The Night Dreams

The night dreams in his sleep
Of fireworks twinkling
Of a lovely face beaming
A smile lingers in his lips.

The breeze caresses him
Wipes the sweat off his face
Whispers music into his ears
And farther he drifts.

Letting go of his fears
Giving away his darkness
Offering his calm, his peace.
He is not someone to fear.

Those that walk around
Using his darkness for cover
Are the traitors, the ones to blame
Oh, how they taint his name.

His honor befouled
Nothing's left to do but dream
In his vigils, in his sleep
He waits for the sun to creep in again.


//Sherma Benosa
30 June 2007; 4:07pm

Mga anghel ng lansangan

Kung ang mga anghel
Ay may kanya-kanyang awit
Bakit tila iba ang aking naririnig
Na namumutawi sa mga bibig
Ng mga mumunting pipit
Na sa mga lansanga’y umangkin
Upang doo’y kanilang iparinig
Handog na mga awitin
Sa sinumang nais makinig?

‘Di ba sila’y mga anghel din
Na pinili lamang tiklopin
Ipinagkaloob sa kanilang mga pakpak
At sa lupa pinili nilang manirahan
Upang kanilang awitan
Mga may mabibigat na pasanin
Nang kahit kaunti man lamang
Maibsan pighati ng mundo
Na tila ba wala nang katapusan?

Ngunit bakit tila sa kanilang balikat
Bumagsak dalahing mabibigat
Kung kaya’t sila ang naging tagabuhat
Pighating balak sana nilang ibsan
Paghihirap na sana’y kanilang bawasan
Kung kaya’t tayong mapapalad
Mga dalahin natin ngayo’y magaan
Ngunit bakit bukas nilang mga palad, ni lingon
Di man lang natin magawang tapunan?

Dahil ba tayo’y tayo, at sila’y sila
Mga tunog nating pinakikinggan
At awitin nila’y magkaiba?
Ang musikang sana’y handog
Ninakaw pa sa kanila
Malalamyos na mga munting tinig
Namaos, ngayo’y ‘di na halos marinig
Anghel na aaliw sa atin, nangapagod na
Sino’ng magpapawi hinagpis nila?


Sherma E. Benosa
June 21, 2007
12:13am

Old Photographs I

I look at old photographs and I am reminded of days long gone, of the happy times as well as the sad times, and of the people who graced my life and with whom I shared a laugh or two, or a tear and a sigh.

I look at old photographs and a smile cross my lips, as laughing and smiling faces greet me, making me wonder where their owners might be now, and if they are doing fine; and reminisce the times we spent together. My smile turns into a grin as I notice how silly we acted or looked then, and I wonder what on earth made us do the things we did, and wear the clothes we wore.

I look at old photographs and a sigh escapes my lips, as I come across the smiling faces of loved ones who had left this world, and I pray for their soul, as I am once again reminded of mortality, of how fleeting life on earth really is.


//First posted in Mr. Rudy Rumbaoa's blog in iluko.com

Old Photographs II

I look at my old photographs and I am transported back to the past, and I become a child again — free and innocent, trusting and guileless; and the tall buildings and the wide streets I see every day become the lush trees and wide fields I used to roam with my brothers and cousins; and those fellows hurriedly walking ahead of, as well as those lagging behind me, become the friends with whom I played hide and seek and patintero; and those annoying sounds coming from factories and buses and cars become the sound of infectious laughter from kids having a good time.

I look at my old photographs and I see myself as the diligent student that I was, burning with determination to better my world and that of my loved ones, full of hopes for a brighter future, bursting with dreams of finding — and marking — my own place under the sun, and jam-packed with ideas to share to the world.

I look at my old photographs and I see myself as a young woman, having her first taste of disappointments, deceit, and betrayal, and taking them all in; learning invaluable lessons from them, and letting them make her hard enough to withstand future tribulations, but soft enough to still know about compassion.

I look at my old photographs and I can’t help but compare the present me to the picture I envisioned myself to become when I reached my present age — and I notice the disparities; but I like who I am now just the same.

I look at my old photographs and I realize I’ve gone a long way from the starting point, but still far away from the finish line. So I whisper to myself: “Long way to go, lady. Keep going.”


//First posted in Manong Rudy's blog in iluko.com...

PRECIOUS MOMENT I

(Roughly a week before Amang went)


It was merienda time, yet, instead of a food or a drink, it was Amang’s hand that I held in my left hand. He was lying supine on his bed, and I was sitting right next to him. His eyes were closed, his grasp firm, his breathing regular yet shallow. I reached out to caress his gray hair with my free hand, my eyes never leaving his face. For the nth time, I was awed at how handsome he still was, despite his advanced age of 88 and his illness that had devastated his body.

He must have felt my gaze upon him, because just then, he opened his eyes, and he looked deep into me. And for a long time, we stared at each other, neither of us willing to break the link.

That instant, my mind was wiped out of thoughts. My fear that he would soon go left me. And I felt a strength surged through me, and I wondered where that extra strength came from.

Still, the link remained unbroken. I remember now that as I gazed into his eyes, as I struggled not to break the link, even as my eyes began to hurt and tears were threatening to break free, I was asking him questions in my mind, though I don’t think I ever knew what those questions were. And I remember too that his eyes seemed to be telling me something, but exactly what they were, I never truly understood, but I was — and still am — sure they were of love — his love for us.

Soon my eyes hurt real bad, and the tears finally broke free. The instant he saw the tears, he closed his eyes and I felt sorry. Sorry that I failed him… that the strength he had lent me was still not enough to sustain me. And sorry that I broke the link.

I knew then that the moment had passed.

I wiped my tears not too discretely, hating myself for being weak just when Amang wanted me to be strong, and for failing to hold back my tears. But then I remembered that his eyes were moist, too. And instantly, my heart warmed, realizing that Amang never cried in sorrow; his tears were only for happy times.

Again, I looked at Amang’s face, his eyes still tightly shut. I moved closer to him, smoothing his gray hair. And just then, I felt him tighten his grasp on my hand.

And I realized, the link was never really broken.


Amang Roman died on 31 May 2007; 3:37am.

Sherma E. Benosa 7
June 2007; 2:37 pm