Poems for Women’s Month


In her rocking chair
under the soft light
of the corner lamp
she’d darn his socks
& sew his shirt,
not wanting her man
to look shabby & unkempt
in public eyes
that observe class & privilege
in sartorial elegance.
It’s more than duty
but passion’s handiwork
for the warrior of her life.
Daily, to her work
like clockwork:
dust the furniture
cook his favorite meal
look after his children…
Did she have time for herself?
That never crossed her mind.
When he left her for his querida
the world crashed down on her.
But she’s too damn busy to cry:
the kids were tinkering with sex
friends had started to look in
bills had to be paid…
somehow, on one of those dark days
it dawned on her
to maybe break the habit?
Everything, after all, isn’t everything.
& suddenly, blood rushed
to her atrophied brain like
a summer storm
& she felt deliriously alive!
O she’s ready to take off, unload!


He “shoved a cellphone
down to Melinda Abell’s throat…
who nearly died from the blocked airway.”
He had “asked her whom she had been calling”
& in an alleged whip of passion
he raged he & only he
should be her lover & sole companion.
Jealousy? Imagined trespasser?
It’s silly to consider
love is the culprit, however.
She was property, that’s all.
Marlon Gill of Missouri could get
seven months if convicted…
So lovers are strictly advised
not to mention the four-letter word
like love
should all signs of murder
percolate in the loins.


Her heart belongs to daddy-o with fabulous abs
& biceps.
So thus enamoured
she didn’t know what she had bargained for
when he hit her in the thighs
& face
because desire, he averred
makes men intensely & real:
so sayeth
the skinhead of her Romeo
whose religion prescribes
that woman should stand down
& behind
because fists are symptomatic
of loyal pleasure.


She collects boys
like Barbie dolls
because the world
is a shopping mall
& she can buy any toy
that satisfies.
Has she been forewarned
that in the market of desire
she’s also up for grabs
like any merchandise?



She’s a continent unto herself.
Living alone is her true vocation
at a time when patriarchs call the shots
& love is a two-penny flap.
Thus declaring, she names herself no-woman
to claim a gender beyond the grasp of men
who parlay seduction into domination.


She has no money; she is trapped.
She can’t asked for divorce
in a realm where mad emperors rule.
Is there a possible way out?
She can deny his advances
but that’ll be a suicide bomber’s design.
The body is her “terrain of struggle,”
But if they’re legion
they can be a continent
men would fail to traverse & exploit.


She’s a deadringer
for Audrey Hepburn
when she wears
her sunglasses
& daintily sips her tea
by moon river’s imaginary.
But they simply
cover the bruises
on her foxy eyes…
Hasn’t he told her
what’s the symptom?
She’s a punk spaced out,
rocking she’s her own man.
He draws back,
furtively glancing
at the figure behind
the synage-mirror of a wall.
His shoulder’s
wet with reckless tears…
But nah –
he’s done anyway
with primetime hell.


You must fight back,
he foolishly counsels.
Yes, she meekly nods –
but it’s all ritualistic gesture:
She, affirming the right
to protect her turf
& he, denying the truth
justice is a knock on wood.
Each to each,
trapped in the vicious rigodon
of sex & remorse
& neither one would have the guts
to pursue the story’s conclusion.
All feminist discourses
seem just a space of a talkshow
between wars of roses & knives.
The body & facial bruises
are blisters, not deep cuts –
& lovers always pick up shards
of what’s irretrievably lost.



The playboy of the eastern world
is sure as hell as his stories
are real
because floozies are basement bargain
in the sexual deal.
But if they refuse to play the game
he’ll just be a scarecrow of a name.


The playgirl of the eastern world
is sure as hell she can smoke bums:
Girls most have their share of fun
to cavort on equal footing in Pamplona’s bull run –
She, too, can play the field
like those metrosexual hunks.


They barged in like uninvited guests.
Bristling with assault rifles
as if her house
were an armed camp,
they demanded her husband.
He’s not here, she said.
But they brushed her aside
like a puny child
& proceeded to ransack
the rooms:
knocking on the ceiling,
peeking under the beds.
She’s, of course, familiar
with rednecks of the state:
something of a déjà vu
when Marcos reigned
& his warlords playacted like Rambo –
scaling the wall,
taking positions on the ground
in a war game
of their mind
where civilians freeze & grovel
because they have only empty hands.
 O How they live out
their cinema fantasy!
But she’d stand by her husband:
Yes, they had a mutual agreement –
Mr. & Ms. share the task
of holding together
the whole of the sky.


When he left for Paris
ten years ago,
she said she would wait.
It took him
terribly as long
to become legit
in France
but he never came back
to pick her up.
Now, they exist in separate worlds
as if they never were lovers
when once in youth
they couldn’t part with each other.
O distance turns one’s familiar face
into a spectral dot.
Only the embassy lawyer
can fill the blanks
of their lost virginal years.


She’s based in Paris,
the city of lights,
but whenever she comes
home from office
the half-darkness
& the chilly air
get to her:
maybe a kitten or a pup
to have underfoot
could lighten the mood?
She once said over San Mig light
dying in Paris is expensive:
it costs 6000 euros
to ship the body back to Manila.
Cremation is a better option…
But her friends wouldn’t hear
of it, chortling,
“You’ll live a century more.”
But she’d quip, “Of solitude?”
Having taken to heart Marquez’s
oppressive cycle of sadness.
Eventually Jane & Anj would bat
for a massage to ease some pain
at Cenacle.

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One Response to Poems for Women’s Month

  1. sarah says:

    wonderful poems from a formidable literary figure! keep on posting sir!

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