Kith

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Two weeks ago on his eleventh birthday,
I was very giving and complaisant.
I went to SM to get some pretty
things on display: I was certain he'd
want a dirndl and a lavender mini,
with some coryphée babouches
and a sequined chemise. I guessed he'd
want many moppets. He likes reading—
so I chose a crimson Ladlad paperback
by Garcia and Remoto. I preferred
a headdress for he were a silky stocking,
who should show off, and a bunch
of flexures and scarves for his curls.
I know I'm much too thoughtful with gifts
but he is worthy of it: four months ago
on my birthday, he bought me a Barbie,
a souvenir from his holiday in Disney.
Then he kissed me with poise, showing
as if he'd been a top model or the real Barbie.

Matriarchal

a poem by Roger B Rueda

for Nenita

I had been praying to Him to let
You stay until I had carried some
Of the crosses borne by you for years
For our family you raised your own.

And when I had, it all happened
So suddenly, you left home, a home
Where you got lonely then that he
Had left and set his new home.

But by His grace, I wore then a look
Of pure contentment for your relief
And respite at length, I was witness
To how you suffered in silence.

Your leaving your makeshift home
Was laying all your crosses down
Specially the one your blood soaked
Into, your lungs were fairly weak—
Your room was whooping-filled,
You had a very nasty cough—
I knew you’d leave towards your
New home around which and your
Head and Grandfather’s are haloes.

I knew.  Even you saw a doctor about
That cough, it didn’t gradually heal up.
It is up there that you get your rest.

Now sorrow felt over your leaving me—
And Mother, your daughter—
Envelops me, I am longing
Of your adobo, dinuguan, and paksiw—
Too, your roaring with laughter
And my giving you a kiss. You’d
Hug me tightly to your heart then.

There's nothing like I knew you.

To You Who Smile So Well

 a poem by Roger B Rueda

 I see you
With half any eye
My heart of Cupid
Kept in mothballs
Springs a leak
Of another spell
I lie in my teeth
Though in my somnambulism
Love wells up
In my mouth
I have a skin
Like a rhinoceros
But only in this verse

You Are the Many Fallfish

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Smacking me
In a gleaming fissure
You are gush and spout of me,
As you would have
Thought juice,
Raw of firewood trunk,
Lilac petals dripping
You suture my words
Inside your
Sun-hat for afterward,
A silk tattering
You swathe your mouth
When you chortle, the end
Of the shooter having
Shattered the teeth
And skeleton
Of the past
You cover my mouth
With your
Mouth in the tip of the room,
Tender bauble of lattice,
Button
You are a silhouette stretch
Of brown birds in the dooryard
We are shy of one another
Since the bold patch
You are the tree
And the bashful birds
Roosting, you are the opening
Woods
I am an outbreak
Of plum petals,
Always the lilac blooming,
Lavender periwinkle
By the path you are the lad
Devoid of aside
I am the lass devoid of

Hunger

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I want to live in my old haunt—
And scathing—
With fins sketched out like post
Of brine heaved
From the bottom,
Flashing up at the flare,
Bleaching in the arid warmth.
Feelers of seaweeds,
Willowy, yielding, pungent,
Reaching out to the rhombus fishes
In the water-hide above.
A tongue like freshets—
Fluff and blast
Talking vigorously,
Smoothing out the subsoil,                                       
And lips like pink polyps.
Words descending inside and elsewhere
Like damsel fish—
Dazzling, nippy,
Dashing though passageways
Of esophagus and lips, swung
By gyrations, made off to the deep.

In the Back Garden

a poem by Roger B Rueda

He rolled out toxic there. Sometimes he made me savour the shots.
I liked to stare at ants bond
Themselves to gooey rings around the trunks
Of star apple trees.
But this verse tracks away from saying
What it desires to utter.
By the true fruit shrubbery, he had set
Serving dishes filled with snifter: a family formula
For sinking gastropods.
He taunted me to eat one,
Drooping lifelessly athwart a porcelain mould,
And when I said no, he cleaved to the plump grey cadaver
Like a dear heirloom, dulcet nugget, and
Plunged it in his maw. You just play that it’s               
An earthnut, the boring snail fell down across his tongue,
Or a bit you like: chewy candy, Glycyrrhiza glabra, a sticky maggot.
This is mock metaphor.
There was no whack. No patch and no goad.
This verse should be set inside the lavatory
Or the poorly lit
Lounge, at the rear windows with drawn gloominess.
This verse is about the darkest enchantment,
Castle in the sky. It knows how tongues can forward roll
Laboured spins. It knows how
Con tastes. He ingested
Hard and put his extremities in my locks: It’s like that with anything
You lay in your maw. I smelled
The toxic on his gasp. I sensed the iciness of the overlay floor
On my naked knees and heard the soar—
There is no creepy-crawly in this view, but the post of a jeer.

On The Coast

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I being awake at night, the air was so still that not even
The leaves on the trees were moving as I was sitting
Perfectly still on the wooden bench along a coastal
Highway as if someone had been taking my photograph.
My legs were overtaken by a sudden wave of tiredness.
Most houses were lying dark and quiet. The boys’ breaths
Were smelled of rum. Mine as I blew in my hands on my
Mouth was of semen. The rum bottles were taken already
By the children sleeping rough, for recycling. I looked
For the old queens, my companions, but they had disappeared
Into the dark, their shimmering colourful sequined dresses
Were fairly unattractive but the Roxases I’d got on me. I'd got
A lot of mournfully poetic images and I was edgy to leave.
I managed to flag down a passing tricycle. I rode to the city on it.
I closed my eyes and went to sleep. It was still dark by the time
I arrived home. The old queens, in full ceremonial dress, were
Snoring so loudly in bed, wearing a lot of make-up. I wrote down
My ideas on a piece of paper and happily slept the night.

On A Jeepney

a poem by Roger B Rueda

A man about all of forty and I were facing each other.
His feet were spotlessly clean. His nails were
Cut neatly. His brownish leg hairs looked
Soft and breathtakingly beautiful.
His pair of denim shorts has a good wash,
I thought, and it was ironed properly, its colour
Fading and having no holes or lumps.
His thin polo shirt was a bit old judging
By the look of it.
It wasn't the usual brand of shirt
I used to see when I
Commuted from my house to my workplace.
It was practically transparent.
His shirt was open to the waist revealing
A very hairy chest.
He folded his arms across his chest.
His arms had fair skin but had a lot
Of brownish hair, looking
Healthy enough, he must have put
Sunscreen on his skin to prevent
It from being burnt by the sun.
I admired his rippling muscles.
He had a silver chain around his neck.
He shaved off his beard but kept
His brownish moustache.
He cast a quick look in me.
I gave him a shy smile.
He smiled at me, too, with his eyes.
His incisors were perfectly glistening.
I found his bowed lips,
Which were naturally curving up at the end,
Very attractive. Sa lugar lang, he had such
A manly voice.  The jeepney pulled over,
And he got out and walked the rest of the way.
There was a roar and a cloud of smoke
As the jeepney pulled away.
I felt forlorn. I felt I'd broken my heart.
I needed to mend it with a potion
That is forced up into the air through
A small hole of his penis.
I stressed over it. I couldn’t admit defeat.
In my ideal world he is the man of my dreams.
But I just endured it. I martyred my different love.

Death

a poem by Roger B Rueda

for Nenita P Biñas, my late grandmother

An image flashed through my dream:
A chair on which leaves and flowers were carved
And with coat of varnish, deserted in a grassy field,

Was left in the rain, its legs almost rotting.
Who created the sculptures? Whose chair is this?
I asked myself.

At midnight,
Death, a seed as though, was blown by the wind
To my heart , it clogged my drain then.

All my instincts told me to wake up, my body like
Dark earth, a plot, and I thumped myself in the chest:
Death sprouted faith, growing up—and flowering.


I closed my window then. My Sculptor,
A dove, perhaps, of a ray of  light, was by me.

Then, there I saw I am a chair, too—

I realised then darkness, both within and outside me,
Contrived to hide my soul.

To My Fabulist Facebook Friend

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Your hands have a gift from a powerful evil:
They hunt-and-peck something very bad and
harmful in your mind, on Facebook. I knew
you then to be soft touch. It was all boo-boo:
I know you now, bitch. You are like Ricky,
my other side and the matriarch of repugnance
and the infernal clothes room. So, bide with her
and work fingers to bone there.
"Let's see each other when you have time,"
said you, bitch. I personally replied, "Can I meet you?"
You gazed at your Facebook in mute hissy fit.
Don't keep the truth hidden from me.
I know your green thumb: there is none.
You lie to yourself every day. And I know you
will until you die with it, your cockamamie idea
about turning dumdum ones into dumdum ones
by you, a dumdum scholastic.
Unfold what you have and let it be barely
visible in how your new kids on block
write and speak their English, shyster.
I know your beau ideals: Professors X, Y, Z.
I think it is your classical fire in belly.
My only bum steer: be verecund always and
show the ropes behind their backs.

To Ricky, My Other Side

a poem by Roger B Rueda

My wounds have almost got well
After years of being despoiled:
Your cohorts, now your other sides,
And you, you know, have minced
My heart and my brain. It is you
Who have made me burn and
Almost breathe my last.

Your glowering at me has made
My wounds weep again. Now,
I am dead duck. Does that make
You fly high? Oh my goodness,
What awful brains. Perhaps yours
Is of the crab or the frog.

Don’t bend their ears, they already
Know you are archangelic, you are
Lily white. But I know, God knows
Too, that inside your chest of drawers
Are your dainty heart and your
Infernal soul. So, when you drop
Off, are you ready to fly in face of
Maker or me word for word?

What pageantry are you drawing up?
Is it not really to be here, but in great
Unknown? Well, it is your spark—
The spark that has cut me to the quick.

My only prayer for you is that you
May pick up your stars soon. Your stars
Have slurs but are glazed with my gore.
Be careful: your stars have fine ground
Spires and they might do me in next time.
Or is it you, and not your stars, who could
Do me in? I know you now, Ricky: You are
Like my frothy sip at Coffeebreak.

Paolo

a short story for children by Roger B Rueda

Jonadel Aguirre was trying to finish her schoolwork. But observably, her seat partner, Paolo Baito, wouldn't let her. He was too busy talking.

"Paolo, be quiet so I can finish my work," Jonadel spurred him.

"You mean you haven't finished it yet? That was simple! Look, see I'm already done." Paolo jostled his completed paper beneath her nose.

Jonadel crumpled her nose. His writing was horrifically messy and he had somehow managed to blotch pencil.

"I don't care," she said prudishly, giving his paper back to him. "Your handwriting looks unattractive." Although Jonadel was only halfway through with her paper, at least hers was tidy and organised, every letter and number written accurately.

Jonadel went back to doing her maths work, and trying to pay no heed to Paolo. He was always trying to get her to talk to him when they weren't supposed to be talking and she just wanted to be left alone. Paolo was just so aggravating! She had wanted to sit with her best friend, May Mart, but of course her teacher Mrs Boglosa had put her with Paolo.

It had seemed Paolo had soon got bored with just watching Jonadel do her work. "Aren't you finished now?"

"No! Go away."

He did for a little while before having to bother Jonadel again. This time instead of trying to talk to her he just began messing with the paper on her desk. Jonadel ignored him. This time he to mess with her clothes, but she still trudged on writing each number completely.

Nothing was getting her attention! Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Paolo was ready to go further than was necessary to get Jonadel to talk to him. So, he resorted to his last measure. He jerked on her black hair.

When Jonadel felt the tug on her hair she was suddenly mad. 'He did not just touch my hair,' she thought. Her big sister Wella had done her hair this morning because Jonadel had been begging for weeks. One piece of her hair was braided and then it was all pulled back into a ponytail tied with a ribbon. Her hairstyle was the same with Jerlyn's today, and no one was messing it up, specially not Paolo Baito, of all people.

"Don't do that another time!" she said frantically, and Paolo felt himself get excited. If this was what got her attention he was going to do it again for sure.

Surprisingly, Jonadel whirled about and slapped him. Smack! That was not part of the plan. Paolo put his hand to his cheek and felt the burning skin there. Their teacher, Mrs Boglosa, rushed over to their chairs.

"Jonadel Aguirre! Why did you do that?" Mrs Boglosa demanded. She couldn't understand this, usually Jonadel was the perfect student. That's why she had put her with Paolo, to even things out.

"He messed up my hair and I told him not to!"Jonadel's eyes were filled with tears now. She didn't want to get going under.

"Well, you still have to go to the principal's office and look for Mr Botavara. And Paolo, well, you need to go to Ms Biboso and get some ice. You need to learn to leave Jonadel alone. Do you understand?" Paolo nodded seriously.

Jonadel paced to the principal's office thinking that smacking Paolo had certainly been worth it.

Santi and His Dear Tilapia

a short story for children by Roger B Rueda

 

"Santi, go and put your new tilapia in your room," a caring mother ordered.

Santi, just a regular child from down the street, ran up to his room, carrying a plastic bag in his hand. The bag contained a fine-looking, whitish male tilapia from a close by fisheries college. The fish seemed distressed by all the sudden movement.

"OK, mum!" Santi cast off his new darling into the fish container.

"I'm going to call you Tiwi," Santi beamed and stared at his new favourite.

Although, Tiwi wasn't going anywhere; he was in the same place, staring back at his new owner with his small, yellowish eyes. Santi was getting appallingly uninterested with Tiwi.

"Come on Tiwi, do something! Do a trick, swim about!" The irritated boy cried out, running his fingers through his black hair in an aggravated way.

You see, Santi was very intolerant. He was all of six. He has dark hair, brown eyes and some freckles speckled on his face. He was a thin, little boy. After a few minutes of an insipid moment of staring at his fish, Tiwi, Santi sighed and left Tiwi alone in his container. Santi went outside to play with a couple of friends on the block from his school. After a few hours of playing football, Santi came back home.

"Hello Santi," his mother greeted him by the front entrance.

"Hey mum!" Santi greeted back, then running up his timber stairs to go and see his pet, Tiwi.

But still, Tiwi did nothing special for the annoyed, young boy. He still just swam there, as deadly as he could. Santi became goaded with Tiwi.

"Come on Tiwi, do something cool!" Santi shouted at his fish, but still Tiwi did nothing.

Santi growled and opened his fish tank. Santi grunted as he put his dirty finger in the tank, trying to touch the whitish-coloured tilapia. Santi lightly tapped the fish, forcing Tiwi to do something cool, but failed. Tiwi still did nothing. Santi put more force in his finger and tapped his fish a bit harder.

"Come on, Tiwi!"

Still, nothing. At last, the anger that was building within Santi, made Santi put a ton more force on the poor fish, hitting the tilapia quite hard with his finger. Tiwi the tilapia instantly died from the brutal force. Tiwi's unmoving body floated up to the surface of the container. Santi couldn't believe what he had done. This isn't the first time this happened.

This has happened far too many times. Now, as Santi flushed the tilapia down his toilet, Santi was thinking to himself, watching the tilapia go down the cylinder in sadness.

"I should be more unwearied."

To My Other Side

a poem by Roger B Rueda

for A, who disdains Koreans in holes and corners
but has no wings even those of a butterfly
to get free

You appear to be a covert assassin:
time and again you saber me to polish
me off, wearing a masquerade
of a JabbaWockeez.

I won’t be heartrending if I am slain
so long as I know who my slayer is,
my stiff aware whose entozoons
nipping it in stages.

Don’t put your enchanting
respects into words, within which is your vanity,
laying claim how thick as thieves
we are and our favouritism cuts ice.

I’ve caught you on already, curse whisperer
visibly outstretching the lot you loathe.

Slay me personally, don'tt eat the dust.

Grasping Reads

an essay by Roger B Rueda

Most people even have complicatedness reading reads that aren’t very difficult. This is possibly because of the lack of practice and fluency. Training our wits to grasp what we read in the fastest means possible is a dexterity we need to have.

Here is how to get better at reading comprehension. Resort to the following three-step progression: The first is previewing. You preview the book by looking through the table of contents to see how the concepts are well thought-out. Too, look for any study aids, such as an answer key at the end of the chapters, glossary, questions…. Preview the chapter by spending ten minutes scanning the subsequence: headings, diagrams, charts, terms in bold, questions at the end, summary, and otherwise. Consider what you already know concerning the topics in the chapter. A preview can help construct your curiosity and centre of attention in the text, much as a movie preview builds concern in a movie

The second is through dynamic reading. How should you read? Certainly, bring to mind the paragraph or the section (three or four paragraphs under a heading) as your unit of meaning. Do not look back over when you are bemused about a word or sentence—read on. The next sentence will often elucidate the meaning. If you are still confused at the end of a section or paragraph, stop at that point to check through or to look up important, unfamiliar words. For a knowledge or procedural book, think of the charts and diagrams as the mind of the text, with sentences basically explaining what is offered visually

In passing, how should you mark books with many headings? Well, turn the heading into a question and read that section to find the answer. Stop at the end of the section and ask yourself what’s most important that you didn’t know earlier. Write a note in the margin, underline the important ideas, or do together. Do not mark as you go or you will end up marking too much. Hold off marking until you finish reading a paragraph or section. Most students find that a mishmash of highlighting and notes in the margin works best. Caution: when you do underline, mark words and phrases rather than whole sentences. Number parts or items (for example, 3 parts of a definition, 4 causes of something, 3 requirements, etc.). Take a look at how other people mark their texts.

After that, how should you mark books that have few or no headings? Find out your professor’s intention in assigning the book (look at the course outline or ask). For instance, the three paperbacks in a history class may have been assigned so that you can learn how historians work and think, not with the intention that you memorize dates. Decide whether you should read the book quickly or more slowly. Ask the professor or simply note how many class meetings are devoted to the book. Stop at the end of each paragraph and ask yourself the most important point. This will help you concentrate because you have something to do besides moving your eyes across the page. In most cases, we do not underline this kind of book, preferring to write notes in the margin or brief notes in a notebook. If you use a notebook, do not stop to write at the end of each paragraph; hold off until you have read a few pages. If you will be writing a paper about the book, include pages references in your notebook entries.

Thirdly, you weigh up: Spend ten minutes scanning back over the headings and your own markings when you come to the end of a chapter or reading session.

Start in on self-testing if time allows. (Turn a heading into a question and try to answer it; then look to see if you are right.) Compare your marked text with your lecture notes. Consider forming a study group to discuss the material with others and to study for exams.

Here is a comparison for the reading progression: So let’s take a jaunt. You foretaste: Look at a map before you go. You need to take a look at the whole territory so you will understand how one part relates to the others. You also need a sense of what you should look for on your trip. For dynamic reading, take pictures as you go. These “pictures” (your highlighting or notes) will not show the entire jaunt but will act as “memory pegs” to help you call to mind your jaunt. You review by examine your “pictures” and recall your trip.

Preview your book by first reading a cut down version (a review book or outline book, a high school text, an encyclopaedia entry, etc.) when you are reading thorny books. For example, if you find that you’re having trouble reading  Gémino H Abad or Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo or Jaime An Lim or Danton Remoto or Edith Tiempo or Leoncio Deriada or Rosario Cruz Lucero, stop and read a succinct summary of his/her ideas and then return to the original text. This can help terrifically. If a text is awfully difficult, read it twice rather than doing a single deliberate reading. (If you read too slowly, you may begin to lose sight of the main concepts.) Undertake to read aloud. Get help. Confer with your professor or tutor or fellow student. For a lasting way out, work on building your vocabulary. Take a vocabulary course, buy a vocabulary book, write vocabulary cards, or read a more challenging magazines, such as The New Yorker or Philippine Panorama or The Sunday Times or Home Life. Or read Jose “Butch” Dalisay, my favourite writer in the Philippine Star.

Coaching Students in Writing

an essay by Roger B Rueda

In writing exercises, that students need to be individually involved in order to make the learning experience of long-lasting value is the most important thing. Encouraging student involvement in doing the exercises, while refining and expanding writing skills at one fell swoop, requires a certain hardnosed approach. Intelligibility on what skills a student is trying to build up must be had by the teacher. Next off, the teacher needs to decide on which line of attack (or type of exercise) can smooth the progress of learning of his/her goal. Once the goals and means of implementation are defined, the teacher can then go on to focus on, to guarantee student input, what theme can be employed. The teacher, by sensibly combing these goal, can expect both eagerness and effective learning.

Choosing the target area depends on many factors: what level the students are, what the average age of the students is, why the students are learning English, any specific future intentions for the writing (i.e school tests or job application letters etc.). Other significant questions to ask oneself are: What should the students be able to produce at the end of this exercise? (a well written letter, basic communication of ideas, etc.) What is the focus of the exercise? (structure, tense usage, creative writing). Once these factors are clear in the mind of the teacher, the teacher can begin to focus on how to engage the students in the activity thus promoting a constructive, continuing learning experience.

The teacher can focus on the means to realise this type of learning, having decided on the target area. The teacher, as in correction, must pick the most suitable way for the one writing area. It, if in formal business letter English is required, is of little use to take up a free expression type of exercise. Similarly,when working on descriptive language writing skills, a formal letter is by the same token out of place.

With both the target area and means of production, comprehensible in the teachers mind, the teacher can begin to reflect on how to involve the students by considering what type of activities are attention-grabbing to the students— 'Are they preparing for something detailed such as a holiday or examination?,' 'Will they need any of the skills sensibly?,' 'What has been effective in the past?.' A good way to approach this is brainstorming sessions. The teacher, by choosing a topic that involves the students, is providing a perspective within which effective learning on the target area can be taken on.

Finally, the question of which type of correction will aid a useful writing exercise is of greatest consequence. Here the teacher needs to once again think about the overall target area of the exercise. If there is an immediate task at hand, such as taking a test, I don't know, teacher guided correction is the most effective way out.

Threshold

a poem by Roger B Rueda

as if we suffered periods of amnesia, this is, conceivably, our fate:

once we ex-angels or –cherubs take a holiday on verdous world,
we lose the memory of our transmundane home, we lose our wings.
only faith petering out in our hearts is left answering or leaving
out the conundrums of life: fields of lush grass subtly become
carpets of golden grains as the spheroid of light slips down into the ocean
or mountain or horizon and half the world is plunged into the night.

take flopping petals and misleading propitious buds, our minds
are stalled by our leaflike lives—          

falling home. according to the theory basal- information-
before-leaving-earth though, by receiving the holy grail, we would
be able to return to our flock, and, passing it over,
it would take us to a place we'd grope and take flight in vain
from piercing darkness—and, i.e., sans relief, sanguinity, and end.

we have to hold fast to it first before making any grievance, thus.

A Gridlock Scene

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Trapped in a gridlock,
I fixed my eyes
on the distant billboard
of collapsing space
on the upper façade
of the outlet mall,
having seen an advertisement
of visual distortion and now
a switch-and-bait
as the cab went to the front a bit.

At the mall,
the Nativity in splendid, indigenous arrays
left everyone breathless.
Neon lights aglow with excitement
and glittering polystyrene angels
were hanging down on the glass windows.
Shoppers were rushing,
carrying their buys.

In the blink of an eye,
my mind collapsed,
the Nativity, whirling,
and flashing angels
through my mind swung
to the museum's garden
in which an Ati family (father, mother,
and child) were begging—
Little children with curly spiralled hair
were knocking on the cab's window
Are they museum's essential,
extant exhibits or did they stray
too far from Dinagyang?

When you left

a poem by Roger B Rueda

for Rio Q Losaria

Then I sat on the rock and
Splashed riverwater on my feet.
You sang me farewell
Like the riverwater that sings
While it runs away to the sea.

I don't visit the river anymore,
It reminds me of you.

First saw print in Home Life, (February 1998).

Paper Hut

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I am stupefied
By the burgeoning buildings,
Humongous and pleasant to look at.
I can really perceive
The strange appearance of the time—
Staying away from its
Origin,
Wanting to reach the lofty goal.
And it is.
Slowly over a period of time it has been achieving it.
And here am I
Admiring time.
Not surrendering
Following the given
Lavishness and behaviour.
Because this is success.
I can see it in the movies
In the theatres, the computer cafes—
And read it
From scattered trash papers.
I almost believe
I've reached a long way.
That I am a person in the new time.
In the new world.
But it seems it is like a dream—
A dream sticking tightly
For me not to return to my self
Under the canopy of my hut paper
Reserved by destiny as well.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

an essay by Roger B Rueda

I have learned that in highly developed countries, plastic bag use is getting unpopular. For one thing, consumers bring their own containers when they shop. They have their bags or reused plastic bags. Their governments back plastic bags yet these are not for free but for sale. That way, shoppers think to put aside their bucks just for a plastic bag.

Fast-food restaurants abroad have tried to make use of real utensils made of aluminium and porcelain. This way, the problem of disposing of rubbish is being reduced.

Consequently, this must be what the Filipino should do, too.

Unbroken glass containers can be colour sorted for recycling. Beverage bottles like of cola can be sold to a nearby shop. Plastic ones can be used as plant pots. I tried it for bonsais, bougainvilleas, and some hibiscuses. Brandy bottles can be used to refrigerate drinking water.

Clean dry newspapers and newspaper inserts. Bundle newspapers securely in large sacks or tie with twine. Keep dry. Or else, it will decompose. This can be used for starting a charcoal to smoulder—or to wrap anything. Used newspapers can be used to clean glass windows and tables. Local shops in local markets buy these by the kilo to wrap fragile products or ice cream.

Empty metal cans, caps, lids, bands, and foil can be recycled repeatedly. These days, there are roving buyers who buy junks.

Don’t throw grocery bags. Use again bags until they are torn. Use old bags to pick up dog or cat waste, or when going to buy some vegetables, fruit, fish, and meat from a wet market.

Computers, eyeglasses, household goods, clothes, toys, and books can be donated to charity. Give them to a repair shop. These may be behind the times, yet to others these can still be useful.

Recycle our resources. Recycle our future. Anyhow, recycling is not too much work,we do not have to clean cans, jars, and bottles or take away labels before we recycle them—we just empty out the gluts. Recycling is as simple as trashing, but so much more responsible.

Carabaohood

a poem by Roger B Rueda

They dawdle like a soft black bench someone
has cast off in the rice field. Their tone
of voice has ancient lilts and synchronisation
we have to twist to grab.

They would not kiss you for a dialogue
about the character, the oblique, echinated psyche.
Their longing grief is expressed by standing at a standstill.

Under their own steam is their skill. For them it is
an earthly travail which, for the moment, they stoop
to continue spinning.

They traipse along outer reaches of the countryside
continually, from moorings to ponds,
and peacock on cards  wreathed in flowers
considerately.

Their countenances gawk into the vague
shadows. They jiggle their heads like slothful
mechanism, mutely in favour with themselves.

Incompetence

an essay by Roger B Rueda

The news of the accident last 23 August shocked the families of Hong Kong tourists deeply. This was the deadliest attack on visitors in Philippine history.

The video footages of Hong Kong nationals held hostage taken by ABS-CBN and GMA shocked us into empathising with the victims. It was perhaps because, based on my scrutiny, the Arroyo government was able to negotiate with terrorists, who are always intimidating us by their threats, but , oh well, almost all negotiations were successful, evidently.

But why was the hostage stand-off on a commandeered Philippines bus ended in bloodshed and that it lasted for twelve hours? Where was the President when the thing turned out? Doesn’t the leader of the government have a duty to make certain that a particular problem is solved? Perhaps, if we are going to think about or discuss a problem in an intellectual way, without involving our emotions or feelings. But could we stand all that pointless intellectualising about the preference of his secretaries and advisers that the president should ignore the wishes of the majority to intervene personally to stop the problem as soon as possible? For myself, I think their bungling assessment of the situation was a sign of their lack of common sense. It was a crazy advice. See, the negotiators had demonstrated almost unbelievable incompetence in their handling of the problem, and this could be traced back to who took on them. What brains does he have in taking people into service? See, the Philippine National Police's assault team which tried to rescue the tourists from Hong Kong was inadequately trained, armed, and led.

Well, for me, no amount of damage control after that drama can disengage the smash up done or even just to soothe the aggravation felt by the Chinese bureaucrat and the rest of the Chinese society. Mr Aquino’s image has been ruined and he is now seen as an ineffectual chief by the rest of the world, not because of himself, but his own advisers and the media realm held and run by his connections.

Mr Aquino’s failure to do anything which might provide a solution to that problem at some point in and noticeable inattentiveness after the heartbreaking occurrence were a total image management disaster here and out of the country.

I think most Filipino voters have bad taste!

It was so scarey an occurrence, nine Hong Kong tourists were dead along with the discontented ex-policeman who seized their bus in a bid to get his post back. We'd have given it some serious consideration if we were Mr Aquino!

Most of us, understandably, are clear, that any negotiator has no control over strategies and options, he or she is involved in buying time for the hostage taker to consider other options—but had they been experienced and all set to that problem, such butchery of eight lives of Hong Kong tourists (and of Mendoza) could have been avoided. It was the mistreatment of the situation that caused that to happen.

I wonder how the negotiators actually communicated with the hostage taker. Was a dispassionate perspective kept? On TV, I observed that the police actions were negative.

There could have been other choices for the hostage taker. He could have negotiated with the police for a flee route, and could have laid down his arms—an M-16 assault rifle, small firearms, and grenades—to the police. But the saddest thing he did was he chose martyrdom, he killed the hostages. Was safety of the lives of the hostages prioritised?  Well, we can surmise or wait for the Hong Kong police investigation result.

The drama began just about 10 A.M. that day of 23 August when Mendoza, wearing a military uniform and carrying a gun with a long barrel, flagged down the tourist bus and asked for a ride. He seized the bus carrying no less than twenty Hong Kong people and no less than three Filipino workers in the historic neighbourhood of Manila. He agreed to free nine people all through negotiations. That meant that Mendoza was at that time sane. So I wonder why such conflict we were seeing on TV went downhill when if truth be told Mendoza was not belligerent just then. They could have conciliated him rather.

But instead, policemen wearing flak jackets, clothing worn by the police to protect them from bullets and weapons, some clutching assault rifles, undertook to storm the bus. After about an hour of unsuccessful attempts, in which random barrage of bullets would be heard and bullet holes were sprayed in the side windows of the bus, the sniper fire claimed Mendoza’s life. I am afraid that there might be victims who were taken life by friendly fire. And how about if there had been victims who just acted as if they were lifeless to mislead the hostage taker?

By the way, does the government have a move to revitalise the culture of despondency and hopelessness that moved in a threatening way towards the late Rolando Mendoza after by all accounts being unjustly discharged from the police? I think this culture is Mr Aquino’s, too: he just wants to discharge people without due process. You remember, Mr Aquino wanted those appointees of former president Arroyo to leave their job. One very distinguished is the appointment of the present chief justice of the Supreme Court. And in regard to playing the blame game over corruption and other Philippines problems, Mr Aquino is the person who I admire and whose behaviour I try to copy in blaming other people especially Mrs Arroyo.

Some Vocables To Vocalise Your Viewpoints

an essay by Roger B Rueda

Today, I've put down for some of my preferred expressions to parlay or step your vocables up.

"Like billy-o" means "a lot or very quickly, strongly, etc." "The staff worked like billy-o to get the paper finished."

"Vice-like" (adjective) means "very tight." "He holds his tennis racket in a vice-like grip."

"Go like a bomb" means "to move very quickly." "His new car goes like a bomb."

"Drink like a fish" means "to drink too much alcohol." "Zenbie drank like a fish last night."

"Be like chalk and chees"—well, if two people are like chalk and cheese, they are completely different from each other. "My brother and I are like chalk and cheese."

"Drop like flies" has two meanings. One is if people are dropping like flies they are dying or falling down in large numbers. "The typhoon was overwhelming and people were dropping like flies." And, two, it means "to stop doing an activity in large numbers." "There used to be over twenty of us in our aerobics class but they're dropping like flies."

"I'd like to see..." is said to mean that you do not believe someone can do something. "He said women have an easier life than men, did he?—I'd like to see him bring up children and go to work at the same time."

"What are you like?" (also "What is she/he like?") is used when someone has said or done something silly. "Of course Patrice's only worry was whether her lipstick had smudged. ~Patrice! What is she like?"

"Sink like a stone means to fail completely. His latest novel sank like a stone."

"Spread like wildfire" is used if disease or news spreads like wildfire, it quickly affects or becomes known by more and more people. "Once one child in the school has chickenpox, it spreads like wildfire."

"Be a victory for common sense" means "to be a very reasonable result in a particular situation." "There is no doubt that the court's decision is a victory for common sense."

"Laugh like a drain" means "to laugh a lot, very loudly." "Bex laughed like a drain for the first time."

"Write something off" means "to damage a vehicle so badly that it cannot be repaired." "Walt's car was completely written off in the accident."

"Hostage to fortune" means "an action or statement that is risky because it could cause you trouble later." "The President is not cautious, saying a lot inflammatory and giving hostages to fortune."

"Scream/shout blue murder" means "to show your anger about something, especially by shouting or complaining very loudly." "Iver will scream blue murder if he doesn't get his way."

Happy Sunday!

Cloudburst

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Every day
As the warmth
Goes up,
I flourish—
Prosperous and sweet-smelling—
Cavernous casts,
Pulsating

Next to the arid terrain.
My being rises and
Falls
Like icing
On a quiche
I once made for him
Who disdained
Sugared fare.

Reminiscences
Swirl
As I plunk
By myself
Alongside the heavens
Casting a shadow,
Waiting for
The downpour.

Two-sided

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Can you and I be grazing for all time?
What I mean is that even times when we're
Ensconced in the sofa and reading
Separate paperbacks, utterly engaged.
Can we stay put yet with no interval
By some means, like our legs slowly stroking
Up against one another's
And our toes can play footie?
And when we meet and hee-haw one day
In chairs at the beach,
Wearing shades,
Earless to the sea swishing,
Our hands might start burrowing
Through the sand and channel together,
One final give and we'll burst through.
We could be caroming, after that.
Place your hand quiescently there.

No thinking makes me at an advantage
Than extremities covered in dust,
Clasping in the breezy moist.

Sobriquets

an essay by Roger B Rueda

Filipinos are fond of sobriquets as they are palpable in their show business—"Superstar," "Star of All Season," "Megastar," and "Diamond Star." Well, without telling the names of the actresses, I know, you know who they are. Kris Aquino is otherwise known as "the Queen of All Media." Nina is "Diamond Diva." Boy Abunda is "the King of Talk."

Iloilo City has got two sobriquets, one is “the City of Love” and the other is "the Most Noble City," a title given by the Queen Regent of Spain. Of course, it was widely known since 1855 as “Queen City of the South.” Now it is Cebu City that has that sobriquet. Possibly, because of the slow progress and poor political influence then, Iloilo City  lost its beautiful sobriquet. Bacolod City is known as “the City of Smile.” Perhaps because of the permanent smile the mask flaunts to people—though, perhaps, the wearer's heart is bleeding heavily. Yet, that is Bacolod’s individualising characteristic. Baguio City deserves its sobriquet as “the City of Flowers.” When in Baguio, I feel I am in a paradise. The flowers there are exotic and their sizes are really amazing because never have I seen flowers of jarring colours and sizes so unusual, some are huge, that the first time you see them the pupils of your eyes will dilate and your mouth agape wordless. Most Baguio flowers have a wide tube and flared lobes while others widen gradually from the base, ending in an open or flared shape. Too, common flowers there are those that start as a narrow tube, but widen into a flared mouth, where the petals often turn back. What I like most, however, in the city are flowers with a long, thin tube, that widen suddenly into a flat-faced flowers, they are very common in "the City of Flowers."

In our homes (and even amongst our peers), we call ourselves with sobriquets. Because, perhaps, of the intimacy and the deeper effect it has on us. I mean when our peers call us of our nicknames there is a very congruous feeling that we transude from our within and it really builds a feeling of certitude and inwardness. And the moment we are called with our sobriquets we can know then who the people surrounding us are.

Our university where we graduated is called as our alma mater. The term is from Latin, and it means fostering mother—and I really agree with it.

How about the biggest pond, “The Pond”? Well, it is the sobriquet to mean the Atlantic Ocean. It really looks as one as it is surrounded by masses of lands.

I disdain the Old Nick. It must be the cause of all the sufferings in the world. Deceit started here, remember, in Eden, revealed in the Holy Bible.

Joan of Arc has a sobriquet of “Maid of Orleans.” Washington, D.C., the US capital, is called "Chocolate City," so named because of its majority African-American population. Of course, very well-known as a myth, the Philippines is called "Pearl of the Orient." We knew it first time from grade school textbook. But wait, does the Philippines have the creamy white shiny colour? I've heard that if a person sports a pearl, he or she may soon get a good fortune.

"The Governator" is a sobriquet given to Arnold Schwarzenegger, the 38th Governor of California. Well, does that mean he is half governor, half cyborg? Yes, he is a hyper-alloy combat chasis surrounded by living tissue, sent back by Skynet to become California's governor.

Ronald Reagan, the 40th President of the United States of America, is called "The Great Communicator" because he delivered his innumerable lies in words of one syllable. His genius lay in the manipulation of symbols to convey powerful messages that could no longer be voiced openly in polite society—messages of hate, envy, fear, and violence.

We often hear China as "the Dragon." In China, excellent and outstanding people are compared to the dragon while incapable people with no achievements are compared with other, disesteemed creatures, such as the worm. A number of Chinese proverbs and idioms feature references to the dragon, for example: "Hoping one's son will become a dragon."

Rome is called "the Eternal City." Rome was best known for its gladiators. Have you watched the movie "Gladiator"? Don't you know that Roman gladiators were condemned criminals, prisoners of war, or slaves bought for the purpose of gladiatorial combat by an owner of gladiators?

Elvis Presley is known as "the King (of Rock and Roll)." Oprah Winfrey is called "the Queen of Talk Shows." Miriam Defensor-Santiago has a sobriquet "the Iron Lady of Asia." Isn't it obvious. She is such that her words are very powerful. I love to watch her talk. Imelda Marcos, the Philippine former first lady, has been called colourful "Steel Butterfly." I am her fan. In fact, I love collecting her quotes. They are so beautiful. One of them is "God is love. I have loved. Therefore, I will go to heaven." And then her "People say I'm extravagant because I want to be surrounded by beauty. But tell me, who wants to be surrounded by garbage?"

"The Land of a Thousand Lakes" is the sobriquet given to Finland, the home country of our Nokia mobile phones. Jaipur, the capital and largest city of the Indian state of Rajasthan, has the sobriquet, "Pink City." Since it's called "Pink City," are gays welcome there? Oh well, perhaps. Why not? The British Parliament is commonly called as "Westminster." "The Fourth Estate" is the sobriquet of the press. Barotac Nuevo, a town in Iloilo, is known as Philippines “Football Capital." Here most people love playing football even if they have basketballs. Barotac Nuevo, too, is home of the famous Iloilo State College of Fisheries.

Now everything is in its new-sprung state of being, some writers follow the Bard of Avon’s writing style. How sure are they that their pieces can rivalise Shakespeare’s classical works?

Under the Bridge

a poem by Roger B Rueda

for Crissy Bex Lee, a poet friend and muse  

Clematis creeping underneath the bridge,
her eyes nearly popped out of her head
when you two first met, you having bloody
soft skin, an accoucheuse, perhaps, an eye
witness. Yes, you were as if an earthquake
causing great damage to the bridge, its
surface with a huge hole.

Then you cried yourself to sleep.
Over the bridge she looked down,
Touching your bald little head.

Now, you being conscious of yourself,
don’t ask her where you are from or who
you really are, she’ll always say
There, under the bridge.

Pumpkin

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I like him in keeping
Once he bends forward
Jagged xanthous
Beside an enthused piece
Of the blue.
Before long
When he's malevolent
And gigantic,
Making terrorisation to me—
Being pendent.
He never seems
Sluggish rather
For his being—
Or for what intention
He dishes up.
Maybe it's barely me
Blowing Parokya ni Edgar,
Slouching under his siblings
Playing playhouse,
Having hitches
With his lifing
In any way.