Something About the Night
I always muse and complain
that there is something about the night.
The way it conceals the pebble and the dove
from my prying eyes. I could say,
the moon is the mistress of the night.
And the pallid moon glows
above our monuments of rust.
Maybe, I would write another poem
about the night, tonight, something
clear and more concise, for the night
is a coffin covered with a wreath
of sunflowers. Every midnight,
phantoms prowl the avenues
of the city of molasses
where darkness becomes
a womb of memories:
my father's cardiac arrest
and an ashtray filled with cigarettes.
It is in the darkness of the night
that I often try to escape
my nightmares with sleeping pills
and razorblades. If I had only
prevented my father's death, then
there would be the light of the sun
in every indented lines of poetry
I write, within the blanket
and venom of the night.
I Don't Want to Write
I don't want to write poetry.
I'm tired of moving
in between the zephyr
and the rays of a waning sunlight.
I just want to relax
and drink my lipton tea.
I will close my worn-out eyes,
open my ears much wider
than its actual size.
Then I will listen
to the rhythm of silence
in this moonless night.
Let the flickering stars speak for themselves.
Let the asphalt roads express themselves
in the quantity of roadkills and accidents.
Let the stoplights and the electric wires compete
with lovers' kisses underneath.
I don't want to write short stories.
Let the bellowing sea write
her sonnets in the hide of dolphins
and floating carcasses of archaic shipwrecks.
For once allow the headlights
to become the creative artist
in the highway of darkness.
Leave me alone, please.
All I want is to enjoy the solitude of being
a nonentity in this lightless balcony.
Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena .
Some of his poems have already been published in Philippines Free Press, Philippines Graphic magazine, Eastlit online literary journal, and Kabisdak online.
Neat...
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