opens the door, looks
along the dim passage.
The child has now gone.

Silence. Cold morning

air. A hard frost maybe.
What if she's seen? What
then? She shuts the door,

pours cold water from a

white jug into a white bowl.
Morning wash. Hands
into the water and throws

into her face. The coldness

wakes her. Far off a bird
sings. What if she's found
out of bed? What a turn up.

Poor kid. Me another mother

Nearby a church bell rings.

It’s getting late, she whispered,

as the still and quiet cold crept on toward morning,

growing ever later, yet earlier all at once.

A spark of wonder and confusion comes

at Irony’s secret wonders in paradox, 

working seamless and harmoniously entwined.

The ticking hands of time press on like locomotives,

never looking back, but knowing well from whence they came.

Simple, yellow lines guiding wheels away from home,

to wooded, winding paths and barren, burning plains, 

such that the hands of clocks work wonders in themselves.

A boy yearns to speed the present, yet a man to yield it,

a driver searches for the city, yet wants the road once idle.

Embrace the night, for there lies the miracle that all might have their hope.

The night, it grows later, yet the day begins anew again.