o, we dance with words, we sing with the light

o, we dance with words, we sing with the light
dauntless in the dark, unfazed by the storm,
every grassblade we touch tinkles with life.

no pebble nor sand weeps under our feet,
the wind, as our mind rages, doesn’t mourn;
o, we dance with words, we sing with the light.

before the blank gaze of a dying child
we heave hope into our undying Dream:
every grassblade we touch tinkles with life.

our words convey the rhythm of the Heart –
a pulse that guides our march to a new dawn,
o, we dance with words, we sing with the light.

like the Sun we respect no fear nor flight,
yes, blaspheming even the tyrant’s throne;
every grassblade we touch tinkles with life.

in man’s glorious quest to crush unfreedom
we offer all; even death, we call home.
o, we dance with words, we sing with the light
every grass blade we touch tinkles with life.

No, Allos, Your Words are not Dry as the Grass is

Here, here the tomb of Bulosan is,
Here, here are his words, dry as the grass is.
-	Carlos Bulosan, “Epitaph”

Because dry grass easily blazes
	to a light kiss of fire,
and its ember quickly turns to ash,

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the lullaby
of  the rivers and rice fields of Mangusmana
that cuddles  the joy of your innocence –
a memory that parries the assault of winter.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the laughter
of the hills and plains of America,
green splendor that caresses your back
when fatigue and sadness assail
the plantations of apple, peas, and asparagus.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; they are the elegy
of our anguish and rage, a peal of poem
amidst hunger and terror, a cataract
of blood flowing through our hope and dream.

No, Allos, your words are not dry
	as the grass is; for

when did the poem and heart
of  the people’s poet ever run dry? when
did the desire and hope for the birthing
of a new world ever run dry? 

i stopped and stood still

one morning, manong ang i
went to our swidden farm
to pick mushrooms.

“arm yourself with a stick,”
he commanded while demonstrating
how to whip right and left
when walking along grassy trails
to scare off snakes.

“but if by chance we encounter one
just hold your ground, and your guts
will send the snake flying in fright.”

when we reached the first bunch
of bushy bamboos, we saw a tudtud –

a worm-like snake, wiggling
its way around fallen leaves
and tiny blades of grass.

holding my breath,
i stood still at once.

when i looked at manong
he was just as small as a mushroom –

scampering amid the clouds of dust
his bare feet spewed out.

a village named dream

there is a village
in the philippines
named Dream: 	   

a home where
wild lilies bloom
        free	

 where 	no bullets
	dare defile the spider’s
    	  solitude
	and communion
    with the grass

where girls can swim
in the river     pick up snails
and come  back home
      unafraid        unscathed

come with me
let us go
to Dream.