Limits

It wasn’t the way the flower died—
the crisp sound when something fell;
the slender stalk usually bends
when harsh winds come
but one time, it saw an end;
maybe because madness can only go as far
before one loses itself in the process,
thus creating an alternate reality
where the sun sleeps when it rises
and the moon darkens when the stars are awake.

I wish the nightingale never stopped singing
even when the sparrows muffled its voice;
I saw it one night waiting, nonchalantly,
perched on its spot in an old tree, staring,
too tired to even bother singing my song.

Everything vanishes at some point
or be transformed into something else;
and now I watch the final tears of a candle,
its smoke quickly escaping into thin air
as the light flickers from the used-up wick.
Finally, the moment came
when even the slightest whisper
will extinguish the flame.

Evelyn Dumag-Gabinete


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Fire Up

because the lines aren’t giving up
not until the voices stop
a long queue much like a road
where the ants bring their food
naturally, they prick your toes
even the itch does stay
until an anthill builds,
half-shallow,
half-full of dirt;

somebody saw a mountain
looking from a broken window;
an art piece maybe?
how much of what is painted
gets mistaken for the real thing?
was there a view behind the frame
or a pile of virtual beauty
built over layers of fractal sorcery?

a world is boiling over molten words
shots of life to spice things up
and flames slowly dying underneath
the burden of the pot getting harsher
by the minute, the embers cackle
in fright, fighting
the dark, the cold and the damp;
eyes, keep awake;
sleep and the soup turns sour
that one has to start over
after lukewarm left-overs
waiting to be consumed;

burns stay awhile
even leaving a scar;
and remember how we share
the same things
that keep us alive.

Evelyn Dumag-Gabinete


This is the #potd poem of the day.

I would love to write a poem for you. See how.
For other featured POTDs, click here.

Keys

cursor blinks,
blank stare
on a screen stained;
orange, white, black
variable streaks,
or was it yellow?
but as an afterthought
it’s never gonna show

I drank wine that wasn’t bitter
like a deleted letter,
like the blue in the sky
that managed to laugh
since the cloud cannot
widen the gap
enough to color the ocean
gray
reflections say
much of its wayward ray
refracted on the waves—
each light
excuse bent
on the curves;
ah, the weakness of anything straight

gone with the wind
the movement stings
like poison,
like faux poison
threatening to kill
but never will;

agonizingly dumb,
each trash dumped
would break the shade
no crimson blood
can take away
until it’s crushed;

each scoop as clear
minus the grains
and seashells,
golden pearls,
tightly zipped
the fine lips
cancel the noise
echoed within the dark dome
till I learn that the deep,
the silence,
the stillness,
the jingling,
the unlocking,
take me home

Evelyn Dumag-Gabinete


This is the #potd poem of the day.

I would love to write a poem for you. See how.
For other featured POTDs, click here.