Alas Tres ng Umaga

Sa ganitong oras ay may gising na

Mayroong nagsasaing para sa agahan

Mayroon namang nagsasaka sa kabukiran

Mayroong nag-aabang ng isda sa palengke

Mayroon ring nagpupuyat sa call center

Mayroong nagpapatahan ng batang ngumangawa

Mayroong nag-aabang ng biyahe

sa mga pier, paliparan at sakayan ng bus

Mayroong nakababad sa internet, facebook, twitter

Tumblr o wordpress

Mayroong nakikinig sa paborito nilang musika

Mayroong nananalangin sa ikabubuti ng kanyang araw

Mayroon ring nagsisimba ng ganito kaaga

Mayroon ring mga nagliligawan

Sa kakateks ay inaabot ng puyatan

Mayroong gumagawa ng proyekto o takdang aralin

Mayroong nagpupuyat para sa trabaho

Mayroong ayaw gumising ng alas tres

dahil ito raw ay oras ng kasamaan

Mayroong mga gutom na hindi makakain

Mayroong mga nanlilimos sa kalsada

Mayroong nagsusulat at kumukuha ng balita

Habang ako nama’y nakaupo

Gumagawa ng tula.

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The Black Dog and the Trash

At the darkness of the night

The wind struck with a frost bite

The stars are numbered at the 

black sky

As the land breeze touched the sea

 

A black dog stood beside the bin

Gaping wound in his heart, his love spills

Helpless, restless, tired he is.

Waiting for scraps from people passing

 

He is poorer than the poorest beggar

for he is incapable of asking alms.

His howls are mute, his frowns are misunderstood.

Sniffing is the only way to survive

.

The black dog is just like the artist’s mind

He is seeking trash at the middle of a cold summer night.

No, he is not seeking. He is desperately begging

for a little inspiration from Him above

Sketch

Charcoal scattered around the table

a canvas stands by the artist’s chair

He helds in his hand a picture of a girl

a smiling woman without fear.

 

As lines scattered along the canvas

shades of black and white invaded the white space

a smile was drawn from the frowning face saying

“A flower perfectly matches your name”

 

Darkness overruled the disheveled hair

Of the girl whom he ever thought.

Her eyes sparkle in the white canvas

and like imperfect stars, her teeth dazzle with the smile

 

The artist had knew she is beautiful.

He had created an obra maestra!

But then a thought came to him.

“This is not her. She is not real”

 

The artist tore his canvas apart

He punched through the thin white linen

Cut the threads and break the wooden frame

And burned every part of the masterpiece 

 

This is not the beauty he saw.

It is not the beauty he wants to portray

For no artist could ever show

The beauty inside her skin.