Untitled I

a scape is traded for

every twitch of our lungs,

for every ounce of strength

we vigorously spend.

we erase a blemish,

add fresh scars, for gaining a day

that widens our schism with the past.

each mighty leap to the sky

chips fragments from our bones;

but each thunderous fall cements

the fissures all.

deeper our skin furrows become,

when we tag them with years;

nearer to the grave we wander,

when longer we want to outlive our birth.

- Prospero Pulma Jr -

Philippine Graphic

October 23, 2006

Vol. 17, No. 20

p.43

accursed with mirrors

in unison, they snarl, sneer like

imps revolting against their faces

molded from the cheapest plaster - mud.

they could not peer at the mirror:

dreading the faintest glance from

other souls, they have ensnared

a prey to slander, to vilify with

their own filth and deflect the

comeuppance of their birth.

their fetid appetite for falsehood

unsated, they have enticed a mob,

a throng of imps sharing their

aversion for the faces staring

from mirrors polished to reflect

the thinnest streak of grime.

only the eyes are repulsed with

the bearer molded from ivory, or

carved from repugnant mud.

                                                                                                                         Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

                                                                                                                  Philippine Graphic

                                                                                                                             May 29, 2006

                                                                                                                            Vol. 16, No.51

                                                                                                                            p.43

the half-shut door

slowly, my feet revolted

against my mind, dragging

me to the half-shut door;

borne by my limbs down

the winding stairs, i was

flung into the chilly night.

lost in the boundless

darkness, my numb thoughts

vanquished my will;

the winding stairs had blocked

my mind, dimming the effervescence

behind the half-shut door.

                                                                                                                              - by Prospero Pulma, Jr.

                                                                                                                                  Philippine Graphic

                                                                                                                                  May 29, 2006

                                                                                                                                  Vol. 16, No.51

                                                                                                                                   p.43