I write because I read. I read because I write.
I slept on the first morning and woke up on the 27th day. Time flies seems like an overused line. But how else could I say the passing of September? The plants I tried to rear last year are now vitamins on the dried potted soil. Death is silent. Usually.Autumn is a season I have… Continue reading September of the tropics
When I was a child, our rusted roof is usually dotted with sparrows looking for leftover rice. Hop. Hop. Hopping every morning. Singing to the tune of my mother's waking up pots. We are pardoned from the persimmon leaves of fall. The spooky skeletons of winter. However, our pockets are filled with flood that knocks,… Continue reading sparrow songs: a haibun
when i find it hard to see things that can make my old heart glad, i remember the scared eyes of my one-year-old self. my small arms hugging my then thin dad. at early 20's, with his hair middle-parted. on his left hand was a pink, birthday balloon, on his lips a small smile. his… Continue reading safe
A bat flies towards the berry tree. If it has a fruit on its mouth, it's too dark to see. The dinner's curry cooks with cumin, turmeric, kashmiri, with some cinnamon bark and cardamom, too. Afternoon's rain anointed the soil just before the stars woke up. The spiced-breeze eats up the last tinge of petrichor.… Continue reading moon’s eyes: a haibun
Three photos have immortalised the birthday my mind cannot remember but will always be dear to me. The first photo was of me and my Tatay (father) who looks like a young TV actor with his Colgate-commercial-smile and polished moustache. My chubby, teenie tiny fingers were clinging tightly to his shirt, perhaps its instinct to… Continue reading camera shy: a haibun
A few days before this moment, online weather forecast reported not just rainfall but a thunderstorm. More than half of June was eaten by the summer sun, it should not be surprising if the Philippines' monsoon is here to take its part of the pie. Still, palm to palm, my love and I send whispers… Continue reading our shining moment: a haibun
Piet Mondrian, ‘Broadway Boogie Woogie, 1942-43, moma.org More than a year I have been living inside this box with no divisions. Cream borders keep me company without judging my daily dancing alone and my full-hearted concerts on my own. Identical squared-rooms from my right and left stood the same size as mine. The closest left… Continue reading on aliens and cream borders: a haibun
Five decades of wandering, in every step perhaps your heels planted seedlings of words, of love, of wisdom, of life. So much of your history remains a hidden story. We're you a slave, a samurai, a cook, a poet, or everything and more? We can read scrolls after scrolls but never can we know. A… Continue reading the garden of 17 syllables: a haibun for Basho
Once I have read the stars are becoming less visible more than ever. With human knowledge soaring higher and higher (I hope we will not find our specie crashing soon), our mortal hands (tainted with scarlet juice of many wars) have made our earth-based stars, letting our eyes and minds awake round the clock. Last… Continue reading so we think we’re smarter than God: a haibun
When I was young there was this Koreanovela titled Winter Sonata, a part of a series titled Endless Love. I was nine or maybe 10, innocent and clueless, but that was my first encounter with you--- season of snowflakes and magic. It has been more or less three decades and you remain a dream to… Continue reading thank you winter, for letting the spring in: a haibun
A Reading Writer 