My First Rhymes

Mary had a little lamb,
little lamb, little lamb,
Mary had a little lamb,
whose fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went,
Mary went, Mary went,
and everywhere that Mary went,
the lamb was sure to go.

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This is one of the nursery rhymes I liked the most which I even had as my last song syndrome. It was used to be played in our old karaoke with a child’s voice echoing around the living room. Now, the cassette tape is still kept intact inside my drawer.

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I would want to share my first ‘real’ poem I wrote in my creative writing subject. These are my first rhymes, ever.

In Her Father’s Jewel Shop

Stretched between two acacia trees
was my grandpa’s knitted duyan.

When the sun hears the cackle of the cock
he sits on it and swings,
and watches the busy wheats warming up.
And when the sun begins its siesta
the two trees nearly kiss
My grandpa’s belly reaches for them
and his spine then kisses the ground.
He was the soulmate of the sun
and this I never knew
Until his wife sat with me,

On that bench, my grandma’s old bangko.
We were wedding rings perched on the softest cushion
Her voice spoke of her life –
a diamond polished by the greatest jeweller.

Each night in her father’s jewel shop
she sits by the coffee cup whose steam
sinks before reaching her topmost book pile,
My grandpa would knock and ask for a plate.
His hand, as my grandma tells,
feels like the empty plate keeping her awake all night.

One morning in her father’s jewel shop
she sits by the coffee cup whose steam
was the only sound heard at breakfast
My grandpa knocks and returns the plate.
And in his hand is a letter
of the first voice she heard all her life.

The voice bent her father’s rigid cane.
It broke his eyeglass lens
and burned his pipe into ashes.
The sound was a spoon tapping an empty plate.
It glittered like diamonds fresh from the quarry hill.

The sun now savours its merienda
The criss-cross of the cradle
is now on my grandpa’s back.

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The poem above is actually my first draft and I like it more than the final one. The following poem however is written as my final draft, ‘coz I felt it more than the first.

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To Write a Poem

To write a poem
is a master’s call
that awakens the queen
from her dead blank dream.

She hears the music
of the maple leaves prickled with dew
drops between lips –
the velvet blue sky
and the dark humus soil.

Lips whispering words.

She goes by the king’s quarters
and swabs the blood
on his sword
with her bare sleek hands.

In her gown she rides on a white mare,
and brings the king to the darkest forest bed
covered in a silk satin sheet
blocking a patch of light.

Owls hoot and silent the night
blanket the canopy
to keep the crease of the bonfire flame.

Cold wind blows.