Spring Forth, Summer

a welcome present
for Summer Gael 

Spring forth, Summer--

Bring radiant colors

To the world. Discover the wonder

Of what lies outside the doors.

Spring forth, Summer--

Light a fire that will glow

Brilliantly. And as you grow,

Reflect in your life the Father.

Spring forth, Summer--

Spread warmth to those around,

That each life you touch now--and later--

Would be glad that you're around.

Spring forth, Summer!

I am an Opposite

I should be groping dots

But shapes I can see;

I should see black spots,

But you allow hues to delight me.

Now I look at things in a light anew,

For this I say thank you.

The film shows little space,

Something fluid, out of place.

Reminiscence wouldn’t be my gift,

Yet events are written clearly, my mind I sift.

You work in mysterious ways, it’s true.

For that, I say thank you.

If I am anything, I am an opposite.

You know what You’re doing. I’m sure of it.

So I journey on, fearing not the road ahead,

And if I tremble, surely You’d wash away my dread.

You’ve got a plan, so I look to You,

As I journey on I’ll say thank you.

To the Author of the World's Best-Selling Book

Love is a shelter, You said to me:

Then You demonstrated it completely.

You gave that shelter willingly,

Even when I was unworthy.

Love is a house to enter in; locking the door behind.

Throwing away the key, still having a peace of mind.

Fire would come around, but the house won’t collapse

It will stand the fire, and those other mishaps.

Love is not a word that people simply fall into,

Nor a blaze that comes and goes after a day or two.

You said it isn’t a contract but a covenant,

To commit to forever, never to leave in an instant.

Help me then, to take that step, that as I look ahead

I’m assured, for You’re in control; You are the head.

Help me to enter the house and to lock the door behind,

To throw away the key, yet have a peaceful mind.

(note: This poem is written for the author of the world’s best-selling book since time immemorial. The book has sixty-six headings. It continues to change and inspire lives until today, having survived many eras of persecution. Translated in various languages, the book remains a best-seller around the globe.)

[Written] While Watching the News

I always see you during lunch break.

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 boy asks help for his 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 colorful. 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

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.

A Desperately Written Letter (in the face of great need)

Can you pay me a visit?

I really need to see you.

Please, show up now, as I seat.

For I am screwed.

I couldn’t meet my folks' eyes.

I am being clawed by ire,

I am skinned by fire.

To be with you now would be wise.

The fire that skins me alive

Is cool fire, which makes it

More painful in every bit.

I hope I won’t be revived.

So please, heed me, answer my call.

Open up and take me—that’s all.

Then close, don’t open again,

That I may not released to the world of men.

Please, open up, I beg you.

Please, Gaea.

Letters

August 5, 2011

It’s 10p.m. and I can’t sleep. I’m afraid to turn the lights out for fear for having a bad dream. Early this afternoon, someone in the house watched a horror film on TV while I was working on my computer and I could well hear the sound of those distant, creepy voices.

 I am now watching Bride Wars and the movie got to that part where one bride sends wedding invitations through e-vites.

And it got me thinking: what happened to the good old-fashioned handwritten letters?

When I was little, letters were a regular sight. My aunt worked abroad—email was a concept equal to outer space then, and so was text messaging—writing a letter was the only way to communicate. Unless you want to include the “voice tapes.” Her family would tell stories and record it on a tape then send it to her by mail. Going local, think of the person working in some big city (Metro Manila maybe) communicating to the family back in the provinces.

Look, I’m not saying that provinces are laid back. The point is, letters are entwined with our lives. Or at least they used to be. Now, we have text messaging and emails. We get a reply in a few minutes—if not seconds. My teacher mused once that overseas letters take weeks to get delivered.

When I visited the post office recently, I asked the mailman if there were still personal letters being sorted and mailed. He told me personal letters were rare, and that most items there were applications to a university, job-related letters, basically the “corporate letters.”

Well, time indeed makes changes. Now that I think of it, I’ve written lots of things except a letter. I’ve done essays, poems and stories. And business letters for field work, but never an actual personal letter.

***

The movie is done and I watch another. One trailer is about the movie Letters to God. It is about a boy battling cancer and a mailman who picks his letters from the mailbox. I haven’t seen the movie. I seriously feel cheesy in attempting to write a letter to God—don’t get me wrong, I say my prayers—I never actually wrote Him.

Since I’m a writer, might as well try, right?

Dear God,

I’ve been surfing the net earlier this evening and I Googled “memory.” Lots of stuff came out, and I chanced upon two conflicting opinions on a website. Having a sharp memory is both a blessing and a curse. It can be a blessing because you don’t easily forget. Students with sharp memories are good with memorization. And it is a curse because you don’t forget. Like that scene I saw on TV this afternoon.

I know You gave me that gift as a blessing; and I have benefited from it all my life. But right now, I'm too spooked to get to bed.

I’m writing this letter with one request: Help me forget what I saw this afternoon and help me have a peaceful sleep.

Yeah, I know. Even when I wrote that I felt a little stupid. I’m not a three-year-old to crawl under my blanket for fear of bad dreams.

But hey, a letter is a letter. If you write your best friend and tell her something, I’m prepared to bet you’d say it point blank. You’d never feel—even for a single sec—that you’re a complete dope.

The only difference is: I can’t mail this one. And the one I happen to write to has an address that’s a little…out of the mailman’s route. I’m sure the receiver of this letter has read its contents even before I finished typing anyway.

Honestly, that’s the best I could come up with right now. It’s not much. Probably not the best letter.

What would be in the best letter? If I write another letter to God, what should be in it, for the letter to be considered the best?

Wait. I write a letter to communicate.

If the letter were to my friend living one cab away, I’d write it plain and simple. I’d tell her about my day, the mind-boggling exam that gave me a nosebleed—nay—brain damage. I’d tell her my brain was completely shut down when I was done and that I am looking forward to an eight-hour sleep tonight.

That would make the best letter. But since God knows everything about me, what would be my best letter to Him?

Bingo.

The best letter is my life.