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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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 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.
