Homo Sapiens

Homo sapiens

We think we

are conquerors

when we venture

out into the

sea. We forget

how vast it is,

how dark. And

further out,

when we look

at stars, we

think we are

so brave. Little

motes floating,

tiny grains.

Surrender is

our base

state, helpless,

awed. We

enter the

world cold,

thin-skinned,

squalling, micro-

scopic miracles

that beat

the

odds.

August 5, 2021

Image by Christian Bowen of Unsplash

Day 4, poem no. 9 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton

The Uses of Time

The Uses of Time

We all know that

not all moments

are equal. We use

the thirty seconds

of gargling mouth

wash to do other

things, like washing

our faces or wiping

off a countertop. And

there are some moments

that are pointed,

complete,

the split second

to land a kiss

on his forehead

or the eternity

of entering

a stream,

digging your

heels in the

mud, and

letting God’s

finger touch

your

face.

August 5, 2021

Image by Karim Sakhibgareev of Unsplash

Day 4, poem no. 8 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton, no particular prompt. I find that writing... just prompts more writing.

Philippine Lemon

Philippine Lemon

We call it

calamansi.

Even that last

syllable tastes

sharp and sour.

Scorching days

are a dime

a dozen in

my city. At

eleven o’ clock,

when I can’t

sleep, I go

to the kitchen

and squeeze

a dollop of the

concentrate into

a glass and

fill it to the brim

with chilled

water. Even the

tinkling of the

soda spoon

is part of it.

I close my eyes

and I am

engulfed

in a cool

citrus

garden.

August 4, 2021

Image by The Little Epicurean

Day 3, Poem no. 7 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton

Glucose Tolerance Test

Glucose Tolerance Test

I want nothing else,

even if it isn’t cold,

even if it is in

a tiny plastic cup,

even if it was just

boiled or left

on the counter

for an hour.

Waking up parched,

I had a dream

of it. As soon

as I’m done,

I’ll drink

the whole

world and

it will taste

like

forgiveness.

August 4, 2021

Image by Manki Kim of Unsplash.

Day 3, Poem no. 6 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton

Shortbread

Shortbread

Somehow it got

made. It began

in a packaged version

that was gone in

three days. We talked

about it and then

we forgot. And then,

one afternoon, we

realized it was easy.

I laid out the aluminum

bowl, the sugar, the

butter we got cheap.

You procrastinated

with the KitchenAid

(why did we tuck it

at the back of

a shelf?) and used

it halfway

through all

the mixing.

Your father

patted it down

in the pan and made

the holes with

a fork. And

at exactly 3:45

you dusted it

with confectioner’s

sugar. Sometimes

perfection is

nothing grand.

It is a grace

that lands

ever so

lightly.

August 4, 2021

Photo mine.

Day 3, Poem no. 5 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton

A Postcard from S

A Postcard from S

Dearest C,

You once wrote to me

from a place where

everything was heady

with spices. Many,

many years later, here

I am, writing you.

I miss you

so much. I don’t even

know if this will

reach you. I wish

we could both

dip our feet here,

at the basin near

the roots of this

ancient and

monstrous tree.

Things are always

clearer in the four

corners of

paper. I’m

muddled now. But,

if we both looked up

from here, the light is

tangled up in the

leaves.

And beyond it,

the sky is

azure and

clean.

August 3, 2021

Photo mine.

Day 2, Poem no. 4 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton

Hunger

Hunger

Or Why I Ate the Chips

Any meal is extravagant

when it first starts

in the mind. This sudden

growling in the

belly is always un-

anticipated. What to feed

the beast? Shortbread

made with three ingredients

(but never mind, there’s the oven

to figure out), leftover

beef lasagna that

will take a hundred years

to defrost and properly

heat, a quick rip of

aluminum propylene and

the instant satiation of trans

fat and a reincarnation

of potatoes? Even cardboard

crackers will do at

this point. And sliced

crisp apples will never

be enough.

August 3, 2021

Photo by Jeff Siepman of Unsplash.

Day 2, Poem no. 4 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton

Turbulence

Turbulence

The water was high

and muddy and agitated

today. Roosters crowed

in the late afternoon,

across the river.

The wind was constant

against my ears.

A few small children

were playing in the

grass, some without

masks. I hurried past

them as they squealed

and hurtled to

and fro.

It can’t be helped,

I suppose.

I hear an ambulance

siren in the distance.

August 2, 2021

Photo mine. Summer in the Philippines is around March to May. It is currently typhoon season.

Day 1, Poem no. 3 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton.

July 24, 2021

July 24, 2021

Writing about the summer

in typhoon season

is strange.

It seems a lifetime

ago when I couldn’t

bear the heat

and now I burrow

in the blankets,

stopping my ears

from the sound

of thunder,

feeling the bed

shake at

dawn.

August 2, 2021

Photo by Damon Lam of Unsplash. Summer in the Philippines is around March to May. It is currently typhoon season. On July 24, 2021, in the midst of heavy rains, Luzon island in the Philippines experienced a 6.6 magnitude earthquake.

Day 1, Poem no. 2 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton.

Summer

Summer

Summer was

a second Easter

on lockdown,

heat so unbearable

I had to dip myself

in a small tub

in our laundry room.

Small measures

of relief, gratitude

hiding in the

cracks.

August 2, 2021

Photo mine: This was the tub when it was on our balcony. We had to move it to the laundry area. Summer in the Philippines is around March to May. It is currently typhoon season.

Day 1, Poem no. 1 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton. 

Habagat

for Clea

by Justine C. Tajonera

We escaped the storm in Manila by a day.
The skies were overcast for days at the beach.
While we walked the length of Station 1 and 2,
I watched the perfect curve of your cheek, the
way a bikini, which I've dreaded my whole life, was
nothing to you. Around you, the time has come. Pork
barrels are rolling open like so many mouths with lolling
tongues, the streets at home are filling up with murky
water, the seas are heating up like a potent
soup. By the time we come back to Manila,
the people will have taken to the streets.
I want you to keep running unhampered in the sand.
I want you to be cheeky and defiant, the way
you are now as you hold up that stick in your hands.
I want you to kick up the dust and say
want you want. All I wish for are at least
a few seasons of amihan to hold up the tumult
that you are. All I wish for are a few quiet
summers for you, for your children, when there
are no crippling droughts, no floods,
in the coming months, to survive.

Boracay, August 18, 2013

L.I.T.E.R.A.L. #5: What's Your Summer Story?

Mommy and Me, 1976

The question from BronzeAge.ph: You’re asked to write a story based on the most exciting/happiest/worst summer of your life. What would it be about?

The answer: It would be the story that I haven't written about, the summer that my mother died.

I never really thought about writing a summer story. But now that I think about it...my mother died in the summer. The skies must have been bright. It must have been really hot. It was in the middle of April, nine days after my baby sister was born. Her burial was in the afternoon. People wore shades. I never saw my Dad's eyes in the pictures. He had a good excuse to wear those shades.

It must have been the worst summer of my life but I hadn't realized it yet. I didn't know about death because I was only three years old. When I look at my daughter who's only two and six months...I realize how fancy free I must have been at the time of her death. I must have been worried about outfits and bathing suits and where to go in the afternoon. At the time, the days must have fused together and I had no inkling at all about yesterday or tomorrow. That's how my daughter is...everything is just one fantastic day full of smiles or tears or snacks or playtime.

Memory is such a tricky thing. It's especially tricky when you're three years old. There's not much there. So... what I want to do is to reconstruct that summer. The seventies fashion, the stories in the kitchen, the beach trips from the two years before and the surreal day that no one expected. Now that I'm a mom...I see that clueless little girl in an apple cut hairdo, wearing that white dress and my heart goes out to her. Come here, you. Let me hug you. You're going to be all right.

Well, thanks for asking, BronzeAge.ph. Now, I have some fantastic material brewing in my head.

NaPoWriMo#22: Summer

Summer
By Justine C. Tajonera

It is one of the hottest summers I remember,
though the yellow blooms of April Showers have
arrived as expected. Growing up so close to the sea,
I yearn for the beach this season. But I've been warned
off one of our islands: Escherichia coli in the water. I think
of the summers left for my children. Can we plant enough
trees for them to cover mountain sides and hills
that have given way to landslides? Even in my lifetime
I have never seen a clean river in the city. Will they be
forever escaping their homes to get a breath of air?
We pick strawberries as tourists on the mountain up North.
Will they ever know a life close to the earth, close to
the water? What I remember are third quarter storms
that flood cities and sweep away children from their
mothers. We wait out this summer heat, expecting
drought, not knowing if the coming rains will be worse
this year. I imagine the engines ceasing, silence falling
over the streets, seeds sprouting beneath ruins. Children
are playing by a river in Pasig and families play music
with bamboo and brass instruments, eating feasts from
their gardens, meditating on new stories of the summer.

NaPoWriMo#14: Smell of Rain

Smell of Rain

By Justine C. Tajonera

The sirens from fire trucks have been ringing
for days. The heat makes me think of July two
decades ago when we knew that the rain would
come. First, I could feel it in the air and then
I could smell it as if the ground was coming up
to meet the condensation from the clouds. It came
with grass and snails and fallen leaves. And
afterwards I would read by the window.
I always wondered why school needed to start
during the wet season. I'll sleep remembering
the rain tonight, curled up like a ball of seed
waiting to unfold.