august’s fool

the sun rises for the first time in august this year;
as june has bathed me naked in the rivers,
exposed under glaring daylight, young and soft again,
as though i remember how i was birthed
from my mother’s womb, blissful and uncertain,
i see the familiar boy who ran away from their house
covered in thin leaves, barely in touch with reality
with aphroditic painting plastered on such fickle eyes.
the months have seen me lying on greener grasses,
scarring ochres and painting butterflies. and now
july has clothed me, brand new warmth lingering,
damping on marred, porcelain flesh.
the waters don’t glisten themselves but are engulfed
in august’s first sunrise; he is a fool.

— chesca // 190810

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beautiful mockery

poetry has its own, dramatic way
of telling sweet endearments.
these words sing of how beautiful you are,
of the possibilities your existence brings.
you are magical in words, in poetry
that are these dreamy thoughts
along with some pensive images of reality;
you are the sun, moon, and stars,
and how the ocean waves calm senses
and rustling leaves give nostalgia, you
are every metaphor there is to be sung.
i long to stay right here
in the drafts of my imagination,
not in the harsh environment ruled by fate
where these words make a satire out of me
and a lyrical paradox out of you.

— chesca (#18) // 180610

para po, saan?

araw araw, habol ang mga dyip,
dala dala ang pamunas,
tila nazareno ang mga nakaupo.
kanilang sinasabi “manong bayad po”
ngunit sa aking “kuya, ate, pahinging barya,”
ubos naman ang laman ng kanilang bulsa.

mga lukot na papel, kaliwa’t kanan,
hingi dito, hingi dyan,
para sa piso piso, kahit ano na lamang.

saan nga ba tutungo ang mga paang
hindi pa nakakaapak sa karpetong lapag,
kamay na hindi pa nakakahawak
ng mga ginintuang purselas at kwintas?
narito, kalamnang hangad lamang ay almusal
hay, kulang pa talaga ang mga dasal.
nasaan nga ba ang sasakyan
tungo sa ninanais kong kaginhawaan?

— chesca // 180418

who sings lullabies

literature—it cradles me
like a newborn child
seeing the first dawn.
in my most vulnerable moments,
i come home to it.

a little touch of prose
to my trembling fingertips
sends me back to my senses;
the secrets i know
are well-hidden behind metaphors;
frustrations
i want to yell to the void,
poetry makes them bearable
to hold in.

when my tears can’t express my woes,
i turn to words.
for words caress my cheeks
when i can no longer move.
each stroke in every letter
embraces my weary body
after a long day
when i am all alone
with an unfed soul, i read
and it makes me a little bit whole
again.

literature—it makes me human
with another reason
to live each day with a purpose.
it is the root that keeps me grounded
yet the sunset and horizon
that make me dream and wonder.
it is a friend and a soulmate
the universe
wouldn’t dare to steal.

— chesca // 190804

The Fiery and Spirited

restless—like air
ebbing between two, young flesh,
molecules hurtling, tossing in a boiling sea,
hands bending metal bars in front of dubious eyes;
and i, holding a pair of scissors raking my hair.

restless—as though her hands
ache to tug veins out of his frame
as though a kettle whistles, shakes,
and stands on the verge of explosion
as though his heartbeat parallels the concrete
that almost wants to embrace him,
and as though this mirror in front me
is a pillow my fists yearn to feel.

the kite flies
some meter father away from the ground
and miles nearer to what is there beyond,
freely traversing the empty yet full blue yonder,
still tied… still tied…

but relentless! this day is of burning candles and kissing crocodiles,
fearless! these feet shall land on supine needles,
limitless! with all might, sever them who lacerate;
endless… and may this kite be with those unwanted balloons
and, fate knows where, may it find kindred hearts and souls—
the fiery and spirited ones.

— chesca lopez // 180609