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Walang Masabi

I started this in November of 2007, and though I spent a full year singing the first four stanzas and two choruses to myself—at all hours—the rest just didn’t come to mind until over a year later.

Walang Masabi

I felt you breathing in my thoughts
a breath as subtle as the whisper of spring.
And though I couldn’t begin to guess your name,
I sensed you were out there, somewhere.

For years I struggled with a sense of you.
I searched the eyes of every face for a clue,
but no-one looked at me the way I knew
would leave me lost for what to say.

    chorus 1:

    walang masabi
      nothing than words can say
    walang masabi
      take my breath away
    walang masabi
      more than words can share
    walang masabi
      something’s in the air
      something’s in the air
      something’s in the air
        oh in the air
    walang masabi

In time I courted solitude,
prepared to walk the long remainder of life
without the comfort of companionship,
and yet I felt strangely at ease.

Then like the rising of a tropical sun
you rose illuminating all of my dreams,
a gift beyond the spectrum of my hopes
that left me lost for what to say.

    chorus 2:

    walang masabi
      more than words can share
    walang masabi
      something’s in the air
    walang masabi
      nothing words can say
    walang masabi
      take my breath away
      take my breath away
      take my breath away
        oh away
    walang masabi

I saw the blank unwritten years
stretching white into a life alone,
meditating in the silence of
a still and unusual peace.

But now I’ll journey through the days ahead
with promise written onto every page,
a sense of joy I never knew before
you left me lost for what to say.

    chorus 3:

    walang masabi
      more than words can say
    walang masabi
      take my breath away
    walang masabi
      nothing words can share
    walang masabi
      something’s in the air
      something’s in the air
      something’s in the air
        oh in the air
    walang masabi

Now let us join and fix our eyes
upon the blue horizon of our life
and venture all undaunted through the years
believing in our path together.

For you, mahal ko, are my utmost heart,
a mystery beyond imagination.
I never felt my spirit pulse before
you left me lost for what to say.

    chorus 4:

    walang masabi
        nothing words can share
    walang masabi
      something’s in the air
    walang masabi
      more than words can say
    walang masabi
      take my breath away
      take my breath away
      take my breath away
        oh away
    walang masabi

Walang masabi is a Tagalog (Filipino) expression that means something along the lines of “beyond words” or “nothing”, in the sense that it’s nothing words can express. Mahal ko is Tagalog for “My Love”.

This was written for my wife, then my fiance. I sing it a capella, though not very well. If I ever manage a decent recording, I’ll Youtube it and post a link here. The refrains are repeated all four times because the wording changes slightly each time around.

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an inkling hope

The idea for this poem came to me a few months back, at which point I hurriedly tapped out the opening four lines—then nothing. So today after four or so months of periodically checking in on it, I’ve finally managed to sit down and finish the original idea.

an inkling hope

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

Publication History:

Clamor — Fall 2009

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Visions

Originally, this was going to be part I of “Transmogrification”, but the energy and time investment involved in adhering to the strict prosodic scheme of the stanzas proved to be too much. So I saved the first fragmented stanzas to be finished later and restarted “Transmogrification” with a simpler scheme. As a synthetic ode, the prosody and length of this poem would have to have been mirrored exactly in an antithetical part II, which I knew would require more of an effort than I was ready to commit to at the time.

And yet, what I had already managed seemed worth saving and building upon.

Visions

Earthen eyes gaze out on crescent dunes,
     there to ponder remnants
of cities melted ages past in doom,
          cultures from another time
          ground to rolling fields of sand,
no monument nor trace left moaning on the wind.

Sagebrush eyes peer off through scented timbers
     and sense within the green
an elven nation thriving, ever timid,
          past the reach of human menace,
          fortressed in their deep concealment,
a realm of sylvan magic lush with rare fulfillment

Lapis eyes take in a waste of waves
     and fancy far beneath them
a shimmered halflight rippling from the wake
          down on castles carved from myth,
          peopled by a watery race
who dream in coral homes and thrive without a trace.

Soft gray eyes look up to view a sky
     where nimbus clouds conceal
a wonder floating just beyond the sight,
          palaces of pastel color,
          built by beings half transparent,
forever held adrift on atmospheric currents.

Hazel eyes reflect on fields of light
     and find within the silence
a universe replete with distant lives
          strewn across the starry swell,
          spun throughout the depths of space
on worlds of every axis bound to planes of grace.

Imagination dares to dream a world
     alive with magic hues,
emergent shades of mystery at work,
          bearing gifts of subtle wisdom
          manifest from hidden sources
welled from deep beneath the realm of conscious forces.

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evaporation

Someone emailed me a Zen poem, and I found myself tapping out this small response.

evaporation

in an ocean of stars
a ballet sun pirouettes
alone in a glimmering sea
of waltzing partners

in an ocean of light
waves wash the empty shores
of a trillion winkling eyes
an island of contemplation

mass gave light to motion
birth gave life to mind
thought gave dream to atoms
form gave way to karma

by the river of no return
a solitary observer
breathes in the emptiness
steam rising to nowhere

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happy deathday

I guess my “holiday” poems tend not to be so festive. It was a phrase from Joyce’s Ulysses that somehow got me going: “Must be his [Smith O’Brien’s] deathday. For many happy returns.” (pg. 93).

Thought this a curious twist on the phrase. And found myself jotting down a note in my composition book… which expanded into a quatrain… which expanded three more stanzas. At which point I looked at it and thought to myself, “Why am I writing something like this this early Thanksgiving morning?”

Why indeed! But with a little reflection, it came to me.

It’s the forth anniversary of a father’s death—suicide—which I can’t help but feel some responsibility for. Our most tragic mistakes shape us, hopefully into better beings. But they also scar us. And sometimes others.

I’ve been told again and again that I shouldn’t accept responsibility for this suicide. But… leaving circumstances untold here …It’s difficult not to. I hope his shade some semblance of peace there at the edge of Styx.

So, this realization in mind, I found myself focusing the last three stanzas more tightly.

happy deathday

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.
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Alchemy

In this poem, my 13th trisect, segment one depicts steel. Segment two depicts the skyscraper, in which steel is the most essential component. And segment three depicts the effects of modern industry upon earth and humanity, which includes mining for and smelting steel and the development and movement of all those resources that lead to the creation and maintenance of the skyscraper.

Alchemy

Ore

Forged by myriad million years of light,
        cast against eternities of night,
elemental embers collect amid the void,
    pooled in glowing clouds of dust and rock.

Particles accrete through time and motion,
        condensed to monumental orbs of molten
crystal moods, amassing alloys mid the darkness,
    cooled to form a rind of raw potential.

Fertile soils rise from ancient stone,
        animating shapes of wood and bone.
Nimble hands evolve and grope the ground for clues,
    scratching for a means to reach the sky.

Fires smelt a future from deposits
        quarried from a realm of veins and pockets,
charged into converters from out the depths of reason,
    hatching alloys cast as new potential.
 

Corpse

They rise as if from out the earth, a maze
        of beams and columns stretched against the haze,
looming like the relic frames of ancient beasts,
    massive specters moaning on the wind.

Reflections slowly seal each giant carcass,
        body bags of alloys mined from darkness
closed around the ribs of tall decaying monsters,
    ghastly shadows cast across the landscape.

They cantilever labyrinths of gloom
        hard against an ever present brume,
where wander human wraiths yet bound to living breath,
    faces filled to silence with dismay.

Like mausoleums raised to mark the open
        graves where hopes lie wasting in corrosion,
great facades reflect with every sunset whisper
    traces of the hollowness within them.
 

Course

Canyons wrought from concrete steel and glass
        soar above an ever seething mass,
heads and fenders tossed within a frantic flood
    swelled from centuries of strong desire.

Arteries of lava, veins of phosphor
        circulate through fields of psychic squalor,
where great malignant tumors feed upon the current,
    welled from out the heart of mass confusion.

Discolored patches stretch and fade from view—
        membranes taking on a sickly hue—
an ever growing quilt expanding abstract themes
    flung beyond the grasp of human thought.

Filaments of culture weave a madness
        shimmered from the dark side of a canvas
suspended deep in silence against abysmal backdrops
    clung forever to the soul’s awareness.

The prosody is pretty complex. If you’re curious about it let me know and I’ll respond with an explanation.

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transposition

Another one pulled from the drafts of my little hiking journal. When I backpack, I’ll take a couple of bansuri flutes along. And in the evenings when all is quiet, I’ll try to play my surroundings. I’ve found that most places carry a song that can be felt and transposed through an instrument.

transposition

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Over time I’ve learned the habit of casting all my sense across some scene, some place of peace and stillness, and in my heart asking to know its song. Then, if I’m fortunate, I’ll close my eyes and feel the sounds come through me, and I’ll find them on my flute. Then we’ll play together, me and the spirits who live there.

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True Nature

This one was scribbled out as I sat atop a giant bit of driftwood watching the waves during a recent hike on the Lost Coast Trail in Northern California’s Sinkyone Wilderness State Park.

True Nature

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.
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Provision

If I have a child one day, where would he (bold assumption I know) come from? I think we rain from the void into awareness. I think we drift in a sort of sleep, locked in the watery depths of consciousness and are eventually lulled by the rhythmic sounds of promise into life. From dream to dream we sleep our way through eternity, connected by an ever expanding web of condition—or karma.

Provision

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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cicada dreams

Once in awhile I’ll meet and interact with some small creature, and this will inspire a poem or three. I’ve attempted to interact with cicadas in the past, but they’re always so skittish, making it difficult even to get near one, never mind give one a ride. Maybe this one was a bit shocked by its downtown surroundings, making it more willing to try its luck with climbing on board. Which I think worked out well for it, since I was able to leave it someplace far more green.

cicada dreams

i

stained glass wings rest
light against the dull gray
tinge of stainless steel

    compound eyes study a world
    more strange and alien
    than their wide and varied view

  giant beetles rush colors past
  sometimes disgorging unwieldy
  young from beneath heavy wings

      great square hives rise up
      full of eyes that glint back bits
      of amber pearl and turquoise

    creatures half concealed by
    remains of cocoon rush about
    scratching out bits of song

        small metal trees grow barely
        a few flat leaves which never
        bend to the touch of wind

there is no need for thought
for there is nothing to understand
here of this dim new dreaming
 

ii

curious eyes reach out and
touch ever so slightly front-
most legs with invitation

        one rises up to ponder-feel
        the alien appendage almost
        lost in reflections of meaning

    then all at once tear-drop
    wings climb up light tan skin
    and over thin brown hairs

      one walks the other rides
      before the floating scrutiny of
      a large peculiar gaze

  overhead floats a sidewalk
  canopy of maples deep green
  firs and old black oaks

    sign posts and street lamps fade
    behind a backyard gate that leads
    into a garden where the sound

      of city streets is hardly heard
      among the many hues of spring
      that climb and blossom toward the sun

and here against a beechwood branch
living wings are gently placed
returned to sapwood realms of dream

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puzzles

I have been thinking of trying out another dialect poem. They’re really tough to write, requiring a lot of editing and reediting and thinking and rethinking about word and syntax usage, and how to graphologically represent a highly modified, accentual use of English.

This poem is inspired by a young teenager at a residential home where I used to work. He was someone who grew up in urban poverty and who ended up where he did because he—like many who grow up in such environs—made some poor choices. He was an angry kid, and a fighter. But during the time I knew him he demonstrated himself to be capable of totally random acts of compassion toward younger residents. For all his anger, it was clear that he didn’t like to see others bullied, demeaned, or taken advantage of.

He really liked putting together jigsaw puzzles, and would spend considerable time on them.

puzzles

so much gone wrong what
goes through ma mind as i
slide them pieces up
ova one anotha

th’ edges iz easiest to find
easies’ ta fit inta place
man what was that why’d
i beat that man down

then there’s them pieces
they look like they go
tagetha somehow cuz
they got the same cullas

they look like they match yet
a lotta times they don’t
i don’ know why i get so angry
maybe cuz my own pieces

they nevva seem ta fit
these if i look at ’em long
enough i find where they go
but no matta how long i look

at all th’ liddle pieces of ma
life i don’t see how they go
damn man i can’t ev’n find
the edges fo’ the frame

i used to force them pieces in
cuz it seem like they go like
that but then when i think ahm
close ta done it look all wrong

wrong like my damn life like
my damn future all jigsawed
but with pieces missin’ an’
forced all crazy ’till they’z all

bent up an’ don’ seem ta fit
nowhere no mo’ an’ i didn’t even
realize they wuz gettin’ bent
when i put them in but i learned

learned if i gotta push hard they
ain’t in the right place an’ when
they do fit they just slip down
all easy an’ it look right

maybe that’s what i did tried
to make pieces fit that didn’ go
where i’ look like they did
maybe that’s what my mamma

did when she had me when
she got high when she slept
wi’ daddey when she got mad
and took it all out on us

took it all out on us till we didn’
know how our own pieces went
no mo’ and now ahm here
here wi’ failure starin’ each day

hard in the face of a broken
tomorra wonderin’ wonderin’
what ahm gonna live fo’
wonderin’ how ahm goin’na live

but i got these puzzles an’ i
learnin’ how to find what pieces
go where an’ ta take the time
take the time to fit ’em right

i learnin’ how ta think about what
goes where how evrethang fits
tagetha an’ ta pick up the pieces
an’ maybe fit ma life tagetha