angliterario

Probably a Prologue or an Epilogue of a novel... Or a short story

2024-07-13T13:07:00.003+02:00

Clack , clack, clack

His keyboard keeps typing the words.

He is unaware of what he is writing, he feels awake, yet his fingers seem to move on their own accord.

The computer keeps spewing words.

Words

Words

Words

He doesn’t understand what they mean.

His eyes kept following the words.

Words

Words

Words

A hand suddenly shoots out of the pages.

The words were not without meaning, his brains just cannot process what they were. Some ancient language perhaps. Or an unknown incantation. Whatever it is, something is happening. And it is not something good. Not for him at least.

He tries to move his fingers. Stop the clacking. He can’t. He couldn’t.

Help!

His mind screams, but no sound comes out of his mouth.

The hand is turning into an arm. Then an elbow. Someone, something is coming out of the words.

Words

Words

Words

He tries to wiggle his typing fingers again. No response. It’s as if they weren’t his. Whose is it?

I’m here, am I? He asks. No one really. There’s nobody to ask, nobody who can help him.

His body is stuck on the chair, his fingers moving on their own, answering to someone else’s bidding. Whose?

He screams again. Still no sound.

A shoulder is coming out of the paper. The hand now reaches out as if to push itself out of the pages.

His fingers stop typing.

Its work is done. The incantation is finished, a form has been made into being. A half of a head emerges from the words.

He tries to see its face, trying to see if it is something knowable.

His body is numb. No amount of willpower can budge it.

Now he can see its face, he shouldn’t have tried to. He should have just closed his eyes. It’s too late, he couldn’t anyway.

Whatever compelled him to write those words, also bound his whole body to someone else’s will.

He heard a ding somewhere in the back of his head, and then a flash of blinding light. And then nothing.

The light slowly turned to darkness. Like a darkened vignette it spread into the center of his awareness of himself. He is no longer he. He feels himself detaching. A tether, his tether is severed.

And then, there’s nothing.

This Is Not Yet Good-bye

2024-07-13T00:58:00.001+02:00

I did not mean to stop writing. I thought I loved writing. I thought it was my oxygen.

But then small people came into my life, who suddenly took over everything and became the most precious beings in my universe.

I no longer needed to write. I was finally complete.

Wallace Learns to Swim

2021-05-30T19:07:00.005+02:00

In a forest far, far away there was a pond, with water as clear as the sunny sky. On its edge lived a teeny-tiny frog whose name was Wallace.

Wallace loved to jump, and jump, and jump at the edge of the pond, but he never once jumped into the pond.

The other frogs on the pond would tease him,

Wallace, Wallace come into the water and dance
Else we'll come over and chase you with a pan!
Wallace, Wallace come into the water and prance
Else we'll come over and chase you till you run!

Wallace would just look at the other little green frogs swimming on the pond. And then he'll shrug his little green shoulder and jump and jump and jump on the edge of the pond until he grows tired and can't jump any more.

You see, Wallace had a little secret, he didn't know how to swim. But he was afraid to ask someone to teach him how. And he was more afraid that someone would find out that he can't swim.

So instead, he just ignored the other little green frogs and pretended that he liked it better to jump and jump and jump on the edge of the pond all day rather than swim.

He would love to swim one day, very much. But Wallace was so afraid to try.

↞⇼↠

One day, while he was jumping and jumping and jumping on the edge, he saw a little yellow butterfly flying over the pond. It flew and flew and flew. Sometimes it would swoop down and stare at its reflection on the water.

How Wallace envied this pretty little thing. He wished he could also peer at the pond. He had always been curious to know what was in the middle of the water.

When the yellow butterfly came over the edge of the pond it saw little green Wallace, alone and jumping and jumping and jumping on the edge of the pond.

What is your name, little green friend?
Mine is Alice! What a beautiful pond you have here!!
How come you're not in the water like all the other little green ones?

Wallace was ashamed. He didn't want the pretty little butterfly to know that he can't swim. So he ignored the butterfly and jumped and jumped and jumped instead.

As Wallace watched Alice the yellow butterfly fly away, he started to feel very sad. He wanted so much to become friends with her but he was so ashamed to tell her that he couldn't swim. So he jumped and jumped and jumped along the edge of the pond until he grew tired and couldn't jump anymore.

↞⇼↠

The next afternoon, Wallace saw Alice flying over the pond again. He wanted to call her and apologize for the way he behaved the previous day but he was just so ashamed.

Alice was hovering so close over the pond when suddenly one of her wings touched the surface of the water. It suddenly became very difficult to fly. Her wet wings became so heavy that she couldn't lift them anymore. Little by little she felt herself falling into the pond.

Wallace saw Alice flutter her wings, and then flutter some more and then slowly drop into the water. He didn't know if Alice could swim either.

He saw her trying so hard to move her wings but sinking deeper and deeper into the water.

Without thinking, Wallace jumped into the water! He forgot he cannot swim!

As his little green arms and little green legs sank into the water he felt himself starting to swim.

First his little green arms started moving left and then right, left and then right. He felt his little green legs too, moving left and then right, left and then right. Before he knew it he found himself right beside Alice and started to pull her into the edge of the pond.

When they reached the edge of the pond Alice the butterfly couldn't thank Wallace enough.

Oh, nice little green friend
I thank you for saving my life,
Even though you won't tell me your name
I'll forever remember your face

Wallace felt his cheek grow greener. He was embarrassed but this time he was determined to tell Alice everything.

Oh, my little yellow friend
Forgive your little green friend for being so rude
I thought I couldn't swim and was ashamed
But now I know that if only I have tried
I would have been swimming and swimming and swimming
All the days of my life instead of jumping and jumping and jumping
And wondering what it's like to be in the pond.

Why I Ditched My Purchased Domain Name and Returned to Free Blogger

2021-05-26T20:01:00.032+02:00

source: canva.com

It's been a while since I've let out my inner voice.

To just write.

Write.

Irregardless of readership, of SEO.

What do I need SEO for, anyway? I am not a business.

I started this blog, never as a business. I started it to write. To have a plot of virtual real estate for my poems, stories and essays that I'm too proud to share with the people closest to me. Because somehow, it is harder for me to show the entirety of who I am to the most important people in my life.

As to the why, I have no answer. Perhaps it's self-preservation. Perhaps it's to protect them. There can be a lot of dark corners in my mind. Questions that might not sit well with the common beliefs each one of them clings to.

Reality is not the same for everyone.

Think of a child born in the comforts of a western home, and then think about a child born to the deafening noise of war somewhere in the middle east. Think of a child born in the tropics, where flooding is a yearly occurrence. And then think of a child born in the dry lands of Africa, where mud is potable water.

So is this reality about myself that I share in this blog.

True, the ebb of dark corners comes and goes. Like the tide, there are moments when it's just silly thoughts. I think sometimes, they might be too silly to share with people I know. They can be way too far out of character, they might think I've gone off the rails.

This part is for strangers. Because they can't ask me why I wrote the words.

They can't hurt me if they find faults in what I wrote.

This is a space for me to be free.

So this is to apologize to my blog for trying to hide its true self and substituting it with commercial words.

If you don´t know where you are going, any road can take you there. —Lewis Carroll

This will be my space for myself again, where I will write anything that inspires me, anything that comes to mind. A place to free my thoughts.

Because lately, it has become too crowded in here.

Too many ideas, too much new knowledge. I don't even have any idea what to do with them. Because in the end, I still just know enough to know that I don't know enough.

↞⇼↠

P.S. I'm still deliberating on a new domain name for this blog, the one I just ditched didn't really fit its original purpose.

A Time For Change: I´ve Decided to Finally Take Action in Owning My Blog

2020-07-02T03:00:00.045+02:00

A small step to conquer my fear of commitment, a giant leap for my writer spirit.

Photo by Kaboompics at Pexels

I want to write a blog, no I don´t want to take the risk.

That has been my motto for pretty much everything in my life. Too chicken to dive into the water, always dipping my toe just a tad to see how things will go.

Do you sometimes feel the same way too?

That moment when you are faced with crossroads that could possibly change your life, and you fail to act because you are simply petrified about making any decision?

Welcome to my world.

I have had moments when I did jump, but it was never without much thought first. I always need to weigh the pros and cons, see a projected future in my mind, like a movie playing the possible scenarios of my possible future.

Much of the decisions I made, I think turned out well.

Which is why, it´s a mystery why it has taken me this long to finally jump into taking my blogging seriously.

The Free Way is Not Always the Best Way

I discovered blogger in 2008.

I started with a blog not knowing what it will be about nor what its purpose was going to be. I just started it because I wanted to write.

I didn´t care whether people will read it, on the other hand, I was also too stupefied that people might actually read it. So, I just wrote. Never told anyone about it, not even my mother.

Fast forward a couple of years later, I was getting burned out from my job at that point in my life. I was looking for change, I knew that if ever I find another way to feed me and my family, I would like it to be writing.

At that point, there wasn´t a lot of information yet on how to make a living writing. I got scammed once or twice, but the blogging… crickets.

Then I found constant-content. I sold an article for $20! Yey! Based on freelance writing jobs I applied to before, that wasn´t peanuts.

And so, once again my blogging journey got derailed. I let my blogs sit in the dim, cobwebbed bowels of the blogspot.com domain. My contemporaries have gone on to become successful bloggers, even online entrepreneurs.

The thing about being parked in a free blogging platform like blogger is that you don´t have monthly obligations to worry about.

If I don´t feel like writing this month, or the next month, or the entire next two years, it will not matter, my blog will always be where it was.

Sometimes, in order to know our real potential, there is no other way but to take the plunge.

No Plan, No Direction

If you don´t know where you are going, any road can take you there.

- Lewis Carroll

I think I should hang this quote on my bathroom wall and stare at it every morning.

That is the story of my life career-wise. It´s not even that I don´t have any talent, that is actually the problem. I have so many interests that´s pulling me in all directions. In the end I just sat in the middle of the crossroads, doing nothing, hoping that one day the muse will point me in the right direction.

Fast forward a decade.

The internet exploded and the face of the web has changed completely. Information everywhere.

YouTube spouting gurus of all things. I call it YouTube University. Everything I need to learn how to do, it´s just one click away.

Finally, the motivational and self-improvement gurus found their way into my feeds.

Facebook bombarded me everyday with ads, throwing an accusing finger at me-- why haven´t you taken steps to find your true passion already?

So here I am, I decided, I´ll just flip a coin and see where it leads me.

Commit to Succeed

I´m challenging myself —commit to what you´re doing, whatever it is!

Which is why I decided to finally rebrand my blog. I have decided to focus on helping new writers find their way into the ever-increasing complexity of content writing for the world wide web.

Much has changed since the early days of blogging.

Although I have not been consistent in my blog, I was always consistently learning about SEO and the evolution of written content as a tool for businesses. I have also taken online classes on proofreading and editing, and the business of writing.

My Facebook page for this blog was my inspiration.

People I didn´t know from other parts of the world started following me. I felt burdened to give back in the way of providing useful content that they can apply in their paths to become online writers.

The Law of Attraction: I Believe Therefore I am

I am a blogger, a writer, an artist and an entrepreneur.

Yes, I´m claiming that, no negative vibes please.

Soon, I will be parking this blog under a new domain name. My blog's logo has changed too.

Did you see the little w with a dot beside my domain name?

That is what google calls a favicon. If you want to know how I did this as well as the inside scoop about my blog rebranding, drop me a line on the comment below or on any of my social media walls.

I wish anyone who reads this blog post—

Happy writing and may the odds be ever in your favor!

The Hounding Word

2020-05-21T06:09:00.001+02:00

This is not fiction.

I aim to write about my real life experience with a hounding word. What is a hounding word anyway? In plain speak it is a word that haunts you for the rest of your life after the first moment of your encounter. You could meet the hounding word anywhere. From that new novel you've been planning to read, a poem you saw at a Hallmark greeting card, maybe even from everyday objects as common as a cereal box.

I met my hounding word when I was a child. It was a period in my life when most of my free time was spent perusing the cases in the Nancy Drew files and reading about gossips in Sweet Valley High. Ironically, it wasn't Nancy Drew or Sweet Valley that gave me my hounding word. It was a magazine article, the title of which I can barely remember now.

Oxymoron. That was my word. And it kept hounding me from then on in almost every reading material I ever had the privilege to lay my eyes on.

Like the vocabulary buff I was, I immediately looked up what Oxymoron meant. My mother's Merriam-Webster dictionary gave me this definition: a combination of words that have opposite or very different meaning; such as deafening silence, as an example. It was then that I realized, the word has been hounding me even before I ever knew it existed. It was in every book I read, every poem I memorized and every essay I was made to write.

It has been hiding in plain sight. From the moment I became completely aware of its true self, it became more aggressive in showing its true color to me. I could not escape. And so instead, I embraced my hounding word. My oxymoron.

Have you met your hounding word? If you haven't you're probably not reading enough.

What is Science Fiction Poetry?

2020-05-21T06:08:00.003+02:00

Yesterday I thought I was being innovative.

I was thinking, what if I write a science fiction themed poem? I love science fiction and I love writing poems so why not combine the two? I bet nobody has thought of that yet. One click on google and my dreams of starting an SF poetry movement was crushed.

There is an SF poets movement.

In fact, it has been in existence way before I was even born. 1978 to be exact.

Maybe even older, the Science Fiction Poetry Association or SFDA was founded in 1978. That leads one to think that the movement has been moving way before that, as most movements usually does.

Confused? Suffice it to say that SF poetry is way older than I am.

What is Science Fiction Poetry?

We all know what Science Fiction is.

And I'm sure you have had occasion to read a poem or two way before you ever picked up a twilight book. What comes to mind when you see these two together in one sentence?

Personally I think it could be the future of poetry. It has been around yes, but how many of you have actually heard about it til now? I haven´t. Like I said, I thought I was having a eureka moment there.

Drats!

A Science Fiction poem could be haiku short, or epic long like Beowulf. The style totally depends on the poet.

It could follow the traditional rhyming and metered path or the flamboyant approach of modern poetry.

What sets science fiction poetry apart is simply the topic. Short definition —it is science fiction in poetry form.

Why did I say that it could be the future of poetry? Because I think that modern poetry is rife with contemporary society angst and hedonistic self-flagellation of depressing thoughts.

It´s sad.

It seems modern poets have completely abandoned Wordsworth´s world of idyllic daffodil infused musings. Perhaps because it is no longer appropriate.

As to the seediness of the world which most poets turn to as subject, I think it has always been seedy, technology simply forced humanity to look straight through its brutality.

In Wordsworth´s time, people escape reality by revelling in the beauty of nature, we in this century look to technology for escape.When the angst and self-flagellation grow old, I believe poets will again turn to what is ideally beautiful, perhaps to the science fiction world. A world which is now knocking on the doorstep of our reality.

The Future of Science Fiction

I love science fiction.

Technology is bringing us closer every day to a world where SF is no longer fiction. But as humanity´s thirst for knowledge and discovery seems unquenchable, it seems SF will stay.

It then becomes an SF author or poet´s duty to introduce us to Vernean worlds every time. The genre becomes redundant otherwise, as technology continues to catch up with Science Fiction

But what about Science Fiction poetry?

Do you think people will catch up and embrace this genre?

Or will it be so other worldly that people will continue to dismiss it to the sidelines?

Day Night

2015-03-12T04:29:00.000+01:00

All eyes
All eyes
Unseeing
Marred
Intoxicating joy
Existentialism

Other side
The world
Revolution
Day
Night
Not the same

Mouths talk
Mouths talk
Action
Where
Souls die
Meaning devoid

One profess
Right
Denial
Moral nihilists
Abound
Cry for justice

Cocoon
Cocooned
Far away
Safe
Let others
Save the damned

Maddy (A Zombie Short Story)

2015-03-04T15:00:00.008+01:00

Last year I submitted a horror short story to a website called Spinetinglers.com. This is a UK based website that accepts submissions for stories that send shivers to the spine, be it horror or science fiction or some heart warming story. Every month they select winners whose stories get featured on their website and also get paid.

It took me several months to finish this story. I wrote the first two paragraphs and then just left it in my hard drive for several months and forgot about it. Literally, I've forgotten I was writing this thing and only remembered about it when I was cleaning my computer for no longer needed files. So after several months I finally finished it, my first horror story. Yey!

I was so impressed with my writing so I decided to immediately submit it to Spinetinglers and waited for my price. I even ignored their warning not to write anything with a plot where everything that happened was just a dream. Yeah, I thought it was that good. Imagine my surprise when it got rejected.

Well not really.

After I submitted my story I reread it again after a few days and realized how bad it was. Also I have just finished watching Blade 3 a few days before finishing the story and borrowed some dialogues from one of Blade's friends.

So actually, it was a story done pretty much in bad taste. However, in the spirit of writing adventure, I shall dare to share my first zombie short story with you my dear readers. (I hope there's more than one of you.)

P.S. This is a zombie story because I really love zombies. I'd watch even the worst of B movies if it has zombies. Any The Walking Dead fan out there?

Maddy

In the distance Dan can hear faint hints of muffled screams. Sometimes he can even hear distinct cries for help. But he pays no attention to any of them, except to prick his ears up to gauge how close they are. He is running as fast as he can with as little noise as the grounds will allow him. He hopes with all his heart that he can make it through the night without crossing the sight of any of them. He thought with a shudder as he remembers the first time he found himself face to face, looking into the glassy eyes of one of them.

That first set of wonky eyes he saw belonged to his all-time crush Maddy. He slept in late the night before and woke up to sounds of doors slamming and people screaming outside his room. It was his last semester in college, the last week to be exact. People have been busy celebrating. Wild parties going on almost everywhere. He thought the screams were coming from people who've had a little too much to drink or smoked the wrong side of a joint. Just the usual crazy stuffs that kids do.

He turned to get some more sleep, trying to block off the outside noise, making some creaking noises himself on the couch where he fell down to last night. Slowly he felt himself drifting away to unconsciousness.

Suddenly there was a loud screeching noise on his door. Like someone running a sharp object on the wall. He woke up with a start. He thought he dreamed of falling into a big pit where hands with long and very sharp nails were clawing at him, and sharp teeth biting on his flesh.

"Fuck!" he muttered just under his breathe. He didn't mind kids going wild as long as they kept it within their space. This was his space dammit!

He opened the door and found Maddy.

The first time he saw Maddy, saw her smile, it was like double rainbows suddenly sprouted and illuminated the whole room with amazing kaleidoscope lights. It was his dream to catch those smoldering, sexy eyes since he first stepped into the university's halls and crossed her path.He never succeeded, until now. Her eyes were smoldering all right, but the light was gone.

Glazed, hungry eyes. That's what Maddy had when he bashed her head to the concrete wall of his dorm room and saw her brains scatter. Some got stuck on the wall where she hit it. Some got to his face. Dan felt a shiver run through him, making his teeth chatter. He could still feel her hungry eyes on him, hear the guttural sound coming from her throat and see her fingers clawing at him. Jesus! She wanted to eat him! Literally.

He can’t believe it all happened just this afternoon. He blinked and found himself in the twilight zone, no.., more like the walking dead zone. Friends he knew eating friends they knew. Girlfriends eating boyfriends. And if the lunch didn't die, it gets up and tries to find someone to munch on.

As much as he wants to deny it to himself the fact remains, his friends are now flesh-eating zombies, and these zombies are fierce! All senses tuned up, like a superhero bit by the wrong spider or doused with the wrong kind of superhero chemical. He barely escaped. But he did, or at least made it to the woods away from the carnage and pandemonium.

⟵ ⇼ ⟶

Dan wipes the perspiration running down his temples with the back of his hands. He feels some gelatinous substance mixed in with his perspiration.

"Fuck!" he mutters as he remembered Maddy's splattered brains again. “Fuck me!!” he almost shouted as he sees a herd of his former friends strut their zombie asses toward him.

He needs to find a place to hide, and fast. He thanks his lucky stars that it’s already dark and he has the cover of trees. He is still on school grounds and up ahead of him he knows there’s a sort of forest where he thinks he can hide. Hide for how long he doesn’t know, maybe just wait it out a bit, maybe some sort of rescue will come. He hopes at least.

His zombie friends look in his direction. Like a synchronized dance to Michael Jackson´s Thriller. “Fuck me twice!!” he mutters to himself as he realized that they don’t need to see him, they can smell him like a hot, fucking freshly baked pizza. “Shit!!” he starts to run towards the woods, maybe he can climb up some tree and they won’t be able to reach him.

He runs as fast as his feet can take him. He looks back and sees there were more of them coming and running with equal speed. “Fuck!! Fuck!! Fuck!!” he keeps muttering and he keeps running. He looks around trying to find some sort of escape. But there is no time to even pause to catch his breath, one mistake and he’s dead. Or worse.

He kept running and they kept running.

Suddenly he feels air where the grounds should be. He slides. He could feel rocks scratching his back. As he reaches the bottom of the pit he feels a sharp pain on his left ankle. He hears groans coming from the top of the pit and he feels his stomach churn as he realized what the groans meant.

He hears more bodies sliding on the dirt. He tries to get up but his ankle won’t let him. He does the next best thing, he crawls. With a sinking feeling he realizes that all of it is futile. He feels the first set of clawing hands reaching for his legs, his arms, and every part of his body that they can get a hold of. As the first set of teeth bit into his bruised flesh he screams like he has never screamed before in his life.

⟵ ⇼ ⟶

Dan wakes with a start. He reaches for his legs, arms and every part of his body that he thought got bit. Boy! Is he glad that it was just a dream. Outside he hears screams and loud banging noises. He almost smiled, at least everything is just normal. He tries to go back to sleep.

Suddenly there are scratching noises on his door, like nails or something sharp. “Fuck!”

He feels bile rise from his stomach. He dares not to even think it. Everything is happening like a rerun of a bad horror B movie.

He stands up to open the door.

Staring right at him are the sexy, smoldering eyes of Maddy. He should thank his lucky stars except for the fact that there is something wrong with those eyes.

“Fuck me!” he screams as Maddy launches at him with her beautiful, bloody claws.

Stark Naked Eyes

2015-02-26T01:28:00.002+01:00

Stark
Naked
Eyes wide shut
Screamed
First cry
First breathe

Didn't cry
Didn't sleep
Watched all night
Pixie face
Full of promise
Enthralled

First pang
Hunger
Alien sensation
Sucked milk
From breast
Heart palpitated

Unseeing
Yet eyes wandered
Light
Alien world
Full of wonder
Wonderful

A Very Personal Definition of Poetry

2014-06-29T01:18:00.004+02:00

made with canva

What is poetry?

The usual definitions are just one click away. But to each poet or wannabe poet the answer would be a gamut of words and phrases both imagined and defined. Each one unique. Some might be fathomable, others oblique. It depends on ones point of view and the history of that point of view.

What is a poem?

Is it enough that words rhyme or have cadence. Or in answer to contemporary voices, none at all but needs some sort of flavor that only its author understands. Many scholars attempt to decipher some hidden meaning between lines and words of dead poets.

What if there is none?

What if a poem is simply a cornucopia of words as they come out of our heads, or fingers as we type or write depending on ones preference.

Maybe in some deep-seated consciousness a poem is ones attempt to put definition to an otherwise pale view of the world. Or simply some neural rumblings that needed shape and texture.

Poetry could be a means to an end or could simply be the end product of an experience. Sometimes emotions so intense are difficult to communicate straight. Or the object of the emotion is absent and poetry is the only way to express it.

Words chosen could be meant literally with no hidden agenda. Sometimes words are chosen because they sound poetic enough that they merit eternalization by ink. Does such a word exist?

In poetry there is license to experiment with words. Use them where otherwise it would be frowned at. Some use poetry as a means to vulgarity or to elevate the mundane to extraordinary, or simply to shock.

Perhaps a better way to understand whether a poem has meaning is to understand first the person who wrote it.

And maybe there lies the difference between a poet and a poet wannabe.

One Year Today

2014-06-07T03:08:00.004+02:00

You do know how to wait
Almost a day and half
You gave a nudge
But wait
The birth street is not open

Your papa's sweat
Beaded and glistened like pearls
Still we wait

The big roundness of the moon
Sent rays of moonshine
So you'll find your way out

Still we wait

Abuelos anticipating
As if it were to be the first time
They will hold a pea-sized hand

Still we wait

No pains came it was difficult to tell
Whether you're coming
Still you take your sweet time
Serenely floating
In your sac of life

I couldn't blame you
The outside is a completely alien place
But that is still a far away place

Don't be too late in coming
My little Kiara
Papa and mama would very much like to meet you

You know that love

2014-03-31T02:59:00.002+02:00

You know that love

Is never fair

It chooses

It rejects

It hurts

You know too

It's because of this

Every nanosecond counts

You choose

You try to hold on

Sometimes it ends

Sometimes it lasts

A lifetime

An eternity

Each passing moment

You hope it will last

Or not

Or you move on

Or you delay and cling

For as long as fate

Would let it

Or you let go

Find new faces

Consider new lives

You move on

But you don't forget

You are bound

In love's shadow

You wait

Or you stop looking back

A cheesy love poem

2012-09-20T00:49:00.007+02:00

I have promised you some verses, which up until now I haven't done. It's not because you don't inspire me, it's more because I only write poetry when there are things I cannot say, and with you I can say and share everything. You have my heart and with it is my poetry.

↞⇼↠

Te Quiero, Carino

I don't know if you'll ever find this page
Perhaps not.
I'd prefer that. Because these verses
They don't come near to expressing
The depth of what I feel for you.
It's so cliché.
It's hard to find words unique
Which will only mean you.
I promise to write another one
Something that could rival the beauty of the sunset
But perhaps If I try that
It will take a lifetime.

Then I'll just read it to you
When we're both 90 and weak in the knees
Although being weak in the knees
That doesn't have anything to do
With being 90, it's when you're around.
Perhaps we'll get our grandson to read it
Because by then we'll be weak in the eyes
Although perhaps our grandson will think it
Age inappropriate, to still be reading each other poetry
But I'll tell him it doesn't have anything to do
With being 90, it's because you're around

However, if you do find this page
Consider it my first term installment
Of a lifetime commitment
Writing poetry for you
I hope I get to write something
That will be more beautiful than the sunset
Because only that can equal what I feel for you.

Te quiero, carino

10 Simple Ways to Say I Love You

2012-09-16T23:56:00.008+02:00

source: canva.com

In this busy, hectic world that we live in, we sometimes tend to overlook the simple things that could make the day for someone we love. Throw in recession and our minds simply stop functioning in the simple level. So, here's to give you a jolt and remind you that after everything, we still have the people we love who are standing by us and needs some teeny weeny attention to put that smile back on.

1. Hug. When you open your eyes, first thing in the morning and you wake up to this wonderful person snoring beside you, don't hesitate to give him/her a hug.

2. Kiss. After that hug it would be great to couple it with a kiss on the nose, the forehead or the cheek. Even that little nook between neck and shoulder, or that exposed shoulder quivering from the force of his/her snore.

3. Look him/her in the eye. When you wake up almost late in the morning, hurrying for work or that job interview, don't forget to take notice of this person who prepared your breakfast, sat beside you at table and sipped coffee with. Look him/her in the eye and say "I love you' with those stares.

4. Post it. Leave post it notes on the fridge, on the desk, on the computer monitor, inside his/her packed lunch, saying "I love you" or some beautiful love quote that you found on the net, or read in a book or poem.

5. Kiss on the lips. Never ever forget planting that kiss on the lips.

6. Cook it. Try baking some heart shaped cookie or bread, or cooking some heart-shaped hotcake. Cheesy, but isn't "I love you' cheesy enough, might as well go all the way.

7. E-mail it. Chatting might not be allowed at work, but an e-mail with "I love you" as subject is no longer a virus especially when it came from you.

8. Text it. One text a day is an "I love you" energy booster vitamin.

9. Sing it. You don't have to be Celine Dion, a short refrain or chorus hummed softly in your loves ears would be enough to completely plant that smile on his/her lips.

10. Kiss. Yep, never forget that good night kiss. Ever.

↞⇼↠

I cringe now when I read this, but it is part of the journey, so it stays.

Who Made the Potato and a Poet Known as Sir Walter Raleigh

2011-12-30T14:55:00.001+01:00

source: canva.com

I was working once as a directory assistance operator and got a call from someone who was having a serious debate with his friends. They were in a muddle so they decided to ask my professional advice on a very serious question: Who made the potato, The English or the French? The existence of the French Fries and the English Fish and Chips being a serious matter to consider made it harder to decide.

But this is not about the potato. This article is about a poet who brought the potato to the English courts. Sir Walter Raleigh was an English aristrocrat, explorer, poet, writer, and many more. He brought not only the potatoes to England but also the tobacco and the tales of El Dorado. Twice he was imprisoned for love, of which, the second caused him his life.

In 1591 he married one of Queen Elizabeth's ladies-in-waiting, Elizabeth Throckmorton, in secret without informing the queen. This caused both him and his wife imprisonment in the London tower. The sentence didn't last but the marriage did.

His second love was not that of a woman but for adventure which beckoned in the form of El Dorado, the famed city of gold. Sir Walter Raleigh did not find the city. Like everyone else who tried after him. But it did cause the ire of a Spanish ambassador who asked for his life as payment. As the sharp blade of the English axe whoosed to cut the breathe that fuels this man's life he cried, "Strike, man! Strike!"

A poet of the Renaissance period, his style was not elaborate nor superflous as were his contemporaries. He attacked poetry as he attacked life--honest, and direct to the point. And though he lost his life for one love, in another he gained his life. Of the life he lived we can only take a peek from the poetry he has left us with.

The Lie
By: Sir Walter Ralegh
1552–1618

Go, soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good.
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust.
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how it falters.
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness.
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention.
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay.
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity;
Tell virtue least preferreth.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing—
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing—
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.

-----
Sources:
poetryfoundation.org
Wikipedia.org

P.S. I forgot to tell you my answer to the question -- Who made the potato, the English of the French? As I sat in front of my screen, I could feel the palpable holding of my caller's breath. After a few seconds contemplating the question I folded my hands together in front my chest, prayer like, and said, "Sir, I think God made the potato."

A World Divided

2011-12-28T08:52:00.010+01:00

The world has four corners
At least that's what it says
In Tolkien's and some other's tales
And since then
The world has divided into
Many more corners
I'd say
There's the right
To some it appears as the left
Which one is correct?

Bloods spill and children cry
And for what?
To reiterate the right from the left
But which is which
There are as many rights
As there are as many lefts
Dissected into microscopic proportions
One needs to invent
A telescope and a microscope
Combined to see what is what

I am right, you are right
She is right, he is right
Nobody admits
We could all be wrong after all

How to Celebrate Christmas in the Office

2011-12-27T17:02:00.001+01:00

I guess I'm the lucky one, working in the office, that's my Christmas day gift. I'm glad I was working while the whole world was celebrating and having dinner and exchanging gifts. Otherwise I wouldn't have discovered these fun stuffs if I were out there too!

Let it snow

Let google supply you with the much needed spirit of the holidays by letting you have a white Christmas right there on your screen. It's quite easy. It's free. And there'll be nothing to clean up afterwards. Just type let it snow in your google search box and see what happens.

Learn to fear Chuck Norris

To find chuck Norris in Google Search click I'm feeling lucky and look for Chuck Norris.

Some of the things you have to know about Chuck Norris if you still love your life:

One day Chuck Norris round-house kicked a truck, the truck turned into Optimus Prime instantly
Bruce Lee is the only person that lived from a round-house kick from Chuck Norris. He died a year later.
When a mosquito bites Chuck Norris, its blood gets drained.
Chuck Norris knows the square root of -2.
Chuck Norris can eat soup with chopsticks.
Chuck Norris shaves with a belt sander.
Chuck Norris wasn't born. He's always been here.

(2019 update: The world just lost another fun page as the chuck norris facts website is no longer.

Learn the answer to life the universe and everything

It's amazing how the great philosophers and theologians and poets could have missed the answer to this. It's quite simple. According to Google search results the answer is 42.

This Christmas I learned a most valuable lesson: when life gives you lemons, google it.

How I Found the Answer to Life the Universe and Everything

2011-12-26T07:55:00.003+01:00

It wasn't easy I must admit
I've searched far and wide
For quite some time

The butterflies wouldn't talk
The flowers wouldn't talk
Silent as a tomb the stone sure didn't talk

I asked the old man with the purple beard
Sitting, contemplating for a hundred
No, maybe a thousand years
But was answered with a resounding snore

I followed the fly
It was circling round the old man's head
I thought maybe it'd have heard something
Flying, hovering
Round the old man's head

I thought it was about to speak
But a hopping frog swallowed the poor buzzing fly
Oh how cruel life sometimes could be!

The frog stopped
Swallowed and stopped
It swallowed again
And turned a purple-green-blue color

The frog suddenly started hopping
Hopping to the left, and then to the right
And then it hopped up and down, up and down
And then turned left and right

It made a weird sound as it hopped
And if the echoes are right
It went goo-gle-it, goo-gle-it, goo-gle-it
There never was a sound weirder
Than goo-gle-it, goo-gle-it, goo-gle-it

So scratching my head
I went my way
Thinking do I give up
Or do I go on

As I reached the mountain with blinking light
The trees blinked their blink
And I saw a bouncing purple-green-blue ball
It made a weird goo-gle-it, goo-gle-it, goo-gle-it sound
And I remembered the frog
That swallowed the flying fly

I was not sure if I saw a hopping ball
Or was it a bouncing frog?
Never mind, it's all the same to me

I followed the bouncing ball
Which sometimes turned into a hopping frog
I followed it hop up and down
up and down

I followed it hop left to right
right to left and up and down
Until in a clearing we came
And there I saw a giant pond
As round as the old man's head!

The bouncing ball hopped into the giant pond
Its blinking water
Turned into purple-green-blue
Blinking and blinking still
It blinked and blinked
And blinked some more

A burst of light came through the giant pond
It was blinking in silver, gold and green
The light turned and it hopped and it bounced
Until a giant form of blinking silver, gold and green was there

And there I found the answer to life the universe and everything
And there my journey ended and another began
The answer is 42 and I have to find the goo-gle-it
And let it snow
And then defrost with a click of the mouse

To Google or Not to Google Your Name

2011-12-23T17:45:00.002+01:00

Googling ones name is perhaps a habit done by people who are bored enough and feeling so uninspired to do anything else that's more brain challenging. Like I sometimes am, which is why I google my name sometimes. Or like this afternoon.

If you are a famous celebrity it's probably a good practice never to google your name as it might turn out some nasty result you might not want to read about. Or if you are a wannabe famous celebrity perhaps you do google your name several times a day just to see who has you in the news reel and what they have to say about you. If it's something unflattering then you can rant to your friends what a jerk so and so is.

Well I'm not any of those, I'm more like the first kind, bored and trying to see where my articles are actually going. On the first few pages the usual suspects turn up. Wikinut, Bukisa, Factoidz, etc (2021: RIP content mills).

From time to time, some unknown sites with a copy of my article like the one I wrote about coffee turning up in a website selling civet coffee. Or one with a garbled version of my article about learning spanish online. They probably used one of those article generator things. Probably used a very bad one because I couldn't make much sense of it. The bad news is that my name is on it. Another version of this same article is one that was translated into French. Didn't know I can speak French.

The one I like most though is the review that listed me as one of the most promising poetesses in FilipinoWriters.com (2019: website no longer exists 😥). Not that I'm already famous or anything.

Just saying.

UPDATE:

That last paragraph sounded a tad egotistical, just got carried away, forgive a poet wannabe. ;-)

I was revisiting the links though to check which ones still work and which ones no longer exist and I ended up rereading what the person who called me promising poetess said about my poetry. His name is Alexander Dagrit. (hey dude, this is a bit late but thanks!)

mary jane grueso -- a romantic and self-centered poetess. With regard to love, she weaves her own definition of it (“Loving You”), starves of it and long for its assuaging touch (“Famish”), cries for an undying one (“8 am”), and swims in the past of a lost one (“Evaporation of Thoughts”). Her egoistical tendencies are buoyed when she becomes indifferent to people and things around her (“Apathy”), when she is defeated by self-weaved fears (“Reason of Fear”), when bitterness engulfs her (“Sadness”), when she tries to isolate herself in self-condemnation (“Purgatory of Thoughts”), and when failures totally mock her (“The Taunting Rain Kept Falling”). She thinks that it is sadness that curtails life (“Life Inevitably Ends In Tears”, but she has great dreams of breaking free and flying like a lovely butterfly … a writer (“I am a butterfly”). Her poetry is free verse, eccentric, capricious, and sometimes gloomy.

Reading his summation of what my poetry was about made me pause and think. Looking back, how he described and enumerated my poems was the story of my life. I say was because all of that is now in the past.

My perspective has changed.

I realized if you want meaning and positivity in life you need to choose it and not wallow in the bad stuffs.

A Review of Joshua Mehigan's Essay - " I Thought You Were a Poet"

2011-12-20T01:53:00.041+01:00

I knew I was never going to be a poet the day I chose to be happy.

source: canva.com

Joshua Mehigan's essay - "I thought You Were a Poet" - just confirmed that. Winner of Poetry Foundation's editor's prize for feature article, he talked about the seemingly psychotic behaviors of popular poets throughout the centuries which seemed to be the main attracting element that poets had for the public that embraced them. The mysterious eccentricities that made them both repulsive and intriguing.

How many poets have you actually known by the poems that they wrote? Isn't it more like reading their biographies first or hearing about their many women or drinking habit or in the end how they killed themselves. And then you want to read their poetry to see whether the stories are true.

As if out of those verses you could watch an HD version of their lives.

Joshua Mehigan started his essay with an interpretation of Dryden's life as he imagined it. And then went on to talk about the weird and the idiosyncrasies of such poets after Enheduanna. He thought that the 18th century poets brought this on us. And the 19th century poets and thereafter drank it like an elixir to live in poetry world forever. In the room of requirements for verses, a dose of psychosis and depression is on the list.

"Fashion, which hyperbolizes everything until it’s both excessive and compulsory, must have something to do with the literary dimension of poetic madness. Still, nothing could be more obvious than the fact that some deep connection exists between “madness” and the compressed thought and emotion typical of memorable art. When I haphazardly list twenty-five poets I’ve known—most, as it happens, with books, and some with big awards—the group includes two suicides, two attempted suicides, twelve on meds, three who’ve been committed, and two treated with electroconvulsive therapy. There are fifteen addicts, mainly recovering (eleven alcoholics, assorted coke and heroin addicts, and an opium addict). Only three have no mood issues or addictions. But these aren’t simply occupational hazards. Extremity, natural and artificial, often helps poets wrest something sublime from the “dividing and indifferent blue.” For many poets, it is crucial, whether as a pitiful love obsession or a belief that one is actually Lord Byron." —Joshua Mehigan

Some violent reactions when Mr. Mehigan mentioned Lord Byron. But sometimes when you delve on poetry you start creating hallucinations about life and its meaning. Sometimes to find meaning. Sometimes to wrestle the demons inside. You start to think that perhaps you might get them out if only you could channel Lord Byron into your consciousness.

For me it was Dickinson.

Poetry is inherently personal. It's about stripping a poet's mind, dissecting his unconscious to put meaning in an otherwise haphazard existence.

As a reader, it becomes more interesting when we know something about that poet. Like reading some verse and nodding our heads as if to say, aha! Now I know everything about you. For instance, the lack of anything personal about me here probably puts off some and dismisses this blog as impersonal. I'm already stripping my soul in verses, I should like a bit of privacy after that.

The mind is a dangerous place to be and poets most often go there. Nobody writes about daffodils in the 20th century anymore. It's about humanity and oftentimes the seediness of humanity.

It's depressing.

But it makes for good poetry and makes the poet mysterious and multi-dimensional. And the modern reader would agree. Because who reads poetry these days anyway? The cynical academics and poet wannabes like me.

One day I realized, I will never be a poet.

I wanted to be, once, when I saw verses in the pain and suffering that was my life. I had to put them in verses or kill myself.

These days the best I could do is How I Found the Answer to Life the Universe and Everything. And every nonsensical thing in between. But I do write more love poems now. Mostly cheesy and only for my husband.

Poetry is a state of mind and everything inside of you.

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of getting naked in public." —Paolo Coelho

How to Become A Thiller Writer

2011-07-27T11:36:00.018+02:00

Alright, not exactly a how to but at least some points to remember that might be helpful to those who are trying to make it through to the world of published authors. This is something that I just stumbled upon a few hours ago and decided might be worth writing a recap here in case I finally do get the nerve and the motivation to write something.

This is probably something that all aspiring fiction writers can take note of, not just thriller writers but writers of all genre. Some might be applicable, some may not.

According to Janet Reid, or at least according to the notes she took from a thriller seminar she attended, the following are the characteristics that usually make a good thriller book. It's either a book focused on one of the listed characteristics or all of them.

CONCEPT: The speaker cited Jurassic Park as a good example for this. How many other books have we read which took us in right from the start because of some exciting concept? It could be about the concept of time travel, or the sudden outbreak of a deadly virus, it could be anything really. A subject that holds the imagination hostage and then woven into a story.

PLOT: This is the most common, and most often what most writers or readers would first judge a book with. The blurbs at the back of any book sold in bookstores would usually give us a summary of what the book is all about and right then and there we decide whether we like the story and would be interested to read more.

PROSE: How did the writer present the story? Prose doesn't necessarily mean flowery words, which was what I found on the first and only lines I ever read of the Twilight series. It doesn't need to be poetic, as Janet Reid put it, it could be brutal like that of Charlie Huston's Caught Stealing.

CHARACTER: When the character of a novel is what compels us to keep reading a story, then that is a success on the part of the author. If you can remember someone like Sherlock Holmes or Hannibal Lecter and they become some part of your life, then the author has succeeded.

SUSPENSE: Who could resist a story that keeps the reader glued, seemingly wanting to turn the pages as fast as he could and yet devouring every printed word. There is such a term as page-turner after all.

EMOTIONAL IMPACT: If a story can make you cry on your seat, or angry — in sympathy with the character of course, then enough said.

RELEVANCE: Have you read the Ezekiel Option by Joel Rosenberg? I would say there can be no novel more relevant to the times than that. Just as he was finishing the last chapters of his book about the brewing unrest in the Middle East — with its first pages starting with a Jihadist bombing the White House — a hi-jacked plane crashed right into the twin towers in New York.

VERISIMILITUDE: Quite a mouthful I know. It simply means a story or plot or idea that answers the question, is this likely to happen in real life?

Chocolate Coating

2011-07-26T14:40:00.003+02:00

you sat there
in a chocolate coated smile
stared at me, eyes smiling
I wasn't expecting you
I wasn't expecting anything

you shattered my walled existence

you'll probably sneer at this
stare ahead and say,
"don't give me this shit,
just love me and let's take it from there."

my heart burned
strange
it has always been cold

I let go of your chocolate coated smile

my heart burned
you thawed what was cold
but not by much

I was never a fan of chocolate coated smiles

↞⇼↠

written a thousand years ago

Carnaval Dominicano vs. Carnaval Gaditano: Una Comparación

2011-07-26T10:31:00.002+02:00

Nivel 15
18 de Julio de 2009

Aunque los carnavales llegaron a América principalmente por influencia de los colonizadores españoles y portugueses, la tradición del carnaval Dominicano nació a causa de los esfuerzos para luchar por su independencia. Después del año 1844, ya celebraron en esta colonia española fiestas con mascaras. Pero la celebración tradicional que se conocen hoy en día creció a partir de las gestas republicanos, en que celebraron la independencia desde el ejército Haití que le invadió tras la separación de forma pacífica de este país desde España en el año 1821. La expulsión del ejercito Haití tras de veintidós años de ocupación fue celebrado con disfraces y marcaras, diablos cojuelos y desfiles de comparsas en las calles, bailes de disfraces en los clubes sociales y alegría general. Esta celebración se celebró cada año mezclado con las celebraciones carnestolendas como se celebraron en otros países católicos.

Tras la connotación patriótica de esta celebración hay una mezcla muy variada de elementos y tradiciones africanos con las costumbres y ropajes europeos de sus colonizadores. Con sus elementos variados y caloríficos el carnaval es la fiesta popular de mayor tradición en la República Dominicana.

En el año 1997 las autoridades gubernamentales se proponen implementar la separación de la celebración de las fiestas patrias desde la celebración del principal carnaval. Así que, esta separación ha resultado en una celebración muy larga durante el mes de febrero.

En cambio, es decir que el carnaval gaditano empezó durante la segunda mitad del siglo XV, pero la fiesta debió ganar importancia en el siglo XVI. Gaditano refiere a la gente de Cádiz, y se celebraron esta fiesta en una manera poco diferente a los dominicanos. Pese a los intentos de supresión, en la segunda mitad del siglo XX, el ayuntamiento incluyéndola finalmente en su programa festivo como una fiesta propia de la ciudad. Durante el siglo XX cuando el país estaba en una situación de muchas represiones y disturbios, el carnaval Gaditano es una de esos prohibidos. Pero este no les impidió celebrar el carnaval de su propio modo. Los gaditanos se reunían en los colmados y tiendas, a puerta cerrada, para cantar las viejas coplas. La re estabilización de la democracia en España resultó también en la restauración del carnaval, desde el año 1977 la fiesta gaditano logró tener el esplendor como tal en sus fechas tradicionales.

Sobre todo, el carnaval de Cádiz es una celebración musical. Destacan las agrupaciones musicales, especialmente las “mojigangas” y las “comparsas”, es decir, grupos de amigos que, vestidos de forma graciosa y con letras satíricas, representan, parodian y cantan por las calles criticando el sistema establecido. En los teatros o en las calles se puede encontrar la chirigota, es decir la modalidad de agrupación mas gusta. La segunda tipo son los rincones chirigotas llamadas “ilegales”, grupos de amigos que pasan la semana de carnaval haciendo reír a la gente.

Otros tipos de agrupaciones son la comparsa, el coro y el cuarteto. La comparsa se la considera la mas musicalmente y las letras son mas poéticas de todos. El coro es lo mas gaditano, son agrupaciones de alrededor de cuarenta personas con guitarras, bandurrias y laúdes y con canciones llenas. Una de las maravillosas atracciones del carnaval es la Plaza de la Flores, el mercado central donde se puede disfrutar de los coros. Los cuartetos que pueden ser de tres, cuatro o hasta cinco personas, en cambio parodian situaciones y personajes conformando un repertorio con ritmo teatral.

Makabagong CallGirl

2011-07-13T07:17:00.003+02:00

Pag-sikat ng araw
Bangon sa upuan
Isara ang kompyuter
Magpunas ng pulbos
Sa mukhang namumutla
Para itago ang eyebags
Sa ilalim ng mata
Magkuskos ng lip gloss
Sa mga labing nanunuyo
Kulang sa hamog
Inagaw ng aircon

Pagtirik ng araw
Ilabas ang shades na madidilim
Itago ang mga matang
Sa liwanag ay silaw
Parang bampirang
Matutunaw sa araw
Parang aswang
Sa gabi naghahanapbuhay
Parang engkanto
Lulubog lilitaw
Di mahagilap tuwing may araw

Paglubog ng liwanag
Pagtirik ng buwan
Babangon, maliligo, gagayak
Magtatapang-tapangan
At lalakad sa madilim na kalye
Upang mag-abang
Ng tricycle, pedicab, jeep o taxi
Kapag sinuwerte
Makakarating ng maaga't mag-aalmusal
Kapag minalas luhaang uuwi ng bahay
Pagka't pera, celfon at bag
Ay naholdap at nalimas