EVERY POT HOLDS A STORY

 

By Daniel John

Offsprings

both of you are our ink

of thoughts

yet

you are more than

verses to us, our sons.

Your advent

awards our nights with

twinkling stars

sewn together like

a lei of gold medals

around our exalted hearts.

now dawn appears

with your shadows

yet you’re more than

sunshine to us-

you’re your mother’s gifts

to me; you’re my gifts to her,

you’re we-

the breaths of life,

the emblem

of mom and dad’s

everlasting love.

Waikiki Beach Moon

Corazon Fermin Quiamas
7/4/2008 9:34:12 PM

You engraved
Shadows on
This tanned sheet of sand
Where their purity radiates
Through your shy eyes.

But you never knew
The veracity of these sketches,
Envied by the hula dancing waves,
Now brewed with tears and salt
To numb or aggravate
This hallucinating pain.

Copyright 2008 By Corazon F. Quiamas

My Mission

“I come to you in silence; like a wave tha comes to kiss your shore and  just a glimpse, I go away towards my deepest sea; and the wave that will return will never be me, no another like me.”- Quiamas

 

Have you avidly ever tried to think of a mission of your existence ever since you began to question everything in yourself and around you? Were you aware that each thing that was created and coming to exist has its own role that it should and shall be to accomplish before the time requires to its end? These questions must have been the first ones to find answers before one says,” I was created.”

No human knew in the past decades that shall I have come to exist now. Even me. I am so powerless to search why no one did it but I am so powerful to prove for one reason: A MISSION.

I do not know how many days more shall I live. I have spent thousands more in the past but I sense were only the beginnings to layout a promise. A promise so hard to figure out but so easy to feel and believe in. Everyone has it but not everyone feels it; more not everyone believes in it. For man is so complex and extra-animated, a museum to live of dying and a museum to die of living.

My mission is I am for you to be mine.

Below my grave I shall be happy. Leave no cross of memory. I was created; I am for you to be mine.

On Poem Writing

Poem writing is somewhat tricky- the more you look for the right word, the more it hides away. But when you don’t mind it, then it comes- it whines to be writtten otherwise it won’t come back!

My feelings and thoughts scribble the lines that I weave. I can’t do it without their symphony. I always have a pen and a piece of folded paper in my pocket- wherever I go. Those are the two things I need to remember next to my car key.

I am quiet. Mostly a smile you can expect from me instead of gabbling to you. But, I’m sorry. I prefer to stay by myself when I am with the crowd.

At home, believe me- I have a list of activities to be done for the day, otherwise you see my eyes linked on the ceiling, on walls in most times of the whole day. Nah!

But poem writing really is an outside world, for me. I need to be alone to chase a word or vice versa.

Father’s Day

Thank you Daniel John and Dominick for loving Daddy and Mommy so much…

?

A mark of queries; sown
In deep minds; sprout
Of solutions to the
Existence of
A brewed
Life.

Somehow, it is
The mark of the heart
In search
Of you
Behind the shadow
Of an unanswered
Poem.

 

 

 

 

The Clock Ticks

The clock
Ticks the old moment
Goodbye
While it ticks the new one
Hello;
Then it ticks
Another old moment
Goodbye
While it ticks another new one
Hello.The clock
Ticks today
While it ticks tomorrow.

It ticks the tick
Goodbye
While it ticks the tick
Hello.

It ticks you
And me goodbye
While it ticks
Our painless silence
Hello.

Ladawan Iti Sarming

Kumkumsenka gayamen
Nga imahen a nakabalud
Iti uneg ti saan a nauyaw
A sarming; ammom a sika
Ti kaasitgak a gayyem
Nga umisem
No umisemak; ken
Aglua no agluaak.

Ta kimat ti kinaalistom
Nga agparang iti sanguanak-
Makipagrikna iti riknak
No sanguek ti sarming
Iti pinagmaymaysak;
A pakariparak ita ti kulay-ong
A pingping nga asmang
Immabuten a matam

Beanstalk

If I am not the first one to adore of what this summer brings, I pray I am not the last. The existence of man should have been full of meanings if all would have defined Creation a whole of one’s life. He who thinks of God’s gift and loves it will he be given a reward of a pathway for the good,both for himself and his beloved.

Mementoes cast as a shadow on this backyard where I have been counting these plants as courses of my will to teach my destiny. Yes, I remember the time I was most worried of Twinkle, our big dog, while I was planting beans here, was here around me jumping innocently on this plot and soon the sprouts would be a mess after a week.

I remember my greatest fear would be finding the he, the dog, has betrayed my principles in the significance of beanstalk to my life, with her, to our lives.

I remember how I started to plant. With thoughts of missing her, I began to wound the half-wet bosom of the soil. Earthworms were awakened and surprised from their deep slumber. Some got out and helplessly went away. I felt their complaints from attacking the calmness of their world. Perhaps, if they were humans, my life would have been in danger. Or perhaps, they would have understood me and shared this small area of lot- for here and there far out, they own this large land unlike me.

I recall the busy days nurturing the lushness of this green. While I woke up in the early morning, before going to school, I had been towards here to see what my love and care had brought unto them. After classes, I had to rush home to fix their stalks and vines. I found out that they also needed to be taught to where they supposed to climb, to have a better fence enough for them to reach. Yes, I found out that they must be given pesticides to keep their soft leaves away from wrinkles and holes.

Today, I am gathering their fruits. I am proud of the things I enterprisingly tried. I feel how this foggy horizon shakes my heart in praise. Twinkle is beside me, too- jovially wagging his tail underneath these thick leaves over me now which once desired of bearing fruits have sought to reality.

To all these, I commence to see the green’s comfort and satisfaction.

Like these beanstalks, I begin to feel what love and care had brought. I also begin to prove myself must have sought a dream possible to reach and gather its fruits. There is only one thing to keep me on the go, to reap the seeds I have sown. I must go to my loved one’s home. She must have granted my plans and we shall be the beanstalks in bloom.

For he who thinks of God’s gift and loves it will be given a reward of a pathway, both for himself and his beloved.