The Chickens and Humans on the Planet on Which the Devils as Predators Are

a poem by Roger B Rueda

To an outlandish, you’ll tell apart
which the chickens are
and the humans are.
Poke a chicken in the ribs
and it’ll twitter, it’ll yowl.
The other chickens
will cold-shoulder it,
relishing seeing the chicken
in pain and hearing
its misery, its grief.
They’ll even have the chicken.
Chickens are chickens.
Even if some chickens
have been turned to
humans by fate,
they’ll always
be chickens, weakling
and thoughtless,
despicable and facetious.
Yes, they are pets
(or livestock)
osculating the anus of their predator,
snickering and loving
the demise of other chickens,
their temperament
is less than that of the goldfish.
Humans succour anyone,
even chickens, even the goldfish:
Humans are humans – they
hold flairs and
the being of others dear.
Never do they cling to vulturine devils.

The Imp Fantisising to be a Cherub

a poem by Roger B Rueda

The imp is sensitive about itself –
be it like anything else:
never be a looking glass or
an echo of what it is like,
for the imp is miffed.
Gaga!
It might shriek
in wrath.
Its minions love the imp
a whole heap until their undoing,
their souls won’t be scorched –
they are covered in dosh,
of rites perceived by the Lord
of the Flies,
the god the imp keeps on
repudiating, yet its heart
belongs to him.
The god of its paradox.
The god that blesses it.
The god that smiles at what
it does.
Let the imp read the Bible.
Let it sing all the praises
for the Christ.
Let it cry without remorse.
Let it be.
The imp knows
what it is doing.
The imp knows where
it is going.
The imp is a pitiful piece
fantasising
to be a UFO, in the clear
and beatific.
Let God cast it into its sett, the hellhole.

On the Title of This Blog

Creativity, an elusive something that triggers me to articulate the truth as I see and imagine it, is like water I dredge up from my complexity and profundity, from my emptiness and oblivion, from my feebleness and softness, from my ephemerality and monotony. Sometimes I am plunged in the realm of it, so a rippler myself, I ripple it on the way to the shore of www.rogerbrueda.blogspot.com, the shore of my generosity and liberality. Hence, this blog is titled Creatpler. Creativity + Rippler. For one, all I want is contribute all the doings of my mind to the spiritual culture of humanity and consequently to my own immortality. My writings are a struggle against silence, against thoughtlessness, against superficiality and banality.

The Fiend in the Dreamland

a poem by Roger B Rueda

The fiend’s tongue seems to have magic –
its odium and wicked yearning
are shrouded in its bitter soul.
It’s more illusive than a serpent,
a turncoat, an absconder,
its firmness desolation of others,
of its foes, of its conflicts.
When it speaks, it only spews
charismatic vocalisations,
saintly and fragrant,
its goodness much better
than any other saints.
It buries itself in the holy book –
what a devotion, indeed.
It sings alleluia – unknowingly,
to Old Nick, its nameless god
as its impishness is its celebration
of its second death
in the vermillion water.
All the while, it denies its god,
illusionary and select
perhaps in its fate.
When they meet, only then
will it become wide-awake in truth.

Ang Yawa Nga Nabanhaw sa Tunga Naton

binalaybay ni Roger B Rueda

Ang tinaga nga nagakawas sa baba

sang yawa maamion, daw

kan-on nga bag-o hakid

sa banyado –

ang iya amorokpok

daw balunasan

nga wala kaagi mala,

mangito-ngito

kag marigna.

Ang nagalabay

daw madigwa,

daw mapilo ang kasudlan.

Ang iya kalantahon

kag ang iya pangamuyo

linangitnon

kag mala-anghel.

Nagahibi-hibi man sia

sa kruz, sa bibliya.

Sa adlaw sang Domingo

naga-uwang-uwang man sia

amba sang kalantahon

sang iya pagtuo

apang sa iya dughan

ang iya kinaiya –

kadulom, yinawan-on nga pagkaduna.

Irony

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I scrutinised the closed, clever face
of the mischievous sprite
for any hint
of irony, but found none.
No, it wasn’t a dream –
it was real.
Its actions were harsh
and loud, but its words
so fair like
the falling cottons
from auburn kapok pods,
light and at leisure.
Its soul was rancid,
its words sweet-scented.
Its thoughts were bursting
with expletives,
suspicions, spites –
what it said was ‘I love you!’