Musings on What Couldn't Be

My notebook was filled
with doodles of my name
with your last name
always
attached lovingly at the end
instead of notes
on the elements of poetry
I was supposed to write down.

I didn't think
I needed to learn
about poetry
anymore,
because you were
my poetry.

Penciled hearts scattered its pages.
It was a notebook of hope.

I did a FLAMES of our names,
and with fourteen letters
crushed out,
we added up to L.
It was a sign.
I knew it was.

And you were
my poetry.
Your name was poetry.
Your hello was poetry.
Your smile was poetry.
You were my
definition for love.

You loved me, too.
That, I knew.
It was in the way
you said my name,
in the way
you looked at me.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I was poetry to you, too.

But there was too much pride
on both our sides,
and things ended
before they could even begin.

So to quote the lovely Spektor:
"You are 
my sweetest downfall.
I loved you first."

And you will always be
the one
I loved first,
even though the penciled hearts
on my tattered notebook
have long since
faded away.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on Garbage

You must think you’re so witty
with the way you pepper swear words
generously into your colloquies; or
with the way you give out sarcastic repartees
in response to offensive jokes
and expect us to laugh and choke                                                     
on our iced teas. 
“F this piece of S and F that F-ing B.”
“OMG! Ha-ha. You’re such an F-ing D-head.”
Don’t mistake my silence for admiration.
Do you have nothing else in your vocabulary?

You must think you’re so funny

with the way you flip the bird

at people randomly

and claim it’s just half a peace sign; or

with the way you gesture inappropriately

at people you call your friends.

You say it’s natural to call them by

degrading names, and say that if they

get insulted, then they’re not your ‘real friends’.

If that’s what friendship is to you,

how many of them did you rend?

You must think you’re so cool

with the way you blatantly talk about porn at the table

and assume you’re doing everyone a favor

by sharing your favorite sites; or

with the way you unflinchingly tell

us about things you did with a friend at a hotel

that just make the rest of us feel uncomfortable.

You must have noticed me looking pensive,

because you started getting all defensive.

“What? I’m just being honest here.”

No one asked you to be.

The whole time, I kept silent as I listened

to you stoop to your lowest possible level.

My ears burned with words I tried to not comprehend

and kept my eyes glued to the gravel.

”What you say flows from what is in your heart.”

It says in Luke chapter six, verse forty-five.

You may call me ignorant and naïve,

but within those fifteen minutes of listening

I was certain I could determine

the exact contents of your heart, and

trust me when I say not once did you sound smart.

You must think you’re so great

with the way you just behaved

in those fifteen minutes since we first met

that you’re probably willing to bet

that I’m just dying to be your friend.

But I’d like to give you a reality check

And show you that you’re just up to your neck

in an attitude problem that needs to end.

And until you realize this, I will be praying for you.

I will be praying for you.

I will be praying for you.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on Keeping Promises

When I was a child,
I asked a grown-up why adults
don't like watching cartoons.

"It's just not as entertaining for us anymore."
She replied.

And from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter how old I'd get,
I would still watch cartoons.

When I was a child,
I loved eating hard-boiled eggs and noticed
that my tutor didn't like eating them.
So I asked her why.

"I used to like eggs when I was younger,
but I don't like them as much anymore."
She replied.

And from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
now matter how old I'd get,
I would still like eating hard-boiled eggs.

When I was a child,
I read a poem and noticed
that the writer had spelled the word 'through'
as T-H-R-U.
So I asked my mom why.

"It's poetic license."
My mom replied.

Now, I didn't exactly know
what a poetic license was,
but from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter what,
I would get a poetic license.
I didn't even care so much if
I'd ever get a driver's license or not,
as long as I'd get a poetic one.

When I was a child,
my dad told me,
"You're not allowed to have a boyfriend
until you're in college."

So from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter what,
I would wait for the right guy to come along
so I could fall in love with him
and have a love story
as good as my mom and dad's.

If little me were standing
in front of grown-up me right now,
I'd like to think that she'd be pleased
with how I've managed
to keep all those promises
after all these years.

Because I still love watching cartoons
and eating hard-boiled eggs.
And, yes, I do have poetic license.
And I'm still waiting for the right guy to come along
so I could fall in love with him
and have a love story
as good as my mom and dad's.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Musings on Teen Pregnancy

They say it's to be expected, that it's the norm.
But I urge you, friends: do not conform.
Let us preserve our self-respect
And keep our integrity intact.

Where is the joy in the diploma you hold
when a fetus is growing inside of your womb?
Where is the pride in marching on stage
when you have a child to support with your minimum wage?
Where is the honor in graduating with honors
when you have a husband that has you encumbered?
Where is the success in all you've achieved
when your tears are wasted on regrets that you grieve?

There are consequences to the choices you make,
so I urge you, friends: be willing to wait.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Musings on a Friend

We have far too many inside jokes
than I can bother to count. To a
passerby's ears, we communicate
in fluent Klingon, spoken with a
heavy Maritess accent. Yoh noh
na. Dat ting, tu fas, lah. Gitopmi.
This may be the closest I've ever
been to someone—and it's probably
because I am sitting next to you.
They say we have our own world.  If we
really did, then it would be filled with
secondhand paperbacks and tolkons,
and the only discomfort one would
feel is a laughter-induced headache.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Musings on Rejection

You should have gotten used to this by now.
You share the same name, you share the same fate.
So why should this come as a surprise to
you? You should have expected something like
this to happen again.  Pipe dreams only
bring aching desolation, and tears are
a sign of callowness and frailty.  So
let the wind pass and dry your cheeks because
feigning joy and repressing your sorrow
is the only acceptable response
expected of you.  Walk on by, you who
share the same name and the same fate, and quell
all your expectations and hopes because
you should have gotten used to this by now.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Musings on Introversion

Eloquent are your thoughts.
You could spend hours on end
in content solitude
without ever feeling
even the slightest tug
of ennui. Yet those thoughts
of yours rarely translate
well into words.  They seem
to find the confines of
your mind much too pleasant.
Or do you fear judgment?
Whenever you attempt
to voice your ideas,
they scatter in the wind.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on Things I Learned this Summer

Though the salty tides may rise and fall,
the beach will never run out of sand.
Though the weather can be insanely
bipolar, the sky is poetry.
Though you may find the view plain, keep in
mind that each landscape has a story
to tell. Give it a chance to tell you.
Though the stars look enchanting tonight,
attempting to count them without a
friend can be depressing and futile.
Though the path may not always be smooth,
walking barefoot is an adventure.
Though the flowers may wither and fade,
God never ceases to amaze me.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on How it Must Feel to be in Love

Love, hasten your footsteps to me
so I may know how it feels to
float on air and be on cloud nine;
so I may know how it feels to
be weak in the knees and to have
butterflies in my stomach; or
have my heart break into a sprint
at the very thought of him, or
blush and stutter in his presence;
so I may at last be able
to declare that all the love songs
finally make sense to me. But
I don't think I'm ready for that.
So hasten not, love. Take your time.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on Waiting

With coffee orbs transfixed on the dimming
horizon, she listens to the sound of
the sea's laughter and the breeze's ballad.
Toes buried in sand, she sits Indian-style
and waits as her night hair flaps in night air.
She waits for the sound of footsteps on sand,
and the sound of her name on his soft lips.
She waits for him to sit next to her so
she can rest her head against his shoulder
and intertwine her cold fingers through his.
But her hands are empty and she's alone,
and no one knows that she is there, waiting.
So she idly lets sand run through her hand
and continues to wait for him to come.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on a Missed Friend (2)

The crickets are serenading me
while I unconsciously bite on my
already short fingernails, even
though I've been told countless times not to.
I listen to their song in silence.
A white butterfly grabs my focus,
and I watch it glide through the night air
and disappear among white flowers.
I wish you were here beside me so
I could tell you about what I saw,
and tell you how cool it was of God
to create colors and camouflage,
and how awesome it was of Him to
teach the crickets how to serenade.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on a Missed Friend (1)

Gazing up at the vast, night sky as
I listen to Alison Sudol
sing about picking apples from trees,
I attempt to count the stars I see.
They seem to be a lot brighter here,
looking like glitter on a black sheet.
Then my thoughts gravitate towards you,
and I suddenly wish you were here
sitting next to me on this front porch.
Maybe you could help me number these
stars, because there's just too many of
them for me to count alone. Then we
could sing along in off-key voices
and talk about the song and the stars.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on Shopping

"Juan Says Pits Ul"

Sa sulod sa usa ka bazaar sa Colon,
milantaw ko sa mga paninda nga naka-displi.
Paghimatngon nimu naku,
miduol ka samtang ga-tingsi.

"Unsa'y ato, mam?" Miingon ka naku.
"Aduna mi'y skene dzens nga ga-sel:
tulo kinyentos."

"Dili lang, miss. Naa pa'y dako niini?"
Nangutana ko nimu, samtang nitudlo sa usa ka sinina.

"Ah, mam, kinsa'y musuot?"

Naglagot ko.
Wa nimu gitubag ang ako'ng pangutana.

"Ang ig-agaw sa'kung iring." Mitubag ko,
ug ikaw natingala.

Wala ka katubag. Hala oy.

"Ako bitaw ang musuot." Nitug-an nalang ko sa tinuod
para dili ka ma-stress.  Ug usab nako'ng gipangutana:
"Aduna ba mo'y mas dako niini nga size?"

"Ah, mam! Kanang, kuan mam!
Juan says pits ul naman na siya, mam.
Suwayi lang ug sukod. Ma-igo ra lagi na nimu."

Nagbukal ako'ng dugo. Wa kaha siya nayabag?
Juan says pits ul? Kadako nga bakak!
Wala ba siya kakita naku nga
naga-barog sa iyang atubangan?
Wala ba siya kakita nga dili mi pariha ug lawas?

"Size Sexy man ko, miss." Miingon ko.

"Ha? Unsa, mam?" Naga-tingsi lang gihapon ka.

"Wala. Ayaw nalang, miss. Mura'g dili man ni mupaigo sa
ig-agaw sa'kung iring. Sa pikas nalang ko mangita."

-Nocturnal Scribe

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Musings on Love Handles

"Bilbilo'ng Gugma"

Ang ako'ng gugma para kanimo,
susama sa ako'ng bilbil.
Bisa'g unsaon naku ug hiyak,
bisa'g unsaon naku ug tago, ug
bisa'g unsaon naku ug pugong,
dili jud kini siya
mahiyak, matago ug mapugngan.
Musugwak jud kini siya ug magpakita.

Ang ako'ng gugma para kanimo,
susama sa ako'g bilbil.
Kay tulo kini siya ka hut-ong,
sama sa usa ka pagoda sa mga Insik.
Ug ang buot pasabot niini kay,
"I love you."

-Nocturnal Scribe 

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Musings on Resentment

You sit across

me, excitement reflecting

in your eyes—

a sign that

you’re about to

tell us something.

“So there was

that one time,”

you say, but

I cut you

off by asking,

“What date is

it today again?”

I ask the

person to my

left.  She responds

and asks me

something in return.

From the corner

of my eyes,

I see your

jaw clench, but

you remain silent

and sink back

into your seat.

Strike one.

I continue to

speak of different

things and notice

you slowly begin

to relax.  Something

I say catches

your attention and

you ask me,

“What?  You really

drink that? Seriously?”

But I pretend

your words don’t

reach my ears.

My tale resumes

and I notice

you glaring at

the table, frowning.

Strike two.

I shrug, pretending

not to see

you.  So I

talk again to

the person on

my left and

she laughs at

all my jokes.

The clocks ticks

and time skips,

and I see

you rise and

say, “It’s time.

We should better

go and start

now.”  You leave,

but we don’t

follow you out

immediately.  We linger

in the room

for a little

while, enjoying our

conversation.  And when

we’ve exhausted ourselves

of speaking, we

decide to go

after you.  Just

as we leave,

we see you

coming our way

with a frown

on your face.

“If you’re not

up to doing

it, I’m leaving.”

You announce peevishly

And brush past

us.  We watch

you stride off

with bewildered looks.

Strike three.

You’re out.

-Nocturnal Scribe 

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Musings on Panic

Vengeful heat beat down
        The sunburned man turned chartreuse
               Our feet touched pavement

Like ants, they spilled out
       Confusion flooded the streets
               An echoing shriek

Pandemonium struck
          Trepidation engulfed me
                 His firm hand found mine

Adrenaline pumped
        We watched a Hollywood scene
                 Everything's surreal

Shoving here and there
        The current sweeps us upward
               We pray for safety

 







-Nocturnal Scribe
Note: February 6, 2012; 2:45pm

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.

None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012