Prose Poetry, Writing

Away from him

 I recognize the piercings in your heart; your eyes betray them. Your heart is a fragile, magical thing; it’s supposed to be taken cared of. Not slashed and lacerated on random days he picks. You know you deserve better when you constantly push thoughts of I deserve better from your mind.

Listen, darling. You know your story. Don’t put a happy twist into it. Stop making excuses for him. Let the pain consume your bitter skin. But, always guard that crimson spot. And when all but that spot is already consumed, it’s time to cut the string and free-fall.

Let the birds watch you step into the air. Let them see you tumble and circle around mid-air. As you f



l                        away.

Splash! You hit the ocean surface. The feel on your skin breaking the tension is itchy-woundy, but you’ll get through.

You can start from here, darling. Away from him. Away from him.

for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

A Lover’s Salty Plee

La Jument, photo by Jean Guichard

The last memory I had was being on a boat sailing on a lovely canal,

with Christmas lights wrapped around the wooden rows.

I had to securely tape the power supply I made specially for this night.

I owe you one. I owe you this. You and me, just letting things be. 

The next thing I knew is that we’re in the middle of this angry ocean,

beating us like we spilled oil in one of its waters.

No boat was anchored meters away.

No airplanes that I hear of. How did we get here, my love?

If not for this rocky fortress, I would assume we were doomed —

Lungs filled with saltwater, our struggles we would eternally curse.

Remember though that for as long as we breathe the same salty air,

No wave is a maverick — ’cause we’d surf over them.

Tomorrow might be a nightmare. A future with a sink hole.

A Yolanda fiercer than ever. An oceanic beast.

Invincible, we may not be, but let our love shine to the Almighty

that He’ll calm all storms and let us be in paradise.

for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

Magpie Mondays: She stopped

photo by Elena Kalis

I stopped using only half of my heart.

I learned it would only give you nothing,

leaving you in between,

in turmoil, dazed, confused, forever in dawning.


I stopped carrying heavy loads,

I learned it would only bring you down,

withdrawn from the world,

unfazed, oblivious with a frown.


I stopped listing at some point,

I learned it wouldn’t get you anywhere,

goal-driven, yet no action,

slacking, stuck in midair.

*Written for the Magpie Tales.

Prose Poetry, Writing

Charity Avenue I

Charity Avenue I


Work has been hard,

I took the day off.


Unfortunately, the boss says I’m needed.

So, off I go to work — at brunch time.


I have to go get my laundry first,

I thought.


“Do you have change?”,

the laundry lady asked.


Goodbye to the last hundred peso bill

and to some shiny silver coins.


Boarded the jeepney.

Coins? The last exact change.


Off, I hopped and I asked the bread lady,

“I need to get some change for this.”

[Presented a 500 peso bill.]


“No can do.”, she replied.

I retorted, “Alright. I’ll buy a bottle of water then.”


Change, at long last.

Alas! It’s nearing noon. Pft.


I was on haste when

an old homeless lady blocked my way.


I turned around, and talked to the bread lady again,

“One pack of bread please.”


I grabbed it and gave it to the aged woman.

And I have more change, which I really don’t need anymore.


I crossed the street and

boarded another jeepney.


I thought, I should have went to work earlier.

Shouldn’t have hustled ‘coz of the hassles.


Then, I remembered my deed,

which involved a pack of six plain buns.



If it weren’t for the emergency at work,

If it weren’t for the need to go get my laundry,


If only the laundry lady has a change,

If only I have enough change for my second fare,


If I haven’t stopped to buy the bottled water,

And first of all, if it weren’t for my morning slack feeling,


Then, maybe the old lady

wouldn’t have something for lunch.


With this, then maybe bad luck could hit me n times a day.

It could be the complete opposite for others.




No mocking, whatsoever.



Shared on Poetry Pantry.


This was previously published in my old poetry blog, ‘Fiercer Bait.

for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

Magpie Mondays: Dream Balloons and Lane-Free Pathways

Apprehensions, move out of the way.

Fear, you can wait, but you can only in vain.

Because I’ll be driving on a lane-free path today.

Discernment has gotten the better of me.

In my boat shoes, I would fly over the waters.

Because I’ll be driving on a lane-free path today.

I’ll kiss all my doubts goodbye out of my car window,

as the image of my comfort zone shrinks on my rear-view mirror

Because I’ll be driving on a lane-free path today.

** 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