A Letter to my Grandchildren

A spoken word poem I wrote for my English project. We had to select a topic/question given by our economics teacher and answer the question through spoken word. The question I chose was, "What is the future like for the digital age?" Here is my answer.

A Letter to my Grandchildren

The moment you were brought out from the hospital room
and I saw your soul open its eyes for the first time and
the drums of your heart start its beat
all my troubles, all my cares, all my worries fell apart
and at that moment I decided
that I would teach you to live.

You were born in the age
where to write is vintage
to think is ancient
and to love is prehistoric
but I will rewrite history for you
and make sure that you live in the past
before buildings that block out the sky
before someone decided to take time’s hands and spin it ‘til it whipped like a tornado
before people had to start paying for oxygen
because the air had become too polluted with chemicals and greed and so-called innovation but in reality every nation was just trying to be one cent richer than the other.

You were born in the age where
books are only found in museums
and flowers are only found pressed in between those books
but I will make sure you grow up with a garden of words and wildflowers
I will teach you to treasure every letter, every seed, every fern
because there's no better remedy to anything
than a good old paperback and a fistful of freshly picked lavenders.

I will teach you to walk
in a world that tells you to run, to glide, to ride
the latest, the fastest,
I will teach you to walk
not to be late for school, but to be early enough
to see the city opening its eyes
to see the machines hum to life
because there’s nothing more beautiful than beginnings
and to see the morning sun push and pull
push and pull
push and pull you away from the strobe lights
away from the stench of loneliness and lost time
I will teach you to walk so that you will be forced
to slow down, breathe, and think
because it seems to me that your generation hasn’t heard of that word before.

You were born in the age
where people look at themselves as gods
but I will teach you to see beauty
without mirrors and empty words
I will teach you the wonders of the heart
I want you to know how it feels like to watch something grow
I want you to know the joy of licking a homemade ice cream cone
but I also want you to know failure
to know how it feels like to struggle and strive
to know the pain of losing someone
because no matter what those empty advertisements and
neon screens tell you
life isn’t a dream, and the pain
shakes you and
aches you and
breaks you
reminding you that
you are alive and there is still so much to learn and
there are a million other things I want you to learn
but most importantly
and I swear to you
I’m not leaving this earth
until you learn how to live.

One Day

One day I will wake up
to a clear sky and no lies
breathing the air my grandfathers breathed
singing the songs my ancestors sang
speaking the language of the soil and trees
matching the movement of the great butanding
proudly proclaiming the land from which I came
not fearing the taunts of the uncolored race
standing as one people
one tribe
one blood
I yearn for this day.
The day that
I wake up
in my Philippines.

it still hurts sometimes

We had lunch in a great Japanese restaurant along Katipunan today. Katsu Café has awesome curry and miso soup, and it's cheaper than Yabu. (which has excellent katsudon and curry, by the way)

I really liked the miso soup. Peach-flavored Sola iced tea is yummy.

Here's a poem I wrote in the restaurant while I watched Lola eat. This is for Lola, my hero in a skirt.

I smell the miso soup and curry

though its bowl’s contents 

have been long licked away

I see you when I look at her

Her eyes that wander and eyes that sigh

longing for you as I do.

Maybe even more.

She waits and speaks and fights.

I wonder if she wants to be with you yet

I hope not, because I need her still but 

I need you, too.

It’s selfish, but I am speaking my mind.

The pain I felt

three weeks ago when I remembered you was physical

My breath came in short puffs 

and the tears pricked and the leaves swayed 

as I looked out the dirty window.

Maybe I was expecting you to swoop down, hug me, 

and tell me you were sorry 

for leaving so soon.

So, so soon.

It’s time to go, so I touch the small of her back lightly 

and help her into the car

something you used to do.

I am not angry.

But it hurts.

Knowing that you never saw me dance 

or play the piano 

or walk up the stage to receive my diploma

Knowing that I’ll never be Princess Aurora 

and you’ll never be Prince Philip or the dragon again

Knowing that as long as the sun rises and the moon smiles

I’ll still be here

without you

I love her.

Know that.

So for you, Lolo*, I’ll take care of her as well as I can

because I know it will make you smile

and that will make me smile too but I still miss you

and it still hurts sometimes.

*Lolo - grandfather

This Is She (For My Tenth Grade Teacher)

My English teacher got married tonight. Weeks before the wedding, she asked me to give a speech about how she's like as a teacher so that the guests will know about that part of her life. I ended up reciting this spoken word poem as my speech.

Allow me to
Take you to
Another side of Linny where
Rustling papers and
Noisy staplers and
Grades and records are
Abundant in number and
Children speak and
Children listen.

This is she.
Calm and cool as water
Never breaking her dam
Despite our endless
Relentless questions and 
Talking sessions
She is patience.

This is she.
A world of second chances
And in our English classes
Forever with
Grace on her lips
Grace on her fingertips
Speaking out
Breathing in
Grace.
She is grace.

This is she.
Understanding and knowing
When you are struggling
She is there helping
Because she knows
She knows what it's like
The students' life
Sleepless nights
Bottomless cups of coffee and milk tea
Sometime between midnight and half past three
Trying to finish up essays and submit projects on time
She is kindness.

This is she.
A flowing, gushing fountain of
Ideas, ideas, and ideas
She comes in with magic in her pockets 
Sunshine in her hair
Excited to share 
A part of her life 
A part of her mind
With us
Wanting to unleash the
Artist in everyone she
Tries to squeeze out every ounce
Of imagination and creativity we have in us
She teaches us to think
To ask "Why?"
To question our surroundings
To be open to new things 
To find answers
To learn and to live
And be more
Than we think we are.
She is art
She is inspiration
She is patience 
She is grace
She is kindness
She is a blessing
She is 
Ms. Linny.
Yes.
This is she.

when all security fails, I'll be there

Tales From The Hidden Attic by Michael V. Manalo

“Maybe if my legs were slim,

and my lips rose-pink,

and my hair like silk,

and my hands white petals,

you would love me more.

Maybe if I could sing,

and dance,

and capture people with my

star-like smile,

you would look at me more closely.

Maybe if my grades

never saw an 89,

you would smile,

and clap,

and tell me wonderful things.

Maybe if I spoke with

a silver tongue and

could convince with my

bright, 20/20 vision eyes,

you would hug me tighter.

Maybe if…”

Child, maybe, maybe, maybe.

But, really,

even if your legs were elephants,

your lips blue,

your hair seaweed,

and your hands sandpaper,

I would still love you.

Even if your voice

sounded like frogs at night,

and your feet

stepped all over mine,

and your mouth

was cut up from all of that fixing metal,

I would still love you.

Even if your grades

never saw an 89,

I would still love you

and tell you all sorts of wonderful things.

Even if your tongue was bound by chains,

and you tripped and stumbled over your vowels,

I would still love you.

Child, to them your legs may not be slim,

your lips may not be the shade of roses,

your hair may not be silk,

and all of those silly, fickle, worldly things, but

to me,

you are beautiful.

So beautiful.

I breathed out the stars for you.

I created for you.

I shed for you.

I bled for you.

I died for you.

Why

do you still doubt?

Why

do you still fear?

Why

do you still look at yourself

in a way

that makes you question what I have made?

Child, look at me.

Look.

at.

Me.

I love you. 

I love you.

I love you.

what to bring when you're leaving

image source

for the boat:

wood.

the more fragrant the better.

maple, perhaps

but

pine

would do fine.

a sail.

of African cloth

and some oars with handles

made from gold-and-silver ladles.

pixie dust.

ten bags, at least

borrow some from Tink.

that would be simpler,

i think.

we’re read— oh!

i almost forgot.

don’t leave behind your knapsack

and copper cooking pot.

you’ll also need 

an extra dose of courage

a tablespoonful of faith

two cups of questions

and a bucketful of dreams.

now, you’re ready.

who needs a map?

destination:

anywhere

and

everywhere.

you have your boat

you have your dreams

impossible is not 

what 

impossible seems.

Everyday Things: An Anthology

flip

                   

flip                                                  flip

      flip                                    flip

             flip                     flip

                          flip  

you can

fly on a pegasus

whisper to willows

sing with sirens

and dance with dragons

with just

one

             flip

so, pick up

that softbound teleporter

that portable magic

that gift you can open

again and

again

and

again.

pick up a book

           flip

discover,

and

dream.

jar of clay

 

jar of clay

holding,

cracking,

thirsting.

unfinished,

fickle,

and imperfect.

thirsty soul

craving spirit

searching always

for the Potter.

a mere wave,

             whisper, 

             vapor,

soon to pass.

a jar of clay

am

     i.

the locker

i am a keeper

a hider

never a seeker

your thoughts

your secrets

the things you hoard

the way you are

i know.

i know them all.

don’t you worry,

i will keep them

hide them

and no one

will find them.

i am

strong and sturdy

dark as night

a firewall made

to conceal and

protect.

                                                                                             

i will keep them

safe,

this i promise.

but, really,

how safe

your secrets will be

is

up

to

you.

Ode to Brilliant Blue

My father came home

with a tube of blue

for me.

Dark as half-past midnight,

but when purified,

as clear as the sky

and babies’ bright eyes.

I warmed it between my

welcoming palms,

marveling at the thick, round

tube that, when squeezed, would come

opaque oceans

dazzling eyes

mermaid hair

and dragon scales.

Yet this same wonder

held

monster claws

Yeti fur

vampire skin

and hot ice.

It was so dangerously beautiful

my hands hesitated

to curl its delicate fingers

around this mysterious magic.

But then, I remembered,

I hadn’t unscrewed it.

So, consider this:

There is a pthalo

to every robin’s egg,

An indigo

to every turquoise.

Consider this:

Even the most righteous fall.

Trust no one.

Make no friends.

Love none except yourself.

Never dream.

Never dare.

This ode has just taught you

how to

live life

a sealed

tube of blue. 

scissors [revised]

sharp and deadly

strong and steely

its grip as firm as iron

catastrophic cutters

bloodthirsty biters

menacing,

threatening,

never building up

always tearing

d

       o

       w

n

jaws relentlessly

endlessly

mercilessly

slicing

snipping

shearing

victims,

two from one

beware before it’s too l