Aviva

She sat there in the cubicle, 

with eyes closed 

trying to 

drown out the cries 

of tortured souls that still rang in her ears 

and 

the pungent odor of billows of smoke 

that screened the crimson haze of gray vision that 

numbed her senses as she tried to forget the painful reminder 

of Dachau, 

now reduced to a neurotic museum of tears. 

In her mind, where footsteps are stationary 

and the labored sound of hoarse breathing echoed 

in the silent passageways, 

the faded pictures 

breezed through her memory. 

Their voices were now

 silent and the curtains drawn to hide 

the reflections 

in the mirror 

of her eyes that belied 

the mourning of her heart.

 #

photo credit: dachauscrapbook

CocoNuts

The charbroiled
kamote is
picked up from
the glowing embers
by dirty
trembling hands
Its charred
skin akin
to the one
now holding it --
dark,
baked
by the intense heat
Blowing
cool air
into the hot
smoking fruit
of the fertile
loam soil
of Bicolandia
Making
beautiful thoughts
of the fare that
would relieve the
gnawing pangs
of an empty stomach.
Justiniano,
a diminutive
worker
harvesting Copra
in the middle
of the vast
Coconut plantation
in Albay
owned by the swaggering
descendants of the
Colonizers
of yore
His face dripping
with sweat
while his hands
continue to work with
machine-like precision,
unmindful of the singing of the
Balinsayaws
that dance from tree to tree
His thoughts
wondering why
he has to toil
under the hot sun
while his supposed
Masters
had their ice-cold
lemonades and biscuits
in the shade.
A sad reality
that more than
a hundred years after
our so-called independence
We are still
nothing
but slaves
in our own
country.