Monthly Archives: September 2014

Teach Us (Throwback Tuesday)

Please….

Ito ang Kuwento ko (This is my Story)

Teach us to be gentle instead of always anger,
Teach us to be humbled and learn not to be bitter,

Teach us to care and value sanctity of marriage,
Teach us to carry each other to the days of old age.
Teach us to decide and think as one body,
Teach us to treat the marriage as holy.

Teach us to raise our kids by Your words,
Teach us to believe that Your words are double-edged swords.
Teach us to not be blinded by love to our children,
That we may lead them to God’s forsaken den.

Teach us to believe You and leave our worries,
Teach us to be stronger despite of life’s difficulties,
Teach us to walk on Your path
Teach us to avoid your wrath

It’s been a year since I composed this poem with the help of WP friend named Fiona, I haven’t visited her blog for…

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OPTIMIST vs PESSIMIST

Perfect!

hocuspocus13

17269-sneaky-brunette-1920x1080-girl-wallpaper
“Pessimist is a Man who thinks all women are bad

Optimist is a Man who hopes they are”

CHAUNCEY MITCHELL DEPEW

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Fluidity, a poem

illustration fluidity

Fluidity, a poem

Her dress–the color of pool water, printed with bright tropical flowers,

her earrings, falling beads like particles of sunlight on water, her hair, silvery-blonde, cascading down one side of her face like water, or frozen water… she is cool, refreshing, drinkable.

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Trying To Explain, a poem

illustration trying to explain

Trying to Explain, a poem

How do you explain to outsiders what was bad about the marriage?

Take them down the aisle with you, make them wear the white satin dress so stiff and heavy, embroidered with pearls, it left deep red welts for 24 hours.

Was your first inkling when, on the way to the honeymoon bed, he had to stop to get the car washed?  Next, take them with you to the hotel room where there was nothing, absolutely nothing left to talk about.  Put on the black nightgown he requested and hunger for food if nothing else, order room service, you wanted a juicy cheeseburger, he even found fault in that.  He had steak, rare.  It was his wedding night, after all.

Don’t forget how his education was far superior to yours, he had worked harder for everything he possessed, including you.  His mental health put you to shame.  You were so tired from getting married you fell asleep before having sex.  Next morning it occurred to you it wasn’t too late, you could still get out on a technicality.  Mistakes get made, are remedied 9 years later.

In between the first day and the last, hordes of memories press between the sheets.  Detritus from a dying institution.  Tell them about your body, how it remained cold, so cold even the touch of a well-educated fool couldn’t wake it.  Give examples:  he called you a bitch 78 times, neurotic, 207 times, a whining baby, 134 times… tell me, how many times was too many?

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August In Florida, a poem

Dragonflies-mating

August in Florida

Outside, people crowd around water.  Heat, the bright aqua of water, smell of chlorine and sun lotion.  Coconut, spice.  Young girls with slender hips, high breasts.  Mincing, they walk barefoot over the burning concrete.  Ankle bracelets.  Hairless women, hairy men.  Some men look vaguely female–lack body hair, possess slender torso, a feminine grace.  They practice diving off the high platform, catapulting through the air like minor gods.

Spindly little children, bowlegged, one girl like a large walking doll, Wedgewood eyes, white skin, hair almost white, but so fierce.  She puts her face in the water, proud of herself, comes up spitting, does it over and over.  This girl’s mother, slim, pale body like a teenager’s, but her face red and sun-aged, enormous Southern twang.  A former cheerleader, rural Georgia or Alabama.  Lying on the blistering concrete, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of laughter and splashing.  My sore back, the heat melting the ache away.

On the towel closest to me, a young girl, pretty, bleached blonde hair with dark roots showing, golden-brown string bikini that matches her skin, her perfect feet.  Sudden thunder, the pool closed, into the locker rooms for 20 minutes.  Live oaks, huge spread branches like arms reaching into the sky.  The arms are shading, watchful.  The oaks are like sentinels.  The moss hangs like underarm hair.  Young boys, thick and awkward, walk stiff-legged.  They turn dark reddish-brown, but look silly next to the black kids.  Tall, skinny black boy with red hair, a crew cut.  His mama, a large woman in bright blue tank suit and neon orange shorts, matching neon bathing cap.  Her earrings graze the sides of her neck.  She isn’t ready to leave yet.  He watches the girls, pretending not to.

Over there, a skinny, burnt woman with bad teeth, yet her daughters are so lovely, so young and fair and smooth.  How did she produce them?  A hippie girl with a blonde baby boy, crooning one minute, yelling the next, she holds him on her hip, sways in the sun.  More and more women look like those prehistoric clay fertility figurines, heavy hanging breasts, stomach overlapping their thighs.  I lie still and watch, lazy with the heat, my own weight.

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Why I Hate You, a poem

illustration why i hate you

Why I Hate You

You know why I hate you?  You’re a weak vine, needing to be propped up, needing more comfort than a baby.  You imagine bugs, crawling up the walls, down your hair.  Their wings whir in the night like soft sobs.

I hate you because you’re ugly — a slob, a slut, a sucker.  Because you saw your mother passed out on the carpet in front of the television, one too many times, but you didn’t kill her the way she wanted to be killed.  You didn’t help when she needed you.  Because you let yourself be unimportant for so many years and did nothing to help yourself until it was too late, until you’d already lost the war.  Peace came on unfavorable terms, the enemy couldn’t be placated.

I hate you because you’re afraid of the dark.  When you’re with a man, you lean on the solidity of his body, the real beat of his heart, you listen to his rhythmic breathing, and you’re not afraid anymore, but you start to get antsy.  His body sounds so much stronger than yours.  They don’t cry the way you do.  Does that mean they don’t feel?  Why do they want to be with the likes of you?  You don’t have the slightest idea what you want from them.  Late at night is the worst.  The stars unfold ahead of you, and you can’t find your way to the future, stupid bitch.

That’s when I hate you the most.  You’re utterly without honor.  You imagine your ex-husband, fat and happy in his bed, eating candy.  He doesn’t suffer like you do, he has already forgotten why he married you in the first place.  He is perfect.  He is way above you in the cosmos, he is light, reason.  Your life is insignificant, ignorant and small, and won’t leave a shadow.

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Jihad and the Mother: Further Profile Pic Reflections

Yes!

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