for Magpie Tales, Writing

Magpie Mondays: A Disguised Blessing

photo by Agustin Berrocal


The old, cranky lawyer had knocked on his door,

the will, the testament of his half-brother has been probated.

Luxury cars and the Caribbean was on his mind,

Resigned he did from his current job,

for he believed a thousand bucks would be a penny after this day.

So off he drove to his brother’s mansion,

with the old, cranky lawyer as his companion.

He was led to this half-opened elegantly furnished door,

from the edges of which golden beams escaped.

He couldn’t contain the excitement that his heart carries

and rushed towards the light source.

He grabbed one egg and felt that something is quite not right.

The egg had little craters and weren’t fragile at all.

The old, cranky lawyer whispered,

“He said you loved french fries,” and he walked snickering,

“Don’t count your golden eggs before they hatch, my boy for they might not be eggs at all.”


**Written for the Magpie Tales

for Magpie Tales, Writing

Magpie Mondays: Awakening the Goddess of Liberty in Me

Few minutes before one,

I walked out of that chapel.

Carefully choosing my path

on the dampen soil,

the heavy out pour is to blame.

I believed foreign words earlier

have flown out of my mouth,

barely touching my chapped lips.

My tongue has been possessed,

though it was just me who heard me.

I have been awaken, on a flying stance.

Equipped with discernment.

Blessed with knowledge and wisdom.

Hoping to heal others,

in little ways that I can.


**Written for the  Magpie Tales

for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

A House Party on June

Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949

I still remembered that one fateful June night.

Raindrops pouring, you and me under my umbrella.

Tagging along the sidewalks, skipping over water puddles,

making our way to this local bar that we made our weekend nights getaway station.


I still remembered that instant connection we had.

Holding each other hands as if we have done that naturally in the past,

the outright kissing in front of our friends,

the right-then-and-there confession in your room, on your bed.


I still remembered the night outs that followed the first,

the solo slow dancing in the middle of the dancefloor,

the scent of your skin and the softness of your palms,

and the lines that formed on the sides of your eyes when you laugh.


I still remembered the mornings after,

you lying next to me, reeking of alcohol and perfume.

Oh how sweet it is to just lie and sleep by your side

after going home, tired of dancing at 3 AM.


I still remembered the spark that we had

when we’re still living in that spark we have.

And for all that you’ve done for me,

I would even be the one to light up your cigarette for you.


**Written for The Magpie Tales

for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

Caprice by Santorini

Charleston Farmhouse Door

Hopping and skipping on uneven cobblestone paths

on this warm sunny day.

Watching the taverns dot the caldera of the island,

I gasp in the air filled with garlicky and organoic aroma.

Then I stopped for a moment to wrinkle my nose

for I wouldn’t want to eat lunch just yet,

I scraped off that layer of smell and inhaled the wet, salty taste of the sea,

and chuckled, thinking, Only dogs smell in layers, not humans.

Not sure as to where my feet would take me, I recollected my early morning’s memories

of the latest beach hopping that I had.

The last beach has the finest sand my feet has ever buried themselves in, and

I jumped and built sand castles only for the waves to wash them away.

I could always build another for I am a princess, 

my kingdom follows me wherever I go. 

That beach has become my favorite. Who would have thought dreadful things breed beauty?

Like what the volcanic eruptions did to my known sanctuary.

I opened my bag and brought out polaroids of the beaches that I’ve been to

and I sat, my flowing skirt ballooned halfway through my action.

As my floral bottom fell flat on the uneven pathway, I laid each polaroid carefully.

Red. Black. White. Cream. The colors were varied and each photo palette holds its own grace.

My nana used to tell me that the colors of the beaches on our place

depended on which geological layer is exposed.

A heart tug is what I felt for the black beach; I think it’s wickedly sophisticated,

however, I disliked its ability to absorb the majority of the heat that hits it.

I looked up and an appalling chagrin replaced my earlier carefree doldrums,

the black dead lock remains as it is, while its chromatic wall paint happily danced.

*Written for the Magpie Tales

for Magpie Tales, Writing

A Whiff of Vicissitude

Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves

Frail and obedient,

that used to be me.

Silent, unquestioning,

always following.

But, when I took a sip

of the nectar dew on

one green stalk

that afternoon.

My little wings sliced the air,

my beak glistened against the sunset’s last rays.

I flew higher, faster.


Emotions bred actions

that I desire.

I turned selfish,

yet still frail.



I became,

with you.

*Written for the Magpie Tales