Homing Pigeon Poem by Denn Meneses

Green envelops the road less traveled.
At daybreak the familiar terrain unravels.
Where are the cherubs with their toothless grins
chasing pavements and dragging chains?
I look up at the cloudless sky and see a glimmer.
I look farther into the horizon and stir up a shiver.
God, this advent is not hopeful.
In ordinary times it would have been joyful.
Instead it feels like a mugging
tearing at flesh woundless
battering the mind senseless.

The street of my youth is different now
almost unrecognizable amid the haze
of odd facades and bizarre visage.
Where are the faces from the past
that littered my adolescence?
Have they gone the way of obsolescence?
The little house from Father's brow
is worse for wear but still stands proud.
I linger behind iron and concrete
looking out into the sunshine
whence a guava tree once spanned.
When did the fruits wither and die?
The room is an empty shell
muted by a palpable absence
even as pictures on the wall remain plastered
in a loving jumble of spontaneity
evoking innocuous moments lush in their vacuity.

I couldn't grieve like a mournful child
I couldn't cast my sorrow to the wind
I couldn't sing songs of lamentation
or hymns of praise
without my soul drenching
and my body yielding.
I couldn't hum the lullaby on my own
I couldn't stare at unmindful eyes
and not suffer a lump
smother a tear
be drained and stumped.
What is it about the young and the aging?
They do not carry the burdens of the middling.

The scent of dama de noche fills the vapid air
of night soaked in a crescent glow.
The trees are in full bloom
they do not portend gloom.
The happy flutter of little feet
the endless chatter of kin and kith
sate the heart sapped of mirth.
Ah, to be able to dance with the goblins again
gaze endlessly at the mountain cuddling river
wade in the blue and lap up the sand
commune with the wise and play with the band.

I am not alone.
I am home.


022210
In Memory of Felipa T. Amacio