Musings on My Mother

I stand in awe of the woman God made
Humbled that your blood runs through my veins.
I will carry your legacy with pride upon my heart.
A badge of honor
I am Lyster's daughter
There is no greater joy
Than knowing you are the sun
And I am your warrior

You are the whetstone that sharpens
The echo of dancing bells that carry laughter in the breeze
The strong, comforting wings that wrap around to let me know itsokayitsokayitsokay.

You are sunshine and rain and
I-will-do-whatever-it-takes and
It-is-okay-to-make-mistakes and
Try-again-my-child
You are a mighty force
That puts tsunamis to shame

Underneath the stardust of the galaxies,
You are a lighthouse
You are the compass that always points True North
In you, I will always find home.

I love you, always.

May you grow in incandescence
With each passing year.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2018

Thirteen reasons why
        why we broke up:

We were liars
        meant to be -
(a) never ending
        house of secrets;
        shadows in the silence.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2015

Musings on Romantic Gestures

He gave me a single, short-stemmed rose today:

a plastic one—but a rose all the same.

The fabric petals were discolored red;

frayed at the corners, with several loose threads.

The plastic green stem was crooked and old;

the dusty, veined leaves resembled mold.

It was a pitiful sight—obviously cheap:

something you could easily buy at the street.

But being the poet that I am,

and being the poet that he is,

I was hoping for a poetic explanation for this.

Perchance something along the lines of:

“When this withers, so will my love.”

But instead, all he said (which cannot be ignored)

was, “Darling, forgive me. This is all I could afford.”

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2014

Musings on How You Affect My Tastebuds

You are the
chili
   chocolate
        ice
           cream
I tasted at Gelatissimo
three days ago:
sweet
   rich
      creamy
at first bite
(was it love at first sight?)

but
  surprisingly
      lethal
all the rest of the way
(i don't think I'll ever be okay.)

You packed a punch with a
tangle
   of
      flavors
(each one I savored.)

And knocked the breath
right
   out
      of
         me
(right. out. of. me.)

leaving me wishing
that I hadn't tasted it in
the
   first
      place
(but by then I was a lost case.)

and also wishing
that I could taste it
for
   the
      first
         time
all over again
(and again, and again.)

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2014

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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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

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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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

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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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

Musings on Longing

It's been four years--
four years,
four years...
And you'd think that by now,
I'd have gotten over it.

Well,
it seems like I haven't.
I mean,
I don't always think about it,
but whenever December comes
waltzing
around the corner,
that familiar sense of longing,
that ebbing pain
resurfaces.
And I spend December
in regret
thinking
of bitter
"what ifs".

What if ... I hadn't let him out of my sight?
What if ... he hadn't left me?
What if ... I had done this or that instead?
What if ... things had been done differently?

We'd still be
together,
that's what.
But
it's useless to try to
turn back time in my mind
because what's done
is done.

All I can do now
is hope and pray
that he'll come back...
that I can find him...

Because
believe me,
I've looked.
For four years
I've looked.
And sometimes,
I wonder
if he ever
looks back.

Looks back to that day
at Colon, near Jollibee, Leon Kilat;
or
looks back to that day
at the plaza under the Tambis tree;
or
looks back to that day
at the lake in the woods.

Because I do.

I look back...
and I
remember.

I remember
the intense gaze of his gray eyes.
I remember
his quick grin.
I remember
the way his hair would fall back against his forehead
after he'd brush it away with his fingers.
I remember
how protective
and kind
and generous
he was and
how good he was with kids.
I remember
his charismatic and adventurous spirit.
I remember
that day at the basketball court when
he was so brave when
Carlo threatened him.
I remember
how much he loved
spaghetti.

But...that's all there is
left of him.
Memories.
It's December again.
And I find myself singing
this song:

"So I go back to December,
turn around and make it alright;
I go back to December
all the time."


Come back,
Raphael.
I miss you.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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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, 2011