Stuck in the Middle
There may not be a thing to fear, but could she have wrapped your heart around her? I know that's a silly thing to think, I'm still afraid of going under. If we understood the fragility of our lives maybe there wouldn't be so much hope. It's not about the standings, I get all that. It's about wherever I'm not. That exists somewhere else, one where I wonder how exactly I survive, considering all that I'm lacking. One filled with perfect conversational skills, very blonde women, and empty of clumsiness of any sort. One where I don't run into everything that has a corner. Those may seem mundane but they can flood enough to cause panic. Pretty soon it'll cover the lights! I suppose there will come a day when it's all this and that. Concrete and matter of fact. Soloman's girlfriend told the people to calm down and not mix up the heart before it's ready for mixing. So I'm trying to take the cue, beloved one. Trying to think like you, miss vain and no complaints, miss "I am a rose", miss 'eyes like doves'. Like her, I could have wrapped your heart around me.
Some Filipinos I've Met
RomieYou have porcelain teeth
And I can't help smiling when I think about you smiling at me
With your porcelain teeth
And I can't help laughing when you walk by me
And all you can do is sing
Maybe you were born deaf, or taught to verbally ignore me
But it's okay with me that you just sing in strained English
Or whatever language that happened to be
It all seems baffled by your large white teeth
And I can't help biting my lip when you finally talk out loud
Laughter could be taken as offensive, but I can't stop it, even now
Passing from the corners of their eyes, I see the others do the same
You brighten their day in a strange sort of way
CharieI love you
Written on your hand
Tied up in a hankerchief
You hid it behind blue paisley
You can sit for hours
You can watch much longer
Mad, madder, best
Trying to prove that you're the strongest
I watched your brother leave
You pretended to be distracted
He had a look in his eye
I tried to avoid him
You hide that look well
Instead you have longing
Was that your mother waiting?
Or just another broken woman?
You can sit for hours
You can watch much longer
One moment in the photo
One moment behind the lens
It's a mystery, you say to me
You try and try and try
Sitting by you, I'm listening
To your story telling
One moment I can make you smile
One moment you are fuming
When we climbed into the truck
You came out but wouldn't wave
You can watch for hours
But you cannot wait much longer
Girl at House"She knows me, she can see my eyes", she said to her mother. She stood on one side of me, very close. I shifted my weight, away, near. She moved to the other side, between Jane and I. She looked at me for a long time. In focus, out, back and forth it was like she was trying to adjust. In her eyes, and out. I wasn't sure where she kept going to. "Three children", Jane told me later. I smiled when she shook my hand. It was limp and wanting. Earlier we met them walking along the path, she had stopped to wash her slippers in the creek and then came, that is when she looked and looked. Maybe, I think now, she was trying to reach me somehow. She wore a large tank and baggy shorts, like most of the girls in the bukid wear. In the city the only wear this for sleeping. Her hair was short, her body soft and hanging. "Pila imong edad?", I blush. "18", she graciously replies. "Not much younger than you", she smiles. We could be friends, she implies, help me, I'm sure that's what she meant. "She's becoming depressed, three fathers come and gone". Oh that's what her eyes told me, when she looked and looked, when she stood close, her stomach aching. Another broken arm reaching.
Bright Eyes!
So I thought I'd let you know
That these things take forever
I especially am slow...
I'd rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery
This is the first day of my life
I'm glad I didn't die before I met youListening, breathing, waiting, thinking, not obsessing or overreacting, hoping, dreaming, re-calibrating, resting, adjusting, focussing, not sinking, not depressing, floating, imagining, loving, liking, not under-mining, holding, depending, not forgetting, sleeping.
On Hold
How do people do this?
It's like breaking those tiny bones, the ones you never knew existed, but they hurt just the same
Like when you're minutes too late, and those minutes could have rocket propelled the rest of your day
Or choosing the second best option when you had a pretty clear chance for first
That dull ache, the 'just missed it'
I'll tell you, it's knowing exactly what you want
But I mean this like,
exactly, none of that flip flopping or settling down
But it's across the table, on somebody elses plate
I just don't know.
News Update
It has continued to rain for the past few days
In waves, like a mourning woman. Letting the tears slide down her raw and pink face, she shudders and gasps, weeps and pounds her fists, then collapses for a moment of exhausted empty silence before the temporary amnesia of her loss passes like a haze.
The tiny streams which burrow their way through rock paths have reached their fingers out into the dirt, and mud welcomingly embraces feet and wheels and paws
White mists have been passing in and out of palm trees
Which makes it look like everything is softening and bleeding at the edges, like it was all made of water colour
At the southern edge of Bugo, on the hill, there's been a rock slide
To the east, on the river, the water has risen, to the knees, to the neck
The Barrangay hall has opened its doors to the damp, displaced people
Near the bridge, the brother of Pastor Pancho slept deeply all night, and thus was cost his television set
Up the road a bit, Teacher Desiree was woken at 3 am to move their belongings to higher ground, she's spent the afternoon drying floors and scrubbing walls
This has a strange ring of a Canadian snow day, but with loftier implications. Classes have been cancelled, children will stay inside. That is, if their inside hasn't been filled with brown hapless water sailed by Mango juice packs and plastic Sumo wrappers. The drainage is clogged and so people wait with their elbows on their knees and their eyes on the tide, hoping this demanding visitor wont stay long and wont leave too much behind. They sleep on bamboo slats with fifty other people and listen to the rain surge in and out, like rice in a can, like white noise on the radio, an electric fan, the sound in your ears before losing consciousness.
I wonder at that kind of power. It reminds me of God sometimes, or it's the closest thing I can imagine as a resemblance to him. Unexpected, uncontrolled, unstoppable, unmovable. Fierce. It's true, sometimes he frightens me, though I don't believe him to be sadistic or dully unfazed, like this passing typhoon. But I like to feel that hopelessness sometimes, that there are things we humans can't control (all that power wearies me), like water, the fall of the rain, the direction of the waves.
Hi Middle of Night
I've woken up
It's not long after I've fallen asleep
Though it feels like hours, a complete set
Again, I did this last night
My arm is asleep, my feet are freezing in the air but my neck is hot beneath the blanket
Somehow my body has lost it's ability to self-adjust
My brain too
It feels guilty, like I went to bed foolish
I think back
I was reading a novel, so anything foolish that happened was done by the characters
My imagination forgets to make that jump
I think it must be waking time
Time to talk to you
I rethink this (a feat), remembering my daily exhaustion
Just turn yourself back off
Not so, I let the computer screen do it's work, tiring my eyes and hurting my head
And if I remember, I ask if there's a reason I'm here?
Pag Sure
Fitting together
Like the puzzle at Christmas
The eclipse and moon
People always say
That the memory of things
Shines brighter than truth
But that can not change
Like four walls, interlocking
I can still hide there
They Heard!......?
In a far away land
Amidst jungles and green rain
Rocks heated by the sun and woven cloths dried
There was a man, golden brown
Met in the valley by a woman, so white
She wore the clothes of the convent, grey and heavy, armor from earthly delight
She looked on with determination and pride
This woman had not travelled by boat or by foot
But appeared one day in a grassy plain
Meeting the man on his morning hunt
She spoke of a man, hung from a tree
Blood from his side, for their depravity he had died
And from a cavernous rock he would arise
Come to wrap them in silk, come to bless their tongue
Teach them to eat and how to shoot a gun
She befriended this man, with her babbling word
He took her to the people, they sighed at the sight
A woman translucent, keep her from melting in the sun!
They put her inside, pillows strewn across her bed
Oh the sight oh the sight, (the Lord's glory, she said)
Either that or this covered woman's face, piercing eyes, her milky head
So they bowed to her, the picture she held
And sang as she sang
And shouted out loud
They've all turned to heaven, the mighty news was proclaimed
Oh Spain, make them clothing to cover their skin
And the woman and man who once met in that field
Their friendship so dear, so truly comprehended
She became a saint, a patron of the land
In Europe they painted her image (of course holding the crucified lamb)
And in her iris was seen the imprint of that golden skinned man
Across the ocean, the man who heard her, who deeply understood
On his earlobe was inscribed the Song of Solomon
Yes!
This morning was dripping again
I bundled up in layers and wrappings of fabric
And my feet sunk and squelched in the rocky gravel
I was hiding my face behind a silver scarf
And trying to keep my eyes dull
Shortly after I sat down on the jeep
A boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen
Looked out the open back entry and proclaimed a sure, affirmative
"Yes!"
He then smiled around and the other passengers scattered on the benches
With a secret smile on his mouth, whether he knew them or not
And leapt off the back, quickly boarding another jeep heading the opposite direction
My heart, in that moment, held on to the triumph
Raised with the certainty in his voice
The assurance of his simple declaration
The clouds are not a fortress
The sunshine is there, it's still beaming
Today
The rain hangs in humidity
I think it's a perfect day for it to be grey, you know, one that adds to the melancholy of all or anything I may be thinking
But it bears a heavy hand
I look out from under the tricicad covering, where I sit with legs slanted and hand loosely wrapped around the stabilizing bar
There is a flat panel of palms in front of me, a mountain in fact, but all the same colour green. They layer and layer and lighten up the air a bit before turning into the muted and wet sky
I've been trying to think of a few different things
The first was what I could see. How can I explain the bountiful nature of this wanting environment, availing to the same exaggerated numbers seems a bit redundant
There are at least one hundred tricicads in Bugo alone, nearly one hundred water containers in the back of that truck, one hundred children running with one hundred old tires, and one hundred boys who've asked for my number.
The cicad hits a larger bump than normal and I fear for a moment I'm going to fall out. The bump jolts my chest and I forget my exaggerations.
How do I get thinking about these things? I was like this in Calgary, I almost started a 'Transit journal'. Aren't there more important things to consider or am I just trying to ignore?
It's because I'm dreamy...all up in the clouds. If I can imagine the description I'll never come down
Plus, the more romantic things are sending me to the edge, I mean I'm not even rational
So why not consider the most rational things
The man with the sharp hip bone
The girls in their matching beige uniforms
The boy who sells roast nuts in his bicycle cart no longer has the roaster, but a woman by his side
There is another boy who is missing a leg, but has gained a crutch
A grey haired woman, whose face droops down in folds, is walking in her garden: rows and rows of small bonsai.
Repeat, repeat, repeat
The bakery is warm
The sarisari store is empty
The man on the phone
The woman with the umbrella
The boy with the headband
The girl with missing teeth
Repeat.
I think I'm calmer now. I've got it all out. Like why weren't we disconnected? We're free obviously. Why weren't we forgotten? We really meant it. How can he still love me? He's more than time and space, He's infinity. All my exaggerations hold nothing to that flame.
I Keep My Promises
She wont breathe like I do
Taking it all in
The whole world and universe
Letting it full her lungs and raise her chest
She wont ever do that
And she wont break like I do
Falling apart like a wreckless fool
Everybody wants a little wreckless right?
I've got galaxies in my breath and I'll bring them with me
My skies will crackle and pop until I've created my own black hole
She'd never create the damage that I could
But she certainly wouldn't love like I could
My universe holds a million secrets
Dark and endless and blinding
You could get lost in it
I promise, you'd never get lost in her
My House
I've lost the feeling that sits in the top of my stomach
Either I lost it or it is burried
And I like to think it's burried
It's a skill of mine,
Locating my feelings and noticing where they live in my body
Sometimes they swap doors, and I have to learn who shares with who
But usually I can trust that they're either sitting or pacing their normal halls
Or they are out
Happiness sits in the top of my stomach
But it sometimes shares with The-Knowledge-of-Not-Right
I love it when Happiness is in, instead of the other
Because the other often has tea with Disappointment
In my chest, tangled in my rib cage, is Fear
And Panic
Sometimes Surprise makes a pleasent appearance, but only on monumental occasions
Behind them, in the lungs, is Anxiety
Who often chats over the fence with those in the ribs
And even further in, there is vast cavern of the heart
Where Joy and Brokenness take turns decorating the rooms
Usually I can look around, welcome them in, or ask them politely to leave
Right now, Happiness could be suffocated by Brokenness
Or gone
I Keep Looking But Can't See It
There is glass like puddles scattered across the dusty floor
You tiptoe around it but can't help but catch yourself in it
A dry, slender elbow
A round hip, pulled out with the jagged curve
A silvery wisp of hair, defiantly attentive to
A perfectly shaped cheek bone
You look at each one, multiplied by a hundred, with
Anger, disapproval, blushing pride
They scatter and shift and shade as the light hides behind the clouds
As though with your judgements, your eyesight dims and rises
The ground beneath your feet, beneath the glass, is grim and faltering
Created of bones and tree trunks and hollow insects and blood
Every year the howling wind picks it all up in his reckless grasp
And irately tosses it about in the atmosphere
Some is lost from gravity's hold and loses itself forever in the dark emptiness
Some falls back across the earth, resettling across further forgotten plains and into carcasses that are deader and darker
The glass is all that is present to reflect whatever heavenly bodies should move along its surface
It has settled into small grooves in the newly settled, old dirt
Where it has been for thousands of years
All the edges of the hundreds of pieces are smoothed by the blowing wind, and have greyed
But still show vague lines from where they once parted
From where they once held another piece
From where they were bonded to the original of their being
From the piece that was once not another, but the same, of one soul and self and likeness
When they did not reflect a million different images
Or hold a dark emptiness as they sit singular
Once their heart beat was the same
Now it is all just broken glass on an earth made of others' remains
And you can't help but catch yourself in it
Silly
Sometimes, I suppose, dreams are all I have
For closeness, proximity
For melting right inside out of how I really feel
Neither Here Nor There
I always forget how deeply books effect me, probably more than most other things on this earth.
If it's written creatively, I think like it for the rest of the week, my imaginings following the patterns of its prose.
If it is written creatively and sparks thoughtfulness, its ideas can stay with me for months (years, if they were truly new) and I base a lot of my thoughts and writings off of it.
If it is tempestuous, it sinks into my dreams, and becomes means for whole interpretation.
If it's too physical, too drastic, it sinks deeper into fear and nightmares, and I often have to stop reading altogether.
Today, while dreaming, I got a call "ending this", and though I denied its impact (both waking and sleeping) in my brain, I couldn't breathe. It felt as though a leather belt had been wrapped around my lungs and tightened, so try as I might I could not get enough air.
Frightened in my dream, it woke me, and spent long moments trying to find the right position to loosen the belt, taking long purposeful inhales. Even after I could breathe clearly, the memory of the pain and fear left by the belt still clung in red welts snaking around my lungs.
So earlier, my book asked, "if it happens to you in dreams, has it really happened?" And I wonder if this is the reality of how I would feel, should I ever get that call...
...or maybe it was just the heat.
Wow! Friends!
I think, for perhaps the first time ever, my heart and brain are in perfect agreement.
In fact, they're even dialoguing,
Keeping a list of checks and balances.
They let each other know when the other is going out and always keep curfew
My brain has always been the elder
Snobby and self-righteous
Doubtful and over-ruling
Always trusting in her own powers, but coming up discontent and unsatisfied
The heart was the little sister
Whimsical and grand
Desperately trying to convey she had something more to offer
But when stifled by her sister's rules she rebelled
And foolishly trapsed around the country side, slamming doors and climbing through windows
Ending up lonely and embarrassed
So you can imagine my surprise
To see them sitting side by side
Talking about the things often pondered their heart and mind
Feet, purely
This comes from living in a country where flip-flops are worn 97% of the time
I've become fascinated with feet
Not in the creepy way that the Colin Farrell look-alike did from high school
But just indulging in constant observation and classification, and finally placing into a catagory of preference
There are the petite
The slender
The grand
The broad ones, like baseball gloves
The long toed, like fingers, like a strange illusion
The spread apart ones, like someone left the post-manicure spacer in for too long
The slanted, like steep mountains
The straight, like rectangles
The confused, with different toes reaching as if to cross some sort of finish line
Some curl in, with bumpy knuckles
Others lie flat, one with the earth
Some lift their arches against the sole like a social woman lifts her nose, impeccable posture and grace
Some rest in the soles as if they are their only home, nestled and content
And these are my observations of feet thus far
This Goes Both Ways
Yes, you may
I wont be dismayed
If you don't mind passivity,
Looking into my eyes,
Quiet nights
If you don't mind laughing
It's the best I can do
If you don't mind dreaming
Night and day
Yes, you may
God of the Small Things
The heart beams in and out
And thanks it's maker for faithfulness
I realize I should be here in humility
Who am I that you would gift such things to me?
They seem too big, and too small
I seem too small, you seem too big
Who am I that I ever doubted
Who am I that you would listen to my doubt and answer such silly requests
But you did, and I'm thankful
My heart will try to grasp all this for me
I'm too quick to forget
I hope you'll remind me
That you use even the little things
I hope I'll stop thinking in words of silliness and skepticism
And take this from you in awe
What grace, what faith
Thank you for your gifts
Just sneezed out the last of my energy
It feels like I'm walking with an extra set of limbs
I hope some day it all melds into one
It's getting much harder to see, like tunnel vision, in the snow
You know? Like the road is there, you can feel it deep
But you just want everything to clear up so you can feel safe again
I keep telling everyone I'm endlessly afraid
They keep telling me, "Hunny, you're so brave!"
And I keep reminding myself it's all about patience and peace and trust
But sometimes I think there must be easier things
Digging and Flying
Almost ready to go over the moon for you
This whole time she's been digging holes to China
Making friends with the earthbugs before she sets up shop
But how do you tell someone they've got it all right?
You've got it all right?
Seems like a stretch to make it just okay
It's definitely more, more like reversing gravity
But she's been planting seeds in Belfast, Utah, and Calcutta
Just waiting for the words, she knows, waiting for those things to grow
And ready to send some stars to you
Here and There
The air feels like BC, with the heat the breeze
The roads look like Palm Beach, quiet and residential
There's a man with a calamansi fruit headdress, calling to the neighbours
And down the street there are doberman babies for sale
Sometimes I can't remember how I got here
I can't figure out how to keep my feet on the ground
I can't stop thinking about the distance
I can't let everything catch up into one
Huhlah
I would like anyone who occasionally suffers from dismay to put their hands up!
–
noun 1. sudden or complete loss of courage; utter disheartenment.
2. sudden disillusionment.
3. agitation of mind; perturbation; alarm.
How about some
antonyms!
1. certainty, serenity, tranquillity.
"I'm tired", said the Earth
I wonder what would happen if the world stopped turning for one day
If the West got an extra day of darkness
And the East basked in the sunlight for 48 straight hours
Would we all crumble and fall apart and panic and be destroyed?
Leaving only those in the polar regions to laugh at our naivety and go on with their week?
Numba 1!
I don't really think I need to compare
I just don't want to ever look back
The best choice, the reason for dreaming
To be bold, being on par with the holy grail
But boldness is a lovely exterior
And I feel rather fragile and frightened inside
I know time passes and things lets go
But how much is lost, I couldn't possibly know
So this is where trust comes in
Letting confidence seep down to the roots
So quakes could rustle and blow but the core would remain undamaged
And I'd know I'm worthy of being searched for
Yes, I must admit this is a shield building poem. Everybody tells me I have nothing to fear but nobody seems to know how terrified I get when I really let my brain go. About absolutely everything, and things requiring risk even more so. Maybe I'll try to think about it like I do physical frights...that the very fact they frighten me means I must do it all the more. But I should not assume this is a cliff to conquer. Maybe it's the ocean I'm trying to woo. In moments like this I get all self-adoring as if to remind myself that "of course it shouldn't be another way!". But then I feel raw, like I'm scraping the bottom, reaching for money that's quickly floating away. I hate building shields. It makes me unwelcoming, inside and out.
