Windless Woods

a little poet

[lakeatwoods]

The lake seems mellow for me to perch—beneath the willow where fireflies gather, leafy parrot feathers dance with the waves, and the torch from above dims in the western sky. Will the misty air follow my breath with every word I toss?

Greetings from a Poet

I am here to tell and to explore. My imagination and reality will arrive as letters and pictures, and I am eager to share them in this space, where I hope the right souls will peruse.

[lakeatwoods]

the glint stayed while you were busy

The pitter-patter on the square fish's scales atop the house has gone on for months now, the soaked towel's left hanging on the clothesline, and the bluebirds' gone right when it all began. Asking "will the light shine once again or will the clouds change their shade over time?"

You tend to sit there under dim lights watching the trees change

And I know that the beat of your heart doesn't shift

You always escape and go anywhere but home

But the rain doesn't go away on its own

The glint in your eyes stayed while you were busy fighting the smoke for years now, the dried sink waits for another cup of coffee, and the butterflies under your sword showed you the truth. Saying "one day soon, you'll wake up with the sun shining towards your smile. The grey clouds will be lifted, and your spark will prevail."

I hope that you know how proud I am to hear your stories

And I want you to know that you are never behind

You are your own writer of your novel, and whatever it is

I will read it

[lakeatwoods]

The Glow Comes After

I've been living under grey clouds these past few years

Wondering if the sun will knock on my window and whisper

"It's okay to feel the rays touching your skin and bones"

But I can't help closing the curtains when the feeling comes

The feeling that burns my soul in every move I make

The feeling that I am in the middle of the crowd

The feeling that my shirt was always inside out

The feeling that I was never meant to belong here

I've been living with skeletons beneath clothesline and roaches

Wondering if the light can slip through the crack and say

"It's okay to be like that... You are who you are supposed to be"

But the book says otherwise, and now I'm lost

Lost in a town full of eyes and mouths

Lost in a city full of articles and verses

Lost in a country full of laws and politics

Lost on a planet where love was once cherished, now it's forbidden

I've been growing and learning these past few months

Knowing that the sun will rise every morning and say

"Don't worry sweetheart, the glow comes after dark"

Now and then, I still contemplate it

How beautiful the birds gliding through clouds are

How beautiful the confetti falls under bright smiles

How beautiful you held my hand while I told the truth

And how beautiful the world shows what love is

[lakeatwoods]

bouquet

Went to the kitchen to make my coffee when the wooden table caught my little toe. Squeezed eyes, wrinkled nose, and lowered brows—it was that painful. I banged the wooden grain with my fist, causing the empty green vase to roll and fall. 

The broken pieces shattered across the kitchen, but something stayed where it landed—a sheet of paper. I picked it up with my fingers, unfolding it, seeing my own handwriting. "When did I write this?" I mumbled under my breath.

"To the flowers kept in this precious vase, may an endless, unconditional love linger."

Suddenly, the feeling I had while writing this note crawled back—the crippling thought I carried on the fourteenth day of February, sitting alone on that filthy bench in the corner of a park. Hands full of bouquets and cellphones that aren't mine to keep.

Watching each smile, intertwined fingers, and warm embrace left me wondering if I am destined to wash a single mug in a dried sink, walk leaving only my own footprints, and sleep in cold sheets.

Until when will I keep on wishing upon a star? 

Until when will I keep on writing notes like this?

I am slowly learning to forget the feeling of soft touches over my cheeks under the blue rays. I will keep my foot on the ground until the day I finally learn the shape of each petal from the flowers you gave—that may or may never come.

[lakeatwoods]

dear to whom it may concern

Dear, To Whom It May Concern, 

I dived deep into your mahogany eyes with our fingers tangled in a hoax.

I knew it was illicit since the day I opened your notebooks. 

Did you forget to close the curtains when you slept beside my desk?

Does my music speak the same way through the playing disc?

Just a moment is never enough to understand what's in your mind.

Always near my empty hands, but never close to my beating heart.

Killed me for the hundredth time—you always leave with a smile.

Ending wasn't the way out, and so I thought it was.

I know your porch light is on—someone's there waiting.

I hope this letter finds you well, as I am at my last drop of ink.

Don't forget to treat them well.

Don't let me get into your head.

Sincerely, From Whom It May Concern.

[lakeatwoods]

Stained Glass

Walking down the aisle, my gaze lingered for a while.

I saw greens and blues shining through the windowsill.

Felt it touch my skin—showing me something real.

I was a match that burned fast.

A belief I thought would last.

But as I grew older, it withered and turned to dust.

Now, I am made of a mosaic of people in my gallery.

Each shade of laughter and jokes completed the curve of my lips.

Each shape of tears and lies painted the color of my eyes.

Every warmth became the tint of my stained glass.

And when winter comes, it'll shatter into a million pieces.

Fragile yet beautiful, I remain here while your gaze lingers on me.

[lakeatwoods]

Prom Night

The scent of vanilla and roses lingered across the room; the glint of crystal from the hanging chandelier danced over my withered lashes.

This place was perfectly made from the dreams of a middle school kid, as if I were watching the biggest scene from a hit film.

The recurring melody filled the room with colorful auras, igniting everyone’s fire of memories and stories, but my diary remained empty.

Refracting rays revealed my stained clothes every minute, but no one bothered to point it out. They were too busy dancing in their best dress, tallest heels and glittery foundation—all I had was a cooling platter of steak.

“No” is the last thing I could ever say, so I became a mascot under the sequin rain, clinging to my lifeless phone as an excuse. Time moved in slow motion—I could feel the silk’s grip on my skin.

Tired of wearing a smile, I stayed in the corner, trying to feel the moment… wondering if anyone could see me at all.

[lakeatwoods]

Sparking Eyes

Wooden benches lined up between the trees while I was hanging my old broken watch over my fingers—the one my dad gave me back when he was still in the picture frame.

There was neon sage shining upon my pink stars. A field of laughter entered the scene with a golden dog chasing them, and a mother holding three ice creams.

I held my stare at theirs, but they were too busy to notice me—not until the ball they were playing with rolled over to my place. It had the size of a basketball but a weight of a feather, beaming four different hues.

They had to come near me, so I picked the ball up to hand it over.

Two pairs of eyes were looking at me, and I saw that spark of innocence I had five years ago. It was filled with sunshine and dreams, ready to conquer the world without fear.

I handed the ball over and exchanged smiles. I almost forgot what it felt like: to see the rainbow's ends and find shiny treasures, to catch the clouds over the mountain and put them in a bottle, to fly over the stars under my blanket.

I wished time would slow for them as they ran toward the dazzling light that once blinded me.

[lakeatwoods]

star

The window seat was cold when I rested my knees on it, beneath the silent, dark sky. I let the hours orbit past me as I stayed there, waiting for the clouds to land on my fingers.

Hushed gazes fall upon you from this wooden window. I know soaring through you is impossible, so I tied constellations into my beating heart.

It is hopeless to beguile you—thousands of light-years apart, slowly wearing myself down in this shade of blue. But your art lingers above; you always know how to hold your audience’s stare.

I can hear your voice from the distance, calling my name in every dream. The light you shone upon my wide eyes sent crippling cracks across my ceiling.

I figured you were never alone in the void, and I am just a drifting asteroid bleeding into his own delusions.

It's unfair how distant you are when I’m only one step away. You follow me through every mist, always leaving me wondering if I should call your name.

[lakeatwoods]

"does it feel good...?"

Shiny tables align in a room that is as wide as a colosseum. Chandeliers of reflecting diamonds hang from the ceiling. Long white curtains veil the golden windows that lure the bright light inside.

Dashing gowns sweep the floors in each corner. Red lips and glowing eyes, whispering in each corridor. Suit and tie, a platinum clock on their wrists—showing off all they own.

Gut-wrenching laughter, clanging copper spoons, wine lingering over that purgatory.

I hope it feels good. Soaring above this atmosphere. While we're left hanging on those luxurious words you serve—so complacent, so amused.

After taking everything home, did you look back? Did you turn your TV on this morning, and watch our bleeding eyes? Did you see the walls crumble into a trillion pieces?

Screeching like nails on your chalkboard where your charts take off. It looks like nothing bothers you anymore, why is that?

"We do not allow this to happen." Their frowning mouths and assuring words leave us in tears—disgust and rage.

Because you have a castle at your back, always facing us. Your smirking eyes behind your saddest face is your middle finger pointing at us, and all this time you've thrown hoaxes at us.

Those shiny coins are not yours to keep. Return what was stolen and fall into the dungeon—you belong there.

But even when the sun submerges the flooded city, you'll always sleep on the tallest bed. Does it feel good up there?

[lakeatwoods]

"I Don't Want to Leave."

Sage pastures across the window panes, I can see the wind through the waltzing leaves. The sun seems to make its way to the ground, but the forming clouds keep on running.

In the shade of mist, green reigns on this land with their daughters shining in red, yellow and pink. Butterflies having their supper, and bees are on their way home. Migrating flocks, sheltering cows. It was a comforting view for an exhausted student in a moving bus.

My leaning head makes me see reflections, poor two brown eyes shift the beautiful scene into gray. My eyes traverse along the rows of chairs, and notice each silent eye watching those shiny things.

Under the dim light is a person who wishes to go somewhere else, other than a house. Maybe, one day I could ride those clouds, and slide my way down the rainbows. But, instead, I got to sit in front of that wooden desk with papers and pens on my hands.

The morning after the storm. I can smell the caffeinated smoke and the voices of the winged angels above the tree, chirping their way to their homes.

On the table lies a plate of sliced apple pie and a mug, with a cursive "it'll get better soon."

The warmth of the light, the coming of autumn. I see my mother and my sister exchanging pies from the cabinet's bottom. Perhaps, I don't want to leave.

So, I'll stay.

[lakeatwoods]

ANG ATING WIKA

Ano ang wika ng bansang nasa silangang bahagi ng daigdig, na kung saan kuwento, yaman at kulay ang bumubuo?

Ang biyaya na pinili ng lupa, na siyang pinapakinabangan ng bawat nilalang na nangangailangan.

Ang maningning na liwanag, umaapaw sa isang isla mula sa perlas ng silanganan.

"Las Islas Filipinas" ang isinilang, ngunit "Pilipinas" nang sumihol.

Araw-araw kaya nating mapipili ang bansang ipinaglaban tayo?

Ang ating wika ay kuwento at bayanihan, isang watawat na iwinawagayway sa asul na langit, at sa likod nito ay ang mukha ng kagitingan.

Isang bansa, binubuo ng libo-libong isla, at katumbas nito ang mayamang kalikasan at katubigan—na siyang biyaya at sumpa, makulay ngunit nangunguna ang pula.

Tatlong barko ang namuno, at nagdala ng madilim na kalangitan sa isla. Subalit, lumubog sa kailaliman ng makintab na karagatan, salamat sa ating mga bayani.

Isang siglo na ang nagdaan nang makamit ng Pilipinas ang kalayaan, ngunit hanggang ngayon ay patuloy tayong lumalaban. Bakit?

"May mas malaki tayong kalaban sa mga Amerikano–ang ating sarili." – Heneral Antonio Luna de San Pedro y Novicio-Ancheta.

Hanggang sa mga araw na ito, nananatiling totoo ang panipi ni Heneral Luna. Dahil, Pilipino rin ang magpapalubog sa Pilipinas.

Hindi mawawala sa bawat sulok ng bansa—mapa lungsod, probinsya, bayan, barangay at kalye, ang kasakiman ng iilang namumuno.

Patuloy na umaangat ang kasamaan. Samantala, ang lahat ng nasa ilalim ay halos gumagapang upang makakita ng liwanag.

Sa huli, may pag-asa ang bayan, at balang araw ay huhupa rin ang mataas na baha. At magsisimula ito sa isang Pilipino.

"Ang taong hindi marunong magmahal sa sariling wika ay higit pa sa mabaho at malansang isda." – Dr. José Protacio Rizal Mercado y Alonso Realonda.

Kayumanggi ang kulay ng Pilipino. Datapuwa't, kapansin-pansin ngayon ang paninisi sa lahi at paglaban sa inihandog na kulay.

Hindi man sinasakop ang lupa, ating isipan naman ang binihag. Dahil sa paglaganap ng teknolohiya sa mundo, nagiba ang pamantayan ng mga Pilipino pagdating sa lipunan at sa sarili.

Matutong magmahal ng sariling lahi, dahil masarap maging isang Pilipino.

Masarap maging isang Pilipino. Masarap mahalin ang ating wika.

Ang ating wika ay ang paguwi mula sa paaralan at magmano sa ating lolo't lola at manood ng lumang pelikula kasama ang pamilya.

Ang ating wika ay ang pamamahagi ng ulam sa kapit-bahay, at pakikiisa sa mga pagdiriwang.

Ang ating wika ay ang pakikiramay sa mga nawalan, naghirap, at natalo.

Ang ating wika ay FILIPINO.

Tayo ay isang PILIPINO.

Nagmula sa PILIPINAS.

[lakeatwoods]

"Did you see him under the blue waves?"

He lives under a white ocean with four holes, no waves visible across the horizon. Patiently waiting for a boat to drift by and say "hello."

Empty eyes, sailing across a room filled with lips and teeth.

All he knows is to keep his impression clean and sweet.

"The Albatross" echoed in his ear, did he see the sign before entering? No, he did not—he held the knob and pushed through, saw millions of colors, but in the shade of black and white. No one was looking.

He saw a blue ocean in the distance and followed. He does not know about the storm patiently waiting for him.

Eyes filled with ocean water, empty sailors in the cabin.

He doesn't know how to swim back up—or what will happen.

"Did you see him under the blue waves?" lingering on my radio, and that was the sign. I lifted my wooden oar and sat under the blue sky, and saw the ocean soften into lilac. No one had to be looking.

[lakeatwoods]

A LETTER TO SLUGS

Does it feel scary? Soaring up walls, high above the misty air and breathing with nothing there on your back?

Does it feel empty? Watching your friends and cousins carry their own shells from the distance? And then call it "home" when the sun begins to glance?

Does it make you feel less whole without one?

I know that you feel like an open wound, gliding alone under those giant leaves and droplets from last night's rain. The thoughts of danger lurking from behind, the fear of thinking "there is nowhere else to go."

I know that you feel like you're one of the air, sliding across the atmosphere without anyone noticing. A dust falling with snowflakes. The thunder after the lightning. The shadow of light.

There's nowhere to hide.

Nothing to amuse.

Just you.

It feels scary, wandering in the weeds without a shell. All you have is a heart and a soul, but I hope that you know, you are what you need.

Who needs one anyway? If home is where your heart lies. Maybe, you are better off without it. Striving and living above the rooted trees.

No weight to carry.

Nothing to watch it break.

Just you.

I saw one of you yesterday on our wall, and I smiled. "Where'd you come from?" I asked inside a thought. You just sat there waiting for the right time to carry on, and on, and on.

A shell doesn't have to be seen, you just feel it.

[lakeatwoods]

CANVAS

There was a question on the paper handed to me by a man in a collared shirt and a hat. It said, "One object to describe yourself." It made me wonder and ponder.

No, I wasn't a flower that blooms in a season.

No, I wasn't a diamond buried thousands of kilometers below.

No, I wasn't a wall that shelters and protects.

I am a monochrome that follows bright shades, something to portray a soul, to become people's art. A mirror of one's palette, brushed off with blue. Covered by your words—I am what you are.

Violet, pink, red stars around my lips stayed longer than your somber. When the rain comes, a river of gray, black, and blue will flow down to you.

And there will be me.

[lakeatwoods]

"The little pack you left was a big sucker to not forget you."

I remember those eyes you gave in the quiet hallway, they were brown and deep—I almost memorized them. You turned with your bag slung on your back, and walked in the direction I was facing. Why did it have to feel like a breakup? We were just friends anyway, right?

You showed me something that only I can see—we were sitting on the grass with your eyes up high into the orange clouds, "I don't wanna go home, it sucks being there," you said. So I followed you through every step and every swing you took.

We both glanced at each other, but we never had the same look. I thought we did, once—just for a moment. But I was always wrong. No lessons learned, no words left to say. Just you and me.

Years have gone by, but those moments still rest in the palm of my hand. I just wish you'd take them away, but you took the other road—what am I supposed to do with this?