BROKEN (a Quadrille)

Dreams exploding
like detonated bombs - 
that's the sound of our prayer.
Tears cannot fall fast enough
to drown our pains - 
could they be the rain
coaxing kindness to life
or the glue patching broken 
pieces with gold.
We are wounded
and we soldier on.

For DVerse Poets’ Quadrille prompt – Sound

The photo above is a picture of my sister-in-law's sculpture, a group of exploded heads, that sits in one corner of my in-laws' garden. I have long been intrigued by its theme. After I have written this piece which was inspired by current events (in London, in Marawi City, Philippines - my home country, among others recently hit by terror), I thought that my SIL's work fit the theme.


A leaf, adrift
goes where the wind blows
floats where the river flows
where it stops
where it goes
it doesn't have a say
it no longer grows
it no longer cares
whether the sun shines
or whether it rains
it only obeys
a little leaf, adrift
ripples in the currents.


Friends, especially those of you who enjoy good and makes-you-think kind of poetry, you may wish to visit JohnCoyote’s poetry page. 🙂 Enjoy his words.



Sugar comes back to our kitchen on Holy Saturdays after a forty day absence. It feeds the yeast that leavens the dough for our favorite Easter treat, Philadelphia Sticky Buns. My husband carefully kneads the rising dough and leaves it on a covered bowl to double. Then it will be kneaded again preparatory to a second rising.

While the dough rises, my husband prepares a bed of chopped pecans, corn syrup, and brown sugar in a pan to receive the sticky bun coils. When the dough is ready, our children fight over who will help their Daddy cut and roll the dough into little buns. Each will have a turn, each one’s concentration broken either by daddy’s admonition to put the  bun right side up in the pan or by a child asking, “Is this alright, Daddy?” Soon the pan fills up with dough rolls  distinguished by the age and skill of the hands that shaped them. After awhile,   the aroma of baking bread, caramelizing sugar, and roasting pecans wafts out of the oven and fills every corner of our home.

A season to bloom
the garden yielding its fruits
heading to winter.

For Dverse Poets Haibun Monday:  From the Kitchen of Poets



I will open the day like a present

waiting under the Tree on Christmas morn

and with eager heart behold each moment

I will open the day like a present

impressed with the giver’s thought and good intent

Though routine would soon have its magic shorn

I will open the day like a present

waiting under the Tree on Christmas morn.


My day would have gone on in its ordinary course except that, some moments ago, we heard the squeal of car breaks working frantically and failing.  At the end of a long squeal, we heard a crash.   When we looked out into the road, we saw the back end of a car parked two houses away from us crumpled with its bumper guards on the ground.  A few feet away, on the lawn of the house on the opposite side of the road, the offending car sat, its back totaled, and its front pushing the street  sign at an angle.  Right now, four police cars and a fire truck block the road.  At least,  no one seemed to have been hurt.


IF ONLY (WPC: Solitude)

“We live, in fact, in a world starved for solitude, silence, and private: and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship.” ~ C.S. Lewis


Somewhere in the day, between duties and daydreams
Solitude awaits to dispense her blessings –
a book of introduction to people I would never have known,
words in a jumble wishing to become a poem
There could even be music to highlight the mood
the sweetness of cake and warmth of coffee, dark and bold.

Of course, I will help myself to all of those
if only I could find this Solitude’s repose.



WPC:  Solitude

THE LAST LEAF (A Quadrille)

I’m the last leaf in the tree
why was I chosen to be alone
where’s the joy
in mornings getting colder and darker
or in robin’s songs
getting fainter and fainter
That I’m a survivor
means nothing
when each breath
only delays the inevitable

You may call me weird but when I read about survivalists, I often ask “In the event of apocalypse, what’s the point of surviving? There is beauty in going with the majority of humanity. It’s a little selfish, but the latter spares one the pain of losing everybody and dealing with a world that is markedly different from the one that was destroyed.”

DVerse Poets’ Quadrille #21 – Breath


I want to hear Silence
winding its way in the crowd
picking up the noise 
and zipping them  in his bag.

I would like to hear him sing
in the treetops and on the ground
accompanied only by birds
carrying their rhythm 
to the clouds.

I would love Silence
to sit with  me on the bench
tell me stories I'll never hear 
while the children screamed
and the world bickered.

It's a lovely day when Silence visits 
and wraps me in his embrace
that bathes me in tranquil currents
quickening my heartbeat
to the softness of a flower's breath
or the glorious voice of God
indwelling in my soul.

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