Poems

Pretty bleeding heart,
Your beauty transforms sorrow
Into blissful joy.
...

In the end not the kind of end that sends chills down your spine, but the one that slips in softly like dusk settling into the sky a tired heart comes to understand it was never really on a search for love.
Not love.
Not just the word people throw around.
Not even the faint echo of it.
...

Fifty years of counting carbs and checking numbers low,
A long-term fight, a different kind of daily ebb and flow.

Prostate cancer tried its hand, the ticker stalled a bit,
...

Remorseful Score

Should've reached out
Just a tad more
...

Beauty isn't just something you see in a mirror, it's more like a flowing river, learning to sparkle. It begins where the fabric of life fades, where faces quiet down, and something unseen starts to rise, just like the dawn breaking from within. Beauty speaks a language that isn't spoken but felt, much like rain that never questions who deserves its touch. It's the gentle hand that softens the world, like a breeze brushing against the cheek of a weary sky, a voice that arrives softly, like light spilling through a half-open door. It's laughter light as a feather gliding through heavy moments like a bird that forgets all about gravity.
It embodies the soul delicate as hidden flowers, leaving behind their sweet scent as time goes by. And every soul that spreads kindness leaves behind echoes, warmth, and quiet prayers that bloom like gardens in unseen hearts. Each gentle step we take on this earth is a seed, and God, like nurturing rain, embraces it with acceptance, allowing love to rise like fresh green after a long drought.
The traces we leave linger on, like glowing footprints in soft dust, like whispers that refuse to fade, like stars still shining even after the night has passed. Peace peace to the hearts that carry light as if it were their very breath, as if darkness never taught them to fear. Peace to those who offer hope, like hands extending water to a thirsty horizon. Peace to those who scatter love like petals, like prayers, like the dawn.
Peace, time and again to the souls that make the world a gentler place simply by being here.
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We see the ripples, never the stone,
The way they speak when they're alone.
We judge the weight, the pace, the pride,
But miss the soul that beats inside.
...

A Prince will help, Haakon is his name,
For folks who need a place to stay.
This year the TV - NRK, will show,
Where kindness helps the seeds to grow.
...

After midnight, when the bell strikes twelve
Into the darkness many animals delve
If you're out at midnight by god it's a sight
You experience the wonders of beautiful night
...

The winds may blow, and shadows creep,
Old tales are whispered, secrets deep.
But through the doubt, a truth shines bright,
Their love, a steady, burning light.
...

Stand tall, like peaks so high,
Touching clouds, against the sky.
Don't bend, don't sway, just be.
Strong and firm, for all to see.
...

Eighty-two years ago today, as the waves of Leyte's shores trembled, not from a point something magnitude earthquake, but under the rumbling boots of liberating American soldiers. As Douglas MacArthur fulfilled a long awaited promise, another life began with its own quiet defiance — the birth of my father, Romeo, 'the Conqueror' as how he wanted to be fondly called. It was October 20,1944, a day marked not only in history books, but also in our family's story. While the world watched a general return to reclaim a nation, my father let out his first cry in a country torn by war. It was a cry of struggle, a sound that would echo through the decades of a hard but honorable life. My limited imagination won't be able to grasp what it was like to be born into a world still echoing with gunfire and desperation. I would imagine my father's earliest days were shaped by scarcity (Kaya hindi lumaki, LOL) . Food was maybe rationed, security was uncertain, and entire families lived in fear of uncertainties. His family, like many others in Tingib, Basey, Samar survived through grit, ingenuity, and an unbreakable bond. The Tingibnons like all the other Samarnons, knew how to endure, and from them, my father learned the most essential lesson of his life: to persist.
His childhood was not filled with expensive toys or privileged schooling, but with hard work. From a young age, being the eldest male in the family, he toiled in the fields. He helped raise his younger siblings, and walked long distances just to attend classes — when he could. Education was a luxury, but he valued every moment of it. It's a value he passed on to us - his love for learning. Often, he would recount how he studied by the light of a gas lamp, scribbling notes on scraps of paper, his mind hungry for a future he could barely imagine, but always believed in. I remember him telling a story about how he would swim from the shores of Tingib to Tacloban, probably just to get a glimpse of life different from his. It was a tale a bit exaggerated as I reckon now, but in the ears of a young mind, he was a hero, that in the level of, or even mightier than General Mac Arthur.
The struggle did not end with youth. As he grew into a man, poverty clung tightly. While awaiting results of his licensure exam as a Radio Telegraph Operator he took on backbreaking jobs — laboring as construction worker and bakery boy. Experiences he turned into an advantage, because when he fathered us, he knew how to make 'bitso' and other breads, and he preferred doing mason labor for our house, over paying someone else to do it. He was our grease monkey, our electrician, mason labor, cook and baker rolled into one.
Finally, the universe seemed to have smiled upon him, he passed his licensure exam, and became a kickass manager of RCPI. And when he got promoted as RCPI Roving manager he worked even longer hours, endured being unappreciated, made countless sacrifices, even worked almost always far away from us — all to build a better life not just for himself, but for the family he was determined to raise. There were moments when life tested him cruelly — lost opportunities, health issues, betrayals. I wanted to say, for forceful narrative, that not once did he surrender. But that would be to miswrite his story. I saw him falter, I saw him stop and saw him crash into a thousand pieces. But I also saw him picked himself up and moved on. He was a man of contradictions, but the one thing I am sure of, and the one thing I would never be confused about, is that he loved my mother…with a kind of love that is tough and true, and almost crazy. In a chaotic world I grew up in, at least that one thing I'm sure of to be true. His love for my mom was the kind that we only get to read in books, and get to see only in movies, and the kind of love I want my daughters to experience. I would tell my kids how Romeo loved Edith, as if telling a story of one of Shakespeare's masterpieces. Today, on what would be his 82nd birthday, I remember him not just as a man who lived through history, but as one who shaped it. Just as MacArthur returned to fulfill his promise to a nation, my father fulfilled his own: to live fully, love deeply, and leave behind a legacy that no hardship could erase. In my heart, he lived and he died a Conqueror.
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'What's this? '
The question is written
In the great arena?
The answer of it is also inscribed
...