A Poem at the Courtyard

I attend your class every other day. You

Discuss things and make students do some stuff too.

Sometimes confetti is in the air. A happy song

Is heard. Sometimes the period just seems so long.

A dirge is playing, then I would console myself

By going to the Muse. Right there, I write a poem about an elf.

Another subject required me to think like you, see through

Your eyes. Facing the blank Word, I rack my brains

About how to start a lesson, but all I think is airplanes.

How do I crack the ice and stop the dirge from playing?

Every idea I think of gets worse, my creativity waning.

Then I see you in your office, absorbed in your own

Business, preparing perhaps, for another class. I should’ve known

You’ve got more to it than signing the square cards. It’s true

It is not that easy, the task assigned to you.

John Hay Poem

I always see you walk home when a cab I take.

You and your colleagues talk of GSIS over that thin steak.

Then I see you in your office, head bent on papers, the red pen

Moving to and fro. You glance up now and then.

Now in this breezy, comfy place I see you again

In my mind’s eye: you’re at home, reading, then

Your little girl asks help for her homework. A meal

Is to be cooked for supper. Work doesn’t stop for real,

Not even away from that four-walled room. You punch

The calculator: bills, food, loans. Paycheck not enough.

You’ve got lots on your plate, yet you

Teach with energy and passion, easy as the old one-two.

To think that I sometimes clench my fists silently

Because of your rules and requirements. How silly

Of me to miss that when I’m done, I’m done. No need

To think of ways to make tomorrow colourful. Indeed

I sometimes see things only through my eyes.

I miss it: your path, it’s a life of sacrifice.

I’m sorry for sometimes thinking crap and not being nice.

A Poem on the Fourth of May

The voice I heard was yours,

Speaking to me while doing chores—

Or when in the office—

The warm caress, telling me this:

That I’d be a fine child, and

That you’ll wrap me without end

In your warm embrace: unlimited

Love and care. You assure me.

The voice I heard was yours.

The first to rejoice, of course,

As I had my first fumbling

Steps. And when I was uttering

My first incomprehensive word.

You excitedly showed me the world.

You said “Well done” when

I received my first star from school.

The voice I heard was yours,

When from my young eyes water pours.

You tell me to rise and walk again.

From the sidelines you say, “No pain, no gain.”

You let me rise on my own, to deal

With my first wounds and to heal.

You let me learn the lesson of life,

Something I could not find in books.

The voice I heard was yours

When it was time to select the course,

The path I would take. At the forks

You showed your wisdom, and though lurks

Danger, you reminded me of Ithaca and the journey

I must take. Of Cyclopes, you said to me:

“You will not meet them, I am sure.

Unless you would call them out.”

Now these words you read are mine,

Written as the Muse visits my mind.

From my first steps and words

To my exploration of my world, and other worlds—

“Thanks” is but a cliché, a word used too much,

I try in vain to search for another. As such,

Please know I am grateful you are here,

For your love and care. I end with cheer.

Silver Laptop

Silver Laptop, you saw me write

My first poem, a poem right

In its symbols, not just having rhyme—

I felt fulfilled. Yes, it was a good time.

Silver Laptop, you heard me laugh and cry,

Bellow repeatedly the question why.

You knew my secrets, my thoughts and my fears:

You closed your mouth, opened your ears.

You kept me company during cold nights—

Courting the Muse, scrounging my brain for insights.

You gave me friends who make my day,

Who light up my mind in every way.

Silver Laptop, you gave me a funny brother,

We shared stories and laughed together.

He shared his wisdom, as big brothers do;

I had him, thanks to you.

You brought us close together. Then I

Seemed to have driven a knife into him. Why

Was he cut up, then? Sad as I am, hoping he

Would heal, you gave us a funny space to be.

Silver Laptop, you nurture the life I’m living—

Through the things I find peace in doing.

I write to the child in blue, from miles and miles away,

Thinking if she read this, she’d make my day.

I love to write for her and to her, it’s what I do:

She is a picture of innocence; I paint her through you.

To write as she grows and discovers the world too—

I can only do that with and through you.

Inside the Vault

Four beeps, a sudden click:

Door opens. That’s the trick.

A stack of cards, in plastic sealed,

A pack of discs in a clear jacket revealed.

A sturdy blue book in one corner

Houses thoughts of a scribbler.

Triumphs, failures, boredom, and fun

Provided by a torch that lights the way for one.

A white minuscule object says hello. “Heigh ho, Heigh ho!”

This little fellow has a light that would glow.

This mini big brain stores things that wouldn’t be

Printed if one asked for the owner’s biography.

Beep here, beep there. A contented smile:

A pair of brown balls glance around once in a while.

Click! And the doors are closed. Surely it is not a fault—

Nobody knows anyway, that a life’s hidden inside the vault

Another Word for Love

You protect me with your strong arms
In your hands I feel secure from harm

My every need you give
Nice footprints you leave

You cradle me in your warm love,
Like our Heavenly Father above

Dad, today is your day,
I cheer hep-hep hooray!

You are one of the best gifts I have
Indeed, you are another word for love.

Nationalistic Subject--Again

It was three years ago when I had my first nationalistic class. By nationalistic I mean a course that would talk about identity, culture and stuff like that: the subject Philippine History, for instance. I took that course—I don’t remember much from it now—and I got a taste of the basics: colonialism via religion (Spain), mind (the US), and the Japanese interlude. My teacher went on to explain that though the Philippine colonial period left physical wounds due to the brutality of the soldiers, the one that has lingered up to now is the colonization of the Philippines by the US, hence colonial mentality.

He also told me that I am a “Westernized kid:” I was raised by King Arthur and harry Potter; I struggle in Filipino; I prefer reading English texts. Rizal’s novels I read as a part of a requirement in high school, though. I don’t deny these—my teacher took it upon himself to make me aware of nationalism, of “remembering who I am.” He spouted nationalistic facts during conversations, long after the semester had ended. An entry from my journal quotes him:

...reasons I teach History…one, to make you appreciate history; two, to make you read more about history….Besides, I also chose to teach [in the] tertiary level because I wanted to teach nationalism.

He spouted so much facts and lectures about nationalism that I wondered whether it was part of his system to do such thing. Another teacher whom I have spoken too, however, said that maybe my former history professor won’t stop until I become nationalistic or, at least, see his point. Thankfully, my former teacher has for a time stopped spewing out nationalism talks.

I haven’t spoken to the History teacher for sometime. I thought for a while that I would be given a rest from hearing nationalistic lectures—yes, I do get bored. (Who doesn’t get tired from hearing the same thing over again?) But, alas! The rest I thought was not for long. I enrolled in Science, Technology, and Society (STS), a General Education course at school. The professor said we’d be talking about gadgets. And at the end of the semester, we should be able to have nationalism in our heads. One of the course’s objectives, after all, is to make us nationalistic.

STS will deal with the toys and technologies through a historical approach. How nationalism will fit into the picture, I don’t know. I’ll have to find out, won’t I?