My one unforgettable adventure I had in my entire life was going to Baguio and wrote poems (though I'm not really good at it) and did a performance art in front of great artists. The first three poems I wrote are about dreaming, and the last two are my experiences during my high school days. Though my professor said I was "synaesthetic" but I had problems with my inner voice.|
Dream road: The Woodcutter
The glass road is illuminated
with the spectrum of evening lights,
it leads to a pond on a land of short grass.
A lone cottage.
I saw you.
(Hair like hanging veins on a tree
moving from the wind’s whisper.)
You looked at me.
(Sitting on a bed of grass—freedom.)
(That distant greeting will never reach me.)
Just a single smile,
(No it won’t for a stranger.)
Then you walked away
(Step by step, throb by throb,
Thrusting my heart with needles one by one.)
The crickets were laughing in monotone.
I was then alone, again.
The scent of leafy dew on the ground stung me,
As if little bugs were ascending,
entangling to my nostrils.
You were there again, enjoying your freedom.
Sliding your hand into shivers of ice water.
The woodcutter came,
He stood by your side with an axe in his hand.
The blade of death sliced through your flesh
like a butchered lumber.
Red velvet of rubies spilled between you bosom.
Oozing, spreading in the air into red smoke.
But my voice was caged in bubbles, blown away, popped.
Unheard. Vanished forever.
Your body became a part of the pond.
Drowning. Deep. Deeper.
Dream road: trauma
We were walking together on white lines.
Like a tightrope at our feet.
Our stretching arms grew wings.
Together we’ll both fly at the end of the lines.
I pushed you towards the quicksand.
twirling, seeping. Broken wings.
I was left alone watching you.
Only watching our friendship. Hopeless breaths.
That childhood yesterday of lovely innocence.
Dream road: a spoon of cold air in terrace
Coffee beans were grinded around his skin. He was sipping a mug of coffee on the terrace, veins were crawling on the guardrails like a disease on his feet, going up, devouring the flesh of his strength. “He’s so innocent”, I thought. The low air was heavily passing through him. Morning was too cold. His body was too cold.
Shiver. Sip. Warmth. Warmth as his blood ran across his mouth. He collapsed, just as the fragile mug on the ground, into pieces. You were a mug of yesterday. A dream. Dream in grandfather’s mug that I held.
I was sitting on an armchair
buried my face in my arms
when you passed the corridors.
A hiding glance watching your back.
You seemed like standing beside
the mandarin tree.
The windows were my television,
a wall to send you my
My bangs were the curtain
to hide my shameful face,
Avoiding your unexpected
look at my direction.
Through those secret glances
were secret kisses
of unconscious fantasies.
Until it ends
with the ring of school bell.
An empty box
Is a separation between
It fell from the infinite sky
with nothing in it.
Not even the traces
of your scent.
I can’t call that thing
a “balik-bayan box”
because even when you return
it seemed like you don’t exist anymore
in my world at least.
An empty box
is packaged with an empty air.
Air that blows you away.
Air that makes my feeling numb
Until that daughter’s love for her daddy
is forever kept
in that empty box.
Copyright © 2012 Den Owen L. Cacho. All rights reserved.
I hope I can develop my writing issues and my inner voice. And I'm not really into poetry but still I wanted to explore to what genre I belong.