Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.

Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.
Feathers lie in the cold, it tell stories of life before.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Bongkoy (Ongkoy)

I show this what I feel, for this Special day. Past to present, I have never prayed anyone to take your place as you are enshrine within the altar of my soul and I'm never was such so happy that mother got a ticket to be with you after you departed 37 yrs. passed by. My unfinished words are so simple. I dedicate this to you. And I beg the 'Most Supreme' that they may echo among the stellar entities and spaces. Vibrate among the inconceivable galaxies of the cosmos to the great and small and will reach the ears clear and not garbled. That may ‘The all Conceiving Consciousness’ shall find a little pleasure in what we do and did in the past, present or coming infinite moments. Happy Father’s Day to you father, and to all fathers who excellently managed to set apart themselves from the ones who do not deserved the title. Thank you for leaving behind your pen to me, it is intensely explosive and mystically beautiful.

Depart from good night’s dream before sunup— 

Move up; squeeze the heavy lids in the dark

Mutter silent lines in appeal to let up

In God’s ears, wide open to pains, to hark.

Kissed the kids’ cheeks and so, the former bride’s.

Kissed the solemn peace and slumbering eyes.

Bid goodbye to the playful onetime bride

Adieu to the placid, slumbering eyes.

Count 30 paces in winding, dirty path.

 Stops in the raspy mouth and stands static

 A moment or two—grabs the squeaky latch

Softly clears the old lip in hoary shriek.  

Still, still eyes are heavy. The sight's dreamy.

 Motions are clumsy as the soft piping

Of crickets, of Ortoptherons, still zesty

In their lighter hymns after a night cadging. 

Grasps the arms of four pound er coffee sieve

Bath it in frigid pool, senseless and dead;  

 Watch the wavy tongues, now and again, gave

A drowsy look over the blackly beads...

Saturday, June 1, 2013

The Palm, The Pond and The Rose

Melancholy pierce the consciousness. Encompasses the whole being, tortures the soul, grab the only hope of being happy--later on, shrinks the soul into a dark pit--of pity, of despair.

Then it vents all its hopelessness in the lake of tears, brims it, as if downpour passed by, in a moment of time, to the point of asking justice.

Swarms of thick nimbus are heavy and drifting 
Conspire with grave Russian winds; fiercely cool
Caressing winds, the morning clouds in mourn

As though, when obsessed to dribble ‘pon pool.


The stupor pool breath bits of chilled water
The droplets wildly swelled went on gushing.
Weary eyes and achy breasts in pool linger—

Wailing, sobbing flash’ beside flirty spring.


Blue moment: gushy brooks, drowsy lakes
 And dopey pool, mingle in the pale palm;
The mid-curve, a pond—a rose sobs and shakes

Nay, Faun's soft euphonies ever becalm. 

Who, in this planet got stout courage ever?
Herculean strength he has, to pluck the   gloom
And tearing grief, of lonesome soul by mere

Whisper to rose’ ears, for next rosy bloom.