lions cum lambs

To see lions – ferocious, wild creatures with roars feared and respected – is a scary feat per se.
But the scarier thought comes to mind:
These lions – gargantuan and now so becoming – were once little lambs, soft-spoken, innocent lambs, sacrificial yet determined.
And that is how the food chain goes in this jungle.
And that is how these lions will always be.

...

DUMAAN

Maswerte ka.
Inaalalayan ka ng tula
Binubuo sa iyo ang kanta.
Sagot ka ng kanyang mga
Panalangin
Hawak mo ang kanyang mga
mata.

Ang kamay na hindi ko maangkin,
Ang mga dasal na hindi matutupad,
Ang kantang kulang sa huni,
Ang tulang hindi makabuo ng saknong.
Maswerte pa rin ako at

KA

...

isinulat nang dumaan ka.

...and then she hits fifteen past twelve

and then she hits it - confusing the next hour with doldrums, sleep, doldrums, nap, doldrums, weak, doldrums, droopy eyes, dolrums, yawning, doldrums, counting sheeps, doldrums - and the world, his day, is watching her minute exercise, like a coordinated reflex from a yoga session, only in slow-mo.

the day is half-way through, and the day is becoming a long stride of that magnestic quest, that hunger, for some fruitful endeavor - something mentally
edible, digestible, ah, salivating.

but at least the sight here, visually, is the stimulation of those fries, twisted and fat, delectable and yes, forbidden.

too much salt perhaps. or too much cholesterol for my heart to pump.
it's too much to bear, really. my system is about to excrete them in a matter of time - when it finally decides these fries are not worth their momentary bliss, after all. finally.

the good thing about these fries, though is that i consume them mentally, in the figurative confines of my lost digestives - at least for now, until they get excreted.

and they, these fries, the imaginative fiction that they have become - twisted and forbidden - satisfies the hunger that lurks when she hits fifteen past twelve.

before she hits twelve...

...a lazy thought before the afternoon break - a quiet relaxing stroll in an imaginative town, an indecisive place for the lunch feast, a haunting growl of the digestives.

and that celebrated partner, that chance of the lifetime - a marriage perhaps, more so a romantic ceremony of i do's and you dont's.
and the reality that abrupts everything - the digestives.

it's famished. so are my thoughts.

one bowl of perspective to feed the mind, coming in thirty strikes of the mother hand.

SUNDAY

...to whom do i oblige myself: to God or to Office?

the latter is a living; the former, the reason for living.

...to whom shall I dedicate.

...to whom shall i choose.

...sadly, my doing does not comprehend my want for praising.

---
this is a sad reality of working for a firm that mistakenly treats Sunday as the first hours of the regular workweek. It's not mandatory though, but when you are part of a 'team' that has religiously dedicated their Sabbath to praising financial papers instead of the Gospel, then you are oblige to convert to this cult and praise the hysteria of a thousand edits.

it's not worth it i tell. the first message i read on my cellphone was 'to come to the office early to dispose comments on the financial statements.' and the first word that came out of a supposedly holy day was a cursed word - the tagalog equivalent of a prostitute, a whore - my quick response to the schedule this cult has placed me today.
and the rant goes the whole morning, even on my second chance for a coordinated sleep. and it continues, my mouth eventually subsiding as it reaches a halt on a famished hour.


and so i did come, the early - the early afternoon. about two, thirty minutes past two, to be exact. and i write this, yes, in the airconditioned synagogue of the cult i am falsely following.

the ritual shall last for hours - even extending for the forty plus hours of a regular work week. and then another extension, the full fiscal year perhaps.

but the God above wants only mere minutes of my time - sixty minutes of undivided attention. sixty minutes and quiet prayers whispered at night.

that is what He wants. that is all He needs from me.

...to whom do i oblige: to God or to Office?

...of who does love me unconditional: to God or to Office?

...to whom shall i answer the call: to God or to God?

...off to sixty minutes and quiet prayers whispered at night.

PALAWAN: BARAS

Eto ang munting tula...

BUHANGIN


Parang saliw ng buhangin,
nakikita mo ako –
ngunit hindi
mo ako pinapansin.

Parang alon ng dagat,
nilulunod mo ako
sa iyong tingin – at ‘di
mo ito napapansin.

Parang ihip ng hangin,
niyayakap kita,
palihim – at ‘di
mo dapat ito mapansin.

At parang dalampsagigang
may inililihim,
minamahal kita…

…’di mo ba napapansin?

~~~~~

BARAS


Mejo eyep ang baras,
nakikita mo ako -
pero ara mo ako
ning iniintindi.

Mejo daluyon ang dagat,
inglelelemes mo ako
sa imong paneling - ig ara
mo ako naintindi.

Mejo eyep ang angina,
ingkekepan takaw,
Patago - ig indi
mo ako ing intindi.

Ig mejo baybayen
Nga ing tatagó,
ing gegegma takaw…

…ara mo ba naintindian?

----

Biglang kumati ang mga kamay ko sa Sabang Beach, Palawan hindi dahil sa buhangin o dahil sa alon ng dagat – kung hindi dahil sa mga letrang nais lumabas at makilangoy sa kapwa nila letra, upang makabuo ng mga salita ng araw, tubig, at buhangin.

Ang problema: wala akong pluma at papel habang kaharap ko ang dalampasigan, tahimik na minamasdan ang mga ka-opisinang nakikipagkaibigan sa mababagsik na mga alon.

Ang solusyon: ginawa kong pluma ang aking daliri at ginawa kong papel ang handog ni Sabang Beach sa nangangati kong kamay – ang buhangin.

At ang naging bunga ng pakikipagsapalaran ay ang Buhangin. Isinalin ng aming tour guide na si Edna B. de Los Angeles ang Buhangin sa Cuyuno. (Ang Cuyuno ang lokal na wika ng mga Cayunonen o Cayunon, mga mamamayanan ng Cuyo Island, Palawan*.) Dahil sa pagsalin ng mga letrang Tagalog sa letrang Cuyuno, ang Buhangin ay naging Baras.


----
*www.ncca.gov.ph

Pasalamat: kay Mark Joseph Pizana sa pagkuha sa larawang nakatalikod ako. Hindi mabubuo ang buhangin kung wala ito. Salamat kaibigan.
at Kay Kaibigang Panginoon sa mga lihim ng Palawan at paggawa ng sapat na mga elemento para makunan ko ang kagandahan ng mga ito. Lubos kaming pinagpala sa Inyong Kabutihan.

PALAWAN: HINGA MALALIM

---

Masaya kung mag-isa ka lang.
Yung hindi mo iniintindi ang mundong nakalibot sa ‘yo.
Tanging ikaw lang at ang mundo mo – hindi mundo nila o mundo niya, kung hindi mo lang.

Bakit tahimik ka?, tanong niya.

Nakikihati lang sa katahimikan ng dagat, sagot ko.

Bakit, tahimik ba?

Oo, tahimik – tahimik sa mundo ko…

…(hinga malalim) at ng karagatan.

Walang imik.

Naging tahimik muli.

PALAWAN: FUNDADOR

-------------

FUNDADOR
-------------

Bangag ako
at
ako’y natutu
naw sa iyong mga tingin –
tila bituin na pitil kong minimitih, atttt ang
iyong mga labbi, na puno ng “”after-mark

s” ng ininum na
FUNDaDor, ay ang SiyAA’ng
Dahilla NG pagka ngayonG GGABI(.)
N lasing

M

A

H

H

A

L

KITA, nngguunniittt tanging ALAK
lang
nga makakaRINIG saaa dalamhating ito –
dalamhaati sapagkat, RAK ‘EN ROL,
hindi mo
ako
pwedeng mahalin, tang ina mo!!!1
HINDi PWEDE
AKONG MAHALIN
…TagAY…
At habang, nagshishinungaling ang Camay
Ko-o sa pagkaMATINO…
Patuloy,,, kong hinahabi ang aikng isipan –
N apuno ng mga pangarap ng
Ikaw ang tayong dalawa ---
Ako at
Sha mundo ng kalasingan,
Sha mundo ng aking Pantasya….



!RAK ‘EN ROL!

---------

Ishinulat sa Palawan habang medyo nakakainum na ang aking bibig at nagmamakatino ang aking mga kamay. Rak ‘En Rol!!! Mukhang mineral water bottle sa blog, tunay na Fundador sa Word Document, rak 'en rol!!!

BUS STOP

IN BUS STOPS, i meet strangers, strangers i share idle moments with until i arrive at my chosen destination. these are idle moments, minutes amidst the sceneries of moving buildings and static mindless thoughts. these are just bus stops, a place i share with nameless beings and beings whose names i choose not to know. and then i met you, another stranger in another bus stop. another stranger, whom i have to share idle moments with. another stranger, amidst the sceneries of moving buildings and static mindless thoughts. another stranger, a nameless being and a being whose name i choose to know…

…AND then i knew your name, like a refreshing whisper . i wander for that silent whisper of your voice, though i know those whispers knew no silence. for you talk a lot, and i let you speak. for when you speak, you reveal more of yourself, a refreshing noise against the chaotic silence of my wandering and waiting. and when you speak, i get to know more of you, no longer as a stranger, but a refreshing answer to my silent whispers of prayers and hope…

…COULD you be that, the answers to my whispers, that sweet melody of refrain i love to hear or are you just another stranger in those bus stops, who will leave me after sharing idle moments with? you can be either, or both perhaps. that i don’t know, that you could not answer. for now, what i share with you is this nameless emotion and an emotion you will choose not to know the name. FOR now, let us share this bus stop, amidst the sceneries of moving buildings and static mindless thoughts, against the chaotic noises of screaming strangers and static bus stops. and i hope, my sweet melody of refrain, your chosen destination, will be into these arms of a a once nameless stranger you choose to share the journey with…


--------

As said in PAALALA, this is one post in Kamunduhang Inigo, my friendster blog. Written out of a blue last February 7th (a week before Valentines Day), Bus Stop talks about this nameless stranger whom I have met recently and have indeed changed my route. And looking back at it, Bus Stop is dedicated to your special someone who was this complete stranger before he or she have entered the bus (your life) in that particular bus stop (moment) you mutually met. How timely, I thought. Still, Happy Valentines Day.

And to you, "nameless being whose name i choose to know", Happy Valentines Day.

BUWAN

Hindi ko winawangis ang sarili sa mga ibon o di kaya’y sa mga isda sa kanilang paglalakbay. Sapagkat narito lang ako, sa isang sulok - nag-iisa. Nagmamasid. Minamasdan ka. Tinatanaw ka habang ika’y walang pagod na umiikot sa aking mundo.

Ikaw ang mundo; ako ang buwan – ang buwan na sa gabi mo lang natatanaw. At kahit sa dilim ma’y hindi mo ako mapapansin. Dahil ano ba naman ang isang buwan sa mga bituin – mga talang kinakausap mo sabay sa pag-ihip ng hangin. Ang mga kumukutitap na mga anghel na sinasambit ang iyong mga panalangin, ang mga bituing nakakarinig sa iyong mga pakiusap.

At kahit minsan nawawala ang buwan, ang mga tala’y patuloy pa rin sa kanilang liwanag – at hindi mo mapapansin ang aking paglisan. At kahit paunti-unting siyang bumabalik, ang mga tala’y patuloy pa rin sa kanilang liwanag – at hindi mo kailanman mababatid ang aking pagmamahal…



- habang naghihintay sa harap ng elevator ng ika-24 na palapag ng tinitirhang condominium, biglang naisambit ng aking mga labi ang mga salita ng unang bahagi ng maliit na komposisyong ito. Pagkatapos makabili ng Absolute Mineral Water at Paracetamol Biogesic (medyo masakit ang ulo, ingat!) sa magkakalapit na tindahan, dali-dali akong bumalik sa aming unit at tinapos ang buo gamit ang laptop ng aking kamag-aral sa Silliman (iniwan naman kasi ang laptop sa opis). Ito’y produkto ng “kati ng manunulat (writer’s itch, tama naman di ba?)”

OF YOU

OF YOU dancing, serenading the mist beyond unexplainable doubt. OF YOU, being with me, beyond the memory of thousand daisies, prancing, gladly serenading the mist beyond this doubt unexplained. OF YOU and me, and the being of dancers, and singers, lounging beyond the lobby of people, moving seeking unexplainable doubts beyond their mindless thoughts.

OF YOU, being with me, again, after two thousand seconds, minutes of prolonged longing. OF YOU, being at the bay, waiting for me, a fulfilled fantasy, a drastic reality, unknown, unfulfilled. OF YOU, meeting me next week, or some other year, prancing, making merry melodies of hope that was once known to man, or to me, or to someone we call you. OF YOU, like a ghost whose sullen face appeared before a dream. OF YOU, making those sweet promises too bitter to taste, too gutted to forget. OF YOU and me, and the distance that embarks its self-mission to be forgotten and to be reborn. OF YOU and me, and the thankful sorrows that has been contributed by your insensitivities. OF YOU and two years later, and how the calendar healed the full moon of its red bloody misgivings. OF YOU and seven days from now - an unknown fortune, an unsung melody of a careless lad who will choose to chant the rhythm of the almost denied bliss. OF YOU and me. OF YOU, OF YOU, who places more and more speculative sentences into mine. OF YOU, of those three letters that had been part of my four-letter past. OF YOU and me. OF YOU, and. OF YOU. OF…



this was written during a lazy afternoon break in La Carlota, Negros Occidental where I stayed for one month (plus an additional one week) for my client audit fieldwork. Like a hasty project to be submitted at five o’clock, the work denotes violence against grammar and rule.
OF YOU talks about a lad wanting to rekindle a former flame – within next week or the next seven days, as the words would dictate above. I just laugh hearing about this lad now, knowing how much learning he should have had before.
Tsktsk.

PHOTO: RIZAL BOULEVARD, DUMAGUETE CITY.