Fields of Poetry

I don't know how to love him
What to do, how to move him
I've been changed. Yes, really changed
In these past few days when I've seen myself
I seem like someone else . . .

Thursday, November 27, 2008

My Oblivion

My Oblivion
By: Pmel Oki

Staring straight at the illustrious screen,

spending hours on the colour green;

spattered over palette of tropic scenes,

I waste the world and

To conscience I stream.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008



When the hens turn blind at sundown

and they roost high above them trees,

the orange moon gleams

on the navy blue

peering through the woven curtains;

with haste, the young girl’s heart beat would quicken

as she cover the mirrors in her room

with cloths of red,

not a shard of it showing

‘lest the sealed evil spirit come loose.

Yes, she fear the mirrors each night, all night,

dreading to meet her vengeful twin,

who’d scream in her dreams

with all her spite

gurgling of blood and mites;

the inimical side of Beauty.


Author: Pmel Oki
Author's Bio/Notes:

Eisoptrophobia is a medical term for fear of mirrors.

Friday, November 7, 2008

The Great Lord of the Bums

The Great Lord of the Bums
By: Pmel Oki

In a crowded city, stood a crowded slum.

And it sat right next to the Great Lord of the Bums.

This Lord of the Bums was a mound full of trash;

of wood and plastics, tires and bottles,

antiques and appliances all in a stash. Sometimes its smog of hands

would rise up to swat at the birds and the flies,

hunting for morsels and scraps they can find.

And often this Lord would yawn with teary eyes,

letting out a ghastly odour of caries. Unknown to the young

who’d daily pick upon his prickly and rather murky skin,

this Lord of the dirt and putrid things was once the Prince of the Hills.

And yes, yes! There was once a hill

on this flattened ground, where the great unwashed now live.

And this hill was blessed with a spring and fresh earth

where abundant of fruits all grew. And the children of old

with their grins and their laughter, on the hill, sheer joy they brew.

And there weren’t only children for there were also pilgrims

who’d visit the Lord every year.

Here on this hill, they’d gather and pray, and with rendered respect they pay.

“Why do we pray to the hills papa?” a child had asked his father.

“Well, hills help the people avoid flood,” he explained, “they help alert us of would-be-attackers.”

“And they prevent our homes from sudden invasion and intrusions by the beasts unknown.

It’s a gift bestowed to us and to our people, a gift for us to own.

Apart from this hill, on which we stood however, must be left for the Prince to keep.”

And left it the devout pilgrims did.

Ah it rekindled his old heart so, the heart of this Lord

aging slovenly. The bygone times of his immortal splendour

make him dream of pasts restored;

though he doubt they’ll ever be again.

What happened to this Lord once handsome and free?

Now bound to repulsive extremities?

Thin and sickly children labouring upon his wastes,

their hair burned yellow in the sun? Their browning skins as murky

as the Lord’s own and they peel like mud splattered on a wall.

What happened to all the fun?

Abandoned and left its deemed forgot, and forgotten it was indeed.

And those who forgot, they came back with a dream disregarding the divinity of the hill.

They dreamed of little things they saw on the screens with moving pictures from foreign lands;

they brought it with them, their knowledge scant

of its procedures, regulations, and laws. Their care of the hill,

obtuse –untidy, a reflection of infectious flaws: The utility of the things

was erring and abused; disposing them as peels of fruits after every use.

And unwittingly they pressured the Lord; he fell into a comatose, his immortality lost.

Man made things absorbed his vitality used to make green grasses grow;

the flowers and trees with nectars sweet, and pollens on the wind they flow –

like how petals on a clear spring- go. The worn out Prince by day he stooped

as the rotten things weighed him down. Foul emissions and germinal mould,

replaced his sacred crown; and he aged becoming the Lord of the Bums,

reflecting all that his people have become.

And the good old Lord sat dying upon his throne of blackened grime;

his slimy wrinkled face with warts had hardened thick with time.

Now and then the he would tremble and shake as his thinning bones grow weak,

till one day he dispersed and was no more; no more of that structure sleek,

to bear all the litter the people amassed in silence, bleak.

Save for a boy, a small little boy who found the Lord’s silver eye.

He tossed and turned it over his palms and made it his good old toy.

But the moment he slid to the bottom of the hill,

the hill caved in and buried him. The throne of trash

of the Lord of the Bums buried all the people of the slums.

And the child who held the eye of the Lord, he held it in his blue grey palms.

Note by the Author:

Aiming for Prose with a rhythmic flow. Hope it works. This story is inspired by the old Payatas Incident and a strange, strange dream of two kids living in a slum. It's a dark children's literature -- nothing Disney-like.

The Soldier and the Crane

The Soldier and the Crane

The Soldier’s Last Wish

Dragging over mounds of the flesh and blood
Blindly looking up ahead there, I trod
Ravens and crows in the sky assemble
in drones of feathers and vaunts

Shattered and sheared of the guise of laud
dripping of the spoils on the sultry mud 
My horse just as lost as his master
In battle,
Together we walked on and on

The once shining sword now rusted
Tainted with rivalry
The chaste and holy purposes
Are marred by sinful greed

The badly wounded soldier was nearing his death. As he approached a river in the middle of a forest, he fell dying upon the grass. His horse nudged the soldier with its nose, begging for him to live. Lifting up his head, the soldier saw a white crane leaning against a tree, trapped by razor teeth clamps on its'leg. Gathering what strength he had left, the soldier freed the bird with his sword. One look at the crane, he whispered and slumped to eternal sleep.

The Gift of the Crane

By the shores of a riverbank I tread with grace
And the fish swim around my wary feet
Watch the clouds kiss the mountain range as they in silence speak
And the trees nudge each other with their leaves
There I wait standing still,
I gaze, waiting till
‘Sun rise to the east and glaze the sky

Crimson tidings to the dark of day
I’ll spread my wings to call the word away
Break the omen written in the stars
Send the oath fulfilled to the one afar.

By the sword, ‘save a life unknown and see a different scene
Where the chained carry freedom on the breeze
Taste the sweet scented natant white against the florid carp
As you dream a sacred world of fantasy

Crimson tidings to the dark of day
I’ll spread my wings to call the word away
Break the omen written in the stars
Send the oath fulfilled to the one afar.

The Protector

The Protector
By Pmel Oki

Hiding in shadows I watch o’er the world
Virtual souls multifariously bold
Scatter in gold, fatally goad
They trammel the young and old

Bystanders—Argus, they dither in fear
Anticipating the paladins’ sphere
Cultivate plaque they cower and quail
Covered in innocence’s veil

Grab at the hem, take by the hair
Strip them of sum, rip them apart

Are all people wrong?

Judge by the blade, feather on a scale
Kill all the scum kill all of them

If we all succumb?

Fuse anile ghosts, take into orb
Burst in flame, all in the name of God!

When the light has gone?

Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!

Grab at the hem, take by the hair
Strip them of sum, rip them apart
Judge by the blade, feather on a scale
Kill all the scum kill all of them

Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!

Fuse anile ghosts, take into orb
Burst in flame, all in the name of God!

Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!


Note By the Author:
It's amazing how waking up in the morning, can get you inspired to write a rather mortifying-- sorry! Wrong word, I meant MORBID music. Something Beethoven is likely to come up with. Dun, dun, dun, duiuuuuuuuuun! Dun, dun, dun, duuuuuuuunnnnnnn!

Written today, this morning are 7:15 am

I wrote it because of the futile inclination towards people, who are continuously culpable despite their efforts to at least wear a mask. If you will expose yourself anyway, why bother? You're only fooling yourself. This is me. This is how I deal with bad, bad, bad, desire to punish people who are wrong. I'm starting to believe that "We are all evil capable of doing good things." I'm starting to believe that to be true. Yep... it's a scary thought. It's a scary thought indeed.

Tagalog Haiku


Ilaw sa dilim ...

Kulukuting gamu-gamo;

Sunog, na'ngitim.


Aching Hearts

Sa aking puso,

Timog ang nagniningning

Tuwing tag-lamig.


The Horizon

Magandang diwa,

Ngayo’y param sa libis

Ang nanaw— gubat.

Listen, you impeccable fool!

Listen, you Impeccable Fool!
By Pmel Oki

Listen and hear these voices,

feel the woes of the world seep in through your pores.

And stream the carnal thoughts through invisible chords

of symphonies inspired by tragedies;

sonorous, they contingently

break all recluse

spawned by fools of heinous fancy.

Listen and hear these voices,

one man’s own is minuscule to the magnitude;

suppressed, oppressed, and ployed

and toyed,

‘til revolution strikes again.

And the dunces meet their ends.

Listen, you impeccable fool!

Your plight is immaterial-- unsubstantial!

Rise and shun away contrite

or wallow in squalid infamy!

Morning in the Valleys

Morning in the Valleys
By: Pmel Oki

Smile away the morning grey

And the lull of the Tlaloc’s rain

And rise from the gentle arms

Of Somnus and his reign

Oh what sweet lords of heavens give

For one in want of love

Only to be cursed -- remain

Seedless in the cove.

-- Spear me with Intelligence and I shall fall away --

Butterfly that Flutterby

Butterfly that flutter-by
By Pmel Oki

Butterfly that flutter-by

with wings of mirroring charm

and silent singing of warmth

dancing in the light of the sun;

I long to hear

Your elysian hymn

that versatile melic, dear -

to the hearts of the aging


that happily tread

the mills,

forgotten have they of your will:

Butterfly that flutter-by

of grandiose beauty seen,

a Sandman’s gift

Of eternal bliss

that send our wish to Him.

Note by the Author:

Inspired by a Native American Papago Legend.

Terms and Meanings:

canaille: proletariat, workers

versatile: flexible

melic: verses intended to be sung

elysian: paradise

Do not slander the probity of a token

Do not slander the probity of a token
by: Pmel Oki

Do not slander the probity of a token

a pledge is not just scripted upon paper,

it burns deep, deep in the stoical skin.

Perfidious lovers, uncouth and vacillant

will gauge commitments as one to wager,

do not slander the probity of a token;

for in its vows, true love finds protection

bound by the idiom -- its unerring power,

it burns deep, deep in the stoical skin.

And those illegible to what it portends

will in the wilderness, see their souls torn asunder.

Do not slander the probity of a token

it is also an instrument that may spawn delinquents,

a likely beast that in its betrayal cower;

It burns deep, deep in the stoical skin.

Know the destruction that which lies therein

the deed that which completes man endowed with words.

Do not slander the probity of a token,

it burns deep, deep in the stoical skin.