This is a poem I’ve written just today. It’s titled “Crystals In The Sky”. Obviously, it’s a surreal poem that utilizes symbols and imagery that connotes the meaning, of hope and redemption.

Once,
in every while,
my eyes is shaded by a cellophane
as the wind becomes fluid, despite of that
I stare towards the sky.

The crystals,
hiding previously from the clouds,
comes out now in the open sea, open sea of blue,
while a maiden appears acting like a mother, or like a sister
she gives me messages of hope while at times, scolding me.

Oh the lady,
that maiden with her rebuke
I’d rather see the crystals in the sky,
in their soldiery formation, unflinching and unmoved —
they must have stared at me with their entire valor.

Who are they?
What are they?
Are they friends or are they foes?
They must have had beauty for they were soothing to me,
like fresh water splashing from a mountain spring.

These crystals
they shine like diamonds in the sky,
hundreds of thousands of them, where in the past I have seen millions
or merely by the hundred thousands —
As I might have been mistaken.

The crystals in the sky,
my friends who have appeared to me,
floating in the sky and flashing before my eyes,
as they come to me,
Often.

This is a poem I’ve written five or six years ago. It’s about the unity of man, as a sublime idea. Whether or not it is achievable—in a world full of discord and disharmony—is a question that waits so ardently for an answer. And I hope it to be answered in the most positive way.

The River of Mesopotamia

In the ancient valleys of Tigris,
in the days of still molt and rock;
a river sung the serenade
of the beginnings of life,
as it moved in crystalline fluidity,
to brim with sparkles and light,
and come across upon a rock reckoned in time,
it is a moment set forth as a matter of design.

And the river became two,
the great parting of waters
in the dawning of the Earth,
to thread two different roads
and two different eras,
one found in the East,
another in the West,
to spread further and further,
until the sound they hear were
merely of their own
and nothing more.

Rushing in vigor and strength
each alone in the wilderness,
among the great wars of the world,
through the ashes of kingdoms burnt,
the mischief of kings and emperors,
through scorched earth of conquests,
of kingdoms and empires
both the fortunate and the inopportune;
as they run feverishly,
one oblivious to the other,
welcoming merely the beatings
of their own hearts
and of no other,
and every other beating of the heart they hear
was of the enemy and the enemy merely.

Amidst the rage of their marathon,
seemingly unending and without destination,
and with a ferocity so great that
even rocks of great prominence
would crumble into dust—
by the sheer strength of their pursuits,
or by the wave of their hands.

As another time was set forth,
where for once they looked heavenward
the journeys they threaded
finally found a single star,
to speak the truth in their own hearts
that in their own glorious runs,
no matter how magnificent and forceful,
still the Heavens are their own navigators,
upon the comets and constellations,
so that the rivers would find a path to travel,
a road set forth from the beginning of time
while they go nearer and nearer,
they begin to hear the same beat
that is not merely of their own separate hearts,
but of two hearts moving as one
running faster and faster,
like stallions in the hills of a desert
where in the beginning of time
there is only one river
that became two,
and then becoming one again.

I’ve been too busy these days that there’s some slack in my blogging. But these sort of days may not be forever, and for certain there comes a time when normalcy would begin again.

Here it goes, I hope it would gain some form of critical triumph from my blog friends who would come and read this poem, and then criticize it. I hope they’d be so generous with their words.

BLACK

Black as the night,
Dark like the moon on this August evening,
While the sea heaves a silent sigh,
I can see black as the color of the night.

Black is the heart that yearns so mightily,
A sudden scream, like thunder and lightning,
And in the midst of the ocean by which once I claim,
Lies the blackest of all sentiments.

Black is the elixir of love
That heals the cut that you made,
And dances away the sorrow
Of a forgotten kingdom where no one lives.

So dark is the sky
That bore your wounds,
With lies and masquerades, so malevolent
Like the edges of a cliff.

Black is the color of dreams,
That once was had been laid on my shoulders, as Atlas once did–
That now, dark is the road
That once had led me to you.

After the Hardy Boys, Carlos The Jackal is the first character that I have met and become so familiar with in the book world. I am not so sure now if I met him first at Frederick Forsythe’s nuclear bomb thriller “The Fourth Protocol” or in the assassination plot “The Day Of The Jackal”. Of course, we’ve got to put exception to Snow White and Cinderella since you know, they are purely kidstuff.

Carlos The Jackal is one cunning hitman that goes with ultimately sneaky disguises that myths have gone on to tell how once he had put up a female persona and was so good at it that some men actually fell in love with him.

His person is merely fictional at most—that’s the general drift. Yet there were incessant murmurs in the international police world—most especially now that we are within the encompassing grasp of the World Wide Web—that Carlos is in fact not merely a fictional character overused and milked-out by several American thriller-meister out to make good bucks writing convincing political-thriller plots—such as Mr. Forsythe and Mr. Robert Ludlum—but is and was in fact based on a real person. Some say he was a Brazilian and had lived towards the 80’s and looked as handsome as Marlon Brando. While some others say he was actually of Italian descent. But one general acceptation about him is that he was of Caucasian built and of latin roots; thus the Spanish-sounding moniker.

His myth had become so persevering that towards this day, literature and Hollywood continue to immortalize him; like in the movie simply titled “The Jackal” and that one where Val Kilmer (The Saint) had tried so vainly to put up disguises that weren’t disguises at all (because the wigs he wore were so fake that in every pony face he had suited, even the blind could tell he was still Val Kilmer).

In the 70’s, a young Venezuelan named Ilich Ramírez Sánchez had among his belongings a copy of “The Day Of The Jackal” and when this was found by authorities, they began to designate a code-name for him, that of “The Jackal”, a title that had since became an international phenomena in the police world. Sanchez had been a known militant, long before the word “terrorist” had become so widespread. He is a mercenary. A true-blue international playboy. And he kills for money. It had reached the point where a question was raised of whether Sanchez was merely mimicking the fictional “Carlos” in Forsythe’s thrillers, or the fictional “Carlos” mimicking Ilich Ramirez Sanchez? Who’s personifying who?

BBC has an incisive story on him.

Such is the myth and legend of one known character in the fictional world. A very rare case where reality meets fiction and fiction enters the threshold of reality in the most palpable manner. There is nothing like this. One good recent example is the work “Primary Colors” where despite the repeated denial by “Mr. Anonymous” (later on to be revealed as Newsweek’s Joe Klein), the sharp and trendy presidential candidate in his book unmistakably resembles a real president of America—the one named Bill Clinton. One prime example of reality becomes fiction and fiction becomes reality.

Carlos The Jackal is one such memorable character for me. They say he was really a real person, and he was the Venezuelan Ilich Ramirez Sanchez. But I’d like to remember him as that persona written in Mr. Forsythe’s books. At least in the fictional world, he is not as insensitive and senseless, at least not in any way like the real person, who despite the nearly romantic legend, Sanchez had resolved to ultimately destructive violence and had clearly benefited financially from his “undertakings”—a bloody mercenary as an Englishman would say.

Now you might ask why I am writing about this mythical assassin from a time long gone. The person and idea of Carlos The Jackal had just suddenly came to my mind the moment I read this article about “hitman scams” going around emails with real and fearful threats used as money-baits. I hope you’d be aware of this and not be duped. Might as well read this CNN article and find out for yourself about the latest shenanigan happening in the cyberworld.

Note: This is a poem I’ve written some years ago. It’s about peace and unity among all men, of all faith and races.

In the ancient valleys of Tigris,

in the days of still molt and rock,

a river sung the serenade

of the beginnings of life,

as it moved in crystalline fluidity,

to brim with sparkles and light,

and come across upon a rock reckoned in time,

it is a moment set forth as a matter of design.

(more…)

Note: This is a retelling of one of my most memorable dreams in the past.

The cherubim ahead of me looked back and screamed towards my direction, urging me to speed up as the winged creature was fast catching up with us. I had burst into the branches of woods in the night forest and I had to cover my face with my arms in order to clear my view, otherwise the branches of the trees would harm my eyes and the feint illumination offered by the moon would not allow me to navigate properly through the dark woodlands, and especially if a winged creature that was blacker than the night was coming at us with full speed.

The night creature was an old woman with wired and mangled gray hair and eyes that was redder than blood. I kept looking into those fiery eyes every time I look behind me, checking out if the creature was already nearing or still farther away, and fear had never been so evident in me. The night creature had wings that were velvety, like they were made of black satin or a kind of a soft garment that are often used for curtains. I thought that perhaps those creatures knew how to sew and made their wings by themselves. I never knew exactly.

When I was a child, I had so many dreams where I was flying with cherubim or child angels. They never spoke to me in spoken words but somehow I could here them speak to me through their eyes, as if they had the power of mental telepathy. They just stared at me all throughout and I were just amazed at how beautiful and handsome they looked. The reason perhaps why I did not initiate conversation with them was mainly because of their foreign appearance. They had rounded faces and wavy blond hairs just like American babies that I saw in television back then. I reckoned that maybe they spoke in a different tongue. They were too young but their gazes seem to pronounce to me a much older and mature mind.

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