Wondering Turns To Wandering

[Written on 10.10.2024 and this was about my students who lagging behind or feeling behind of their writing skills and I felt inspired to write about the daily routine of telling them they can and they will get better at it. Because, what choice do they have? HAHAHA] Tell a child he can tell stories Tell him he can write (Tell him!) Make space for him to scribble Make time for him to think Allow his soul to sail a bit Allow his eyes to cry a tear Forget the good old yapping Forget the good old times (Forget it!) Give ‘im some dreams to dream about Give ‘im some stories to pass the time Unfold it nicely in his gentle face Unfold it gently in his nice eyes Allow a child to tell his story Allow him so that he can write (Allow him!) He’s worth isn’t a scribble On a windy, summer sand Make him built his own memorial Make him carved his own name Savor his sharp wits and blunt truth Make him a writer while under your roof

[Written on  10.12.2024 and probably I am thinking of the future] Time will come, my dear The walls will echo your name Your words will pound their hearts And you are everybody’s game Time will tell, my dear The podium will call your name Your power will shut their mouths And you are not one to blame Time will sing, my dear The streets will cheer your name Your face will spread on the news And you are not the same Time will decide when, my dear Whose name deserves a frame Only those who help you in the game Are the only ones will be named Time will give justice, my dear In our silence, we will play the game We’ll soon step on a podium And those we fight with deserve to be named

beware—the storm brews in a cup of tea let your sharpest words fall as drizzle no mortal withstands the cunning tempest the sea takes the fool who scorns the wiser the sage’s mind is forged in wisdom the heart, a cushion of gold; the body, a harbor cross the line, though hidden from all eyes the storm crowns the master unseen by the blind … for storms reveal the truth that silence ‘already knew’

The room once slayed in webs and dreams, Now wakes beneath the broom’s bold beams. [Written in June 2025, this poem came to life during Brigada Eskwela. As I cleaned the classroom, I was reminded that every helping hand, no matter how small, leaves a lasting mark on the spaces where learning begins.] The room once slayed in webs and dreams, Now wakes beneath the broom’s bold beams. The spiders know it’s time to weave New tales elsewhere, they’ve got to leave. The ants will march a different route, No crumbs for them to rave about. The cockroach stroll is shut down tight, And mosquitoes? Smoked out of sight. The mouse who ruled the quiet stage Has been evicted, no more page. The mop will guide the dust to the door And the panes will be clear once more. Ooops, a slithery friend (or a hopping, croaking one) might lurk in the corner, So clean with care—be a tidy-floor explorer. Lift every box and sweep with flair, You never know what’s hiding there! Oh, scavenge smart, don’t judge too fast...

Tikatik ng ulan. Nag-aabang. Matigas na upuan. [Inspired by a one-day beach trip that felt far too short. The long journey was worth it for a place that felt like paradise. Written on June 14, 2018. ]  Tikatik ng ulan. Nag-aabang. Matigas na upuan. Sandaliang idlip. Natutulog. Naiinip. Nagdasal. Humiling. Umasa. Namangha. Naglakad. Nagmasid. Umasa. Maliliit na espasyo. Nagpatuloy. Nagpumilit. Natapos. Kumalam ang sikmura. Balik sa paglalakbay. Nasilayan. Nahaplos. Mata sa mata. Nagpahinga nang sagad. Nagising. Nasilayan. Naglakbay muli. Walang hinihiling. Sinamsam ang indayog dala ng hangin. Namangha. Nagpasalamat. Nagpaka-sasa sa paraiso. Walang hinihiling. Nakita. Nahaplos. Nag-tamang muli. Mata sa mata. At dun na rin natapos.

Maghihintay Muli ang Orasan Para sa Manggagawang Pilipino, lalo na sa mga Guro [Written in June 2025, this poem came after I cleaned my classroom with my first batch of SPJ students—a space I had barely called my own for a week before I was assigned to a new workstation.] (Since pasukan na bukas, MANAKIT MUNA TAYO NG DAMDAMIN) Maghihintay muli ang orasan sa titig mo bago ka magmadali. Hahalikan mong muli ang baso, o gagawing salamin ang plato— tanging saksi sa paulit-ulit na pag-alis nang wala pang laman ang tiyan. Gagawin mong baton muli ang kutsara’t tinidor, na para bang armas sa digmaan ng araw-araw. Magtitiis ka na naman hanggang kinsenas, magtatyaga ka na naman hanggang atrenta, habang ang talampakan mo’y nagmamakaawang huminto. Magpapanggap kang masigla sa kabila ng nananakit mong mga paa, tatawa ka sa mga batang hindi mo anak, habang tinuturuan silang mangarap sa mundong halos ayaw silang paniwalaan. Lalanghap ka muli ng simoy ng pagsusumikap, amoy chalk, alikabok, pawis, at pa...