SOMEPLACE WHERE THE SKY IS BLUE

The heart desires to go

Someplace where the sky is blue

Where the stars shine bright at night 

And I have nothing to do.

To sit upon a rolling green

And watch birds flying around,

Hear the sounds that nature makes

As I lay my body flat on the ground.

My heart yearns a place that's quiet

Where the whisper of trees is heard

And the touch of a breeze passing softly by,

The flapping wings of an in-flight bird.

To immerse my being in nature's womb

And feel the feelings of different lives,

Learn the wisdom they hide within

That makes the bees make their hives.

~Raj Yogi

THE VOICE OF REASON

The voice of reason is soft,

Muted;

It’s drowned easily in the din

That emotions make.
The voice of reason 

Remains unheard

Until much later

When regret flowers like a lotus

In a pond of pain.
The voice of reason 

Is gentle;
It soothes more,

Admonishes little.
The voice of reason

Is easily strangled 

When madness rages

Drunk on power.
The voice of reason 

Is the tiny voice 

That is heard sometimes

In silence.

~Raj Yogi

WORDS FROM PEN

"Words from pen,
flowing smoothly
like the cold autumn breeze,
carrying emotions,
raw and deep,
with the ease of ships
sailing on waves
past lands in calm seas,
touchings and moving hearts,
of old, of young
with subtlety."

~Meishel Mei

"ANGELS COME TO BRING THEM HOME"

Upon a December’s dawning light
I heard your mournful cry indict
The mood of mirth in merry play,
The day angels took her away.

I heard your dirges made of love
Stir for a while the sky above;
The song of your lamentation
Departing with the final moon.

How long can a butterfly stay
Over the field’s bloom and decay?
Til vibrant petals wither down 
And be part of a fertile ground.

Oh we thought all good and sublime
Would defy the imposing time!
But all roads lead to the Maker’s truth
Though all that’s good seems headed south.

The toil of day shall face the west;
Souls, old and tired shall take their rest;

Mortal passing may not their doom,
When angels come to bring them home.

--Bag-iw Lumpias Gil .................
(Cordillera)

Prologue
REST IN PEACE Lola Cristina Bua-ay Bongalos, younger sister of my grandfather Bag-iw. She passed away a day after Christmas, at age 96.

This poem goes out to the bereaved, especially to my Dad. I know he didn’t only lose an aunt, he too lost his 1st grade teacher.

"A PORTRAIT ON THE WALL"

It is like my shadow that does not follow me
It stares at your face and does not blink it’s eyes
It also smiles at you but does not move its lips
It will not answer you when you speak to it.

It seems like my shadow that just stands still
It stays where I left it and does not even mind
It sees when you smile and even when you cry
But that’s all it can do to look and watch at you.

It’s what I’ll leave behind that lasts longer than me
For all people I love and their children to be
To God I pray and beg to have someone I love
To keep my own portrait remembered and revered.

It is my own portrait that I hung on the wall

It is the real me only without my soul

To people I have known forgive the wrong I did

Those who love and help me to them I give my thanks.

CREATED by:
Emilio Laxamana Aguinaldo
10 December 2019