Centipede

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao




and i startled a tiny creature,
one morning, while looking for the saucepan:
it fled away so hurriedly with his many li'l feet
making many li'l steps
that will never be heard by the human-ears
but i clearly hear - yes,
i do.

one, two...
one, two, three... and five...
ah tough steps full of conviction
and i'm panting deep.

but kitchen ain't a place for a centipede
and so i grabbed him up(very carefully),
opened the backdoor, and
freed him there -
there...
outside...
back into the weeds
and into the earth...

back,
where it must be.

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This is part of dVerse~Poet's Pub's OpenLink Night Tuesday.

Gesture

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao

partially boiled
offspring of nature,
pressed deep
over salted earth -
naked and still.

then wrapped
in plain sight
along with tasty sauce.

because,

this isn't for own
pleasure
but how it should
be presented
to the Gods.

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The Faun

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao

i.
Downhill in the woodland,
intimate with the woodbines
and - yes - there lies a faun;
there lies and alone.

ii.
Feeling the weed as it weeps
in cheer of Phoebus' touch
and list'ning to the walking
of the many li'l feet.

iii.
Breathing the scent of
mossy ancient rocks;
Tasting damp earth under-back -
careful and still.

iv.
Digging deeply the ends
of the blue firmament;
Sleuthing ev'ry strand
of Gaea's hair.

v.
Tired of making love
with Spring and Summer -
now, he's kissing the breasts
of Fall and Winter.

vi.
And, who cares if a nymph's
peeping from a far?
When he plays his pipe
a succulent tone?

vii.
Who cares if a blackbird stares,
sings elegiac verses? -
Who cares of death?
Who cares of its coming now?

viii.
A tiny creature - a ladybug -
sits on his palm:
One plain-look and
thousands of tales are told.

ix.
Who cares if a faun has settled
downhill in the woodland?
And there he lies - yes -
there lies and asleep.

Morning Companion

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao

And from this half-lighted room,
behind the glossy window,
I rest like the other birds waiting
for that stranger to feed me
in his hands.

But when I think how unknowingly
the light has entered into
my room and true-birds speak
languages of nature -
I am not one of 'em.
I am, still, more like the stranger,
waiting for the birds to come
with something good to eat
in my hands.

I am not betrayed. They're
here approaching in a half-timid manner -
one, two and three, and my hands
are full.

Then after a while,
the birds flew away.
They're gone now, too soon.

Ah, I should have prepared more
peanuts today.

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This is part of dVerse~Poet's Pub's OpenLinkNight Tuesday.

Mahogany Hour

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao




when i hear how convincingly
the mahogany speaks to me,
in behalf of my fathers
and the many of 'em, i believe,
i killed, i thought
i already mastered the flavours
of their tongues.

'til one night i breathed-in,
tasted the amber of
my furtive crime -
still ignorant.

my saliva fell silently
and created a river - the pigeons
and robins drink with
skeleton wings -

elks and hoppers came to
drink too, unaware of their
intangible existence.

and all of 'em, simultaneously,
speak to me and their language
is one i have never spoken
but i clearly understood.

it is not sacramental. it is
deeper, beyond elemental -
and i am guilty.

i open my eyes and, now, i see
the modern forest before me -
the crumpled sheets of my
ignorant deforestation.

one night i breathed-in
and my guilty pleasure's told -

i can no longer escape.

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Secret Haiku Days II

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao

A buzzing sound came

Early morning in the field -

The flowers shivered.

Secret Haiku Days I

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao

The morn awakes me

By some knocks at the window:

A Maya's peeping.

After the Rain

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao




Thou risest again,
dear Master,
re-righting thyself above.
Dark shades of un-
ending rain
passest by, departing
thy throne.
Red roses burning bright
ere the boughs
of a proud Mango tree.
Holy firmament, prithee,
loan me a li'l
bird's feet for
now i'm ready to give
my Master a dance -
rejoice!
Rejoice!

Rainy Days

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao




Stirring cup of hot
chocolate tea
bedded by saucer
one familiar eve
in September equinox.

Missing those prairie days
when only the silence
of scattered ancient rocks
disturbs your curiosity -

ah, so long since
a cricket hummed
his early psalm.

To Brother After the Storm (a Sestina)

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao




The morn awakes us by the blueing sky
and of the passing by the fabric clouds.
Are thou asleep? Dear brother please be not.
The day is bright, Phoebus is coming out.
Can't thou hear the Mayas re-righting hymns
of bliss, hither, after the darkest night.

The boughs and leaves were no in-cheer last night,
birds panicked hither and there up the sky.
The curse of death for some unwanted hymns
shattered in the air, clearing all the clouds.
Singing Titania, oh, why running out?
Dear brother, ah, let us afraid be not.

Beyond faith I begged death to take us not
and grant us chance to hear a silent night.
O, my brother why art thou a tear out?
O, why art thou a fear? Look up the sky
for soon the night will be a day of clouds.
Last night I said these words in sacred hymns.

The morn awakes us, aye, in calming hymns
of the Mayas but why I feel thee not.
Are thou asleep? Prithee, look at the clouds,
forget the fears of last rapacious night.
Can't thou see the art of the blueing sky?
Brother, dost thou hear? Ah, shed some words out.

Did I not tell thee, Pan's calling us out?
Did I not tell thee these are his Spring hymns?
And I fain would lie down before the sky
o, dear brother come hither, sleep thee not.
The day is long for thou to ask for night
and the show's rare for thou to miss the clouds.

I wonder how the seraphs swing the clouds
whilst naked and less of shame they come out.
O, brother why thine eyes look like the night?
Can't thou hear the seraphs in naughty hymns?
Prithee, tell me why thou, still, speak 'me not?
Why do I cry before this lowly sky?

The morn awakes me by the blueing sky -
dear brother's asleep, hither, wake thee not.
Aye! Rest and sing to me thy silent hymns.

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This is part of dVerse~Poet's Pub's FormForAll Thursday.

Scream

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao




Fifth floor, room fifty five
each step a path to Hell -
still and gloomy.
I can't hear. I can't hear.
Doth the baby cry?:

No.
No.
Never.

Fifth floor, room fifty five
each step a path to Hell -
still and gloomy.
I can hear. I can hear...

the mother's wail.

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This is part of dVerse~Poet's Pub's OpenLinkNight Tuesday.

Ella las Artes

by Kelvin S. Mangundayao




When I saw how carefully you applied mascara
to your eyes, smeared that white powder-cream
into your face, rubbed your lips with those
glossy, crimsoned sticks trying to perfect your art
I thought I understood why you were a woman.

Until you rolled the showers on (one lazy summer eve).
The moon can tell the poverty you hid for now your
art's gone. Gone. Those battered days are told.

You are not a woman. You are more of a slave.
A mere accessory. The plague I loved. You are my
father's wife, yes, in many a-secret night.

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This is part of dVerse~Poet's Pub's OpenLinkNight Tuesday.