It is Sunday afternoon here
And the autumn wind
Is a bluster, pure and simple.
I do a marathon of daydreams
Of decades of demands
From the birthland
Even as I while away
This lingering loneliness
That begins from hereon,
Here, in this singular sense
Of seeing the savage sea,
The singing surf,
The raging reef pointing
To the promised horizon of red rejoicing,
West towards the Palanan or Aparri,
The shores closer to you,
To Roy your father the poet
Of revolutions unfinished, endless,
To Jane your mother the teacher
Weaving stories of women and song
Freed finally from the humdrum
Of her Cagayan Valley life
With convent truths and church lies
Keeping her company at all times.
It is Sunday here of searching
For pebbles down the Palos Verdes,
The meeting place for dream and passion,
Poetry and prose in new forms,
New vision, new language,
Ancient myths coming alive about
Hoping for liberation from the drudgery
Of the parochial politico's speech
About coming back from storm seasons,
From floods creating palliatives
Out of mud, imaginations of white rice
Gone kaput, viand gone mad.
It is Sunday at seven here,
And the blinding sun speaks
Of quicksilver shapes of castles
Blessed by some unseen falling star.
Sadiri, I try to make you sand castles
From thin air, that air that comes
From the light nights of Tuguegarao,
The air in the circles of our internal fires.
Come on, child, tell this to Roy and Jane,
Tell them of the freed forests
And sand castles constructed
In the hollow of our pained hands.
Nov. 12, 2004