Facing East

I suppose
I can write about the
velveteen silhouette of hills at dusk
and struggling yellow lights
sprinkled in the valley.
I can write about the sparrows
coming home
from all over the city
to roost in the navel
of its last remaining
patches of forestry.
In turn, the bats come out
from slumber searching fruit
or whatever they may scavenge.

I suppose
I can write about the
dark blue sky with tangerine flashes
and how the clouds pass by
like milk in a coffee cup.
And how, on cloudless nights,
there seem to be
twice more stars
sprinkled
in great admiration
of a much bigger moon.
To impress, they form
constellations I don’t know of
or have now forgotten

My muse is hidden somewhere east
And my soul decided to join her
If not reason, bless me with rhyme
Without my muse I couldn’t write
Without my soul I find nothing to write about
My words have no spine
My poetry is an unborn child.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes

The Mountain and the Sea

The mountain takes a stoic stance
Armed with acacia trees and bamboo
Silent warrior, stone and earth
Fairies celebrate its strength
Tempered by the sun
Thawed by its friend, the sky
Which the mountain carries on its shoulders
Undergarments of ore
Hidden like its sporadic breath
Each one coming and going
Without herald, but with passion

The sea reaches out for the mountain
Proud waves taunting, foam trying to impress
Roaring lion, fickle like its ripples
Mermaids celebrate its strength
Driven by the wind
Tides rising to its lover, the moon
Whose image is reflected on its breast plate
Fluid nets cast far and wide
Persistently challenging the shore
With floods at once blue and green

The mountain and the sea
Are rivals for the honor
Of hosting the sun at dusk
The sea has won most battles
By sheer strength of numbers
Each time, the mountain pays homage
By sending tokens
Down the river.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes

Ode to the Bamboo

Sing to me
oh bamboo.
Lull me to sleep
with the wheeze
from your leaves,
emerald splinters
of a broken green sun.

Dance to the wind,
stir your pliant tubes,
bend and sway,
inverted broom
sweeping the sky
of stars.

Your ends
poking and piercing,
inciting the clouds
to give out rain.
Primitive tribes
did not sing
the first rain song.
You did.

Soon,
the rustle of
viridian leaves
will be joined
by rainfall taps
on the scalp
of the earth.
And you, bamboo
---king of the tall grasses,
ancestor of the rice stalks
and shelter of the
moths and lizards
---you are the strands
of long unbridled
hair growing
from its epidermis.

The tapping
stimulates your roots.
The rain is
your nourishment
and thus nourished,
new bamboo offspring
will sprout
at the break of dawn.

Copyright ©2007 Ronnie C. Cabañes
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