In the Quiet After

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The memory of the skin lingers,

in the quiet corners of my mind,
where once their hands pressed like bread dough,
soft yet firm, shaping me into something more.
I remember the brush of their fingers,
a fleeting gesture—like wind touching the surface of water,
but leaving ripples that still tremble.
Each touch was a secret,
shared only in the space between breath,
a whispered promise, held close as if the world might forget.

What love is, I tasted then,
in the salt of their palms, the warmth of their wrists
as they reached to lift me, steady and strong.
It was the way they wrapped around me
like the arms of a tree, holding me against the storm,
sheltering me in the quiet bend of their embrace.
I savored happiness as a fruit
that ripened only in the darkness of togetherness—
its sweetness thick, like honey on the tongue.
But it was more than that,
it was the feeling that love could stretch time,
could fold it back on itself,
till every moment was both here and gone.

Now, as I sit alone, the echo of those touches
seems distant, like a photograph fading in the sun,
the edges curling with the weight of time.
I thirst for their hands, their warmth,
a thirst that pulls like a tide,
yet there is no water left to drink.
Still, I surrender.
I am bound here, to this earth,
by forces invisible, unyielding,
as though something stronger than me
has decided I must stay.
In that surrender,
there is peace, like the quiet after a storm,
when the air is thick with the promise of rain.

I take comfort in the images of them—
the way their skin once brushed against mine,
how their touch was always certain,
always the promise of safety.
I no longer seek to hold it,
for it is already part of me,
woven into my own skin,
a thread that never breaks.
And in the stillness of my longing,
I surrender again,
not to absence, but to the love
that has taken root deep in me—
its quiet hum a reminder
that, even now, I am held.

The Fire That Consumes

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Anger is a matchstick struck
against the dark, a quick spark
cradled in your hands. At first,
it is small, the kind of heat
that licks at your fingers,
thrilling, harmless—until you feed it.

You let it grow, let it rise,
watch it curl around your ribs,
snake through the chambers of your chest,
a golden thread of heat, pulsing.
It feels good, doesn’t it?
The way it smolders, makes you sharper,
makes you certain, makes you right.

But fire is never content
to stay small. You blow on it,
thinking you are in control,
but it is hunger now, teeth and flame.
It leaps from your hands,
catches the edges of things you love—
a doorframe, a letter, a name—
until everything is burning.

It is wildfire now, spilling fast,
lapping at bridges, swallowing homes,
leaving nothing but blackened bones.
And you, in the center of it all,
a torch of your own making,
glowing with rage, with ruin.

And then—death.

The fire does not follow.
The heat you worshipped dies
the moment your breath stops.
What did it leave you? Ash?
Smoke curling into the silence?
A name no one will speak?

Why didn’t you see this before?
Why did you let the fire spread
when you knew what fire does?
You thought you were different.
That you could hold the flame
without being burned. But the truth—
you were weak. You chose
to love the burn more than the balm.

This is how we are.
We stand at the edge of ruin,
knowing it, naming it, stepping forward.
We pour oil on the blaze,
call it power, call it pride.
But fire only knows to consume.
It does not love you back.

And in the end, the fire dies.
And so do you. And nothing you burned
will ever matter.

The Names That Hold Us

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Ilonggos name their children as if
calling a pet, a playful chant—
Bordagol, Butchoy, Burakday, Burjok,
Botitoy, Toliloy, Toto Buka.
Names round on the tongue,
loose as laughter in a room
where no one needs to ask
if you belong.

But take them outside—
where streets widen, where voices
sharpen like knives against glass—
and they turn into something else.
The joke you never meant to tell,
the punchline they make of you.
Out there, you learn to fold
your name into your pocket,
trade it for something thinner,
something smooth enough to slip
through another person's mouth.

But home is home.
And here, Bordagol is a boy
who carries sacks of rice,
his slow steps steady as a song.
Butchoy is the child who laughs
between mouthfuls of fish,
who eats with both hands
because hunger is always urgent.
Toliloy is the baby of the house,
his name the thread
that pulls the family closer.

These names do not diminish.
They are worn like old slippers,
like the smell of coffee at dawn,
like a mother’s call from the kitchen—
a sound that carries across years,
across miles, across the quiet
shame of having to be someone else.

Outside, the world trims
the edges of your name,
makes it sharper,
makes it neat.

But when you return—
when you step inside the door,
when your mother calls you
by the name you thought you left behind—
you remember.

Home is not the place.
It is the voice that calls you back.

The Thing About Lightning

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Love, you say? Ah,
I have seen it, lived it,
watched it take shape
like a storm over water,
slow at first, a darkening sky,
a shiver in the air—
then a strike, sudden, blinding,
a heat that leaves you trembling
before you’ve even had the chance
to understand what has happened.

That’s how it was for me.
Love did not knock,
did not ask permission—
it arrived, fully formed,
disguised as an ordinary moment.
The way he stood in a doorway,
the way his laughter moved
through a room,
the way his eyes, so sharp,
so knowing,
locked onto mine
like he had been searching
for something
and had just now found it.

It was not the kind of love
they spoke of in my youth,
not the love passed down
in whispers or written in poems,
not the love my father taught me
to recognize,
to want,
to wait for.

But it was love,
all the same.

And yet—
let me tell you this,
those of you who are just beginning,
those of you who do not believe—
lightning is not love.

That is the first mistake
the young make.
They think love is only the strike,
the rush of fire through the bones,
the breathlessness of discovery.

But love is what comes after.

Love is the quiet work
of keeping what the lightning left behind.
It is the careful tending of ruins,
the rebuilding after the storm.
Love is not the first time
your heart stammers in your chest—
love is every time after.
Love is choosing him
when the world tells you not to.
Love is waking up
to the same face,
the same hands,
the same quiet promise,
again and again and again.

We built a life
from the aftershock.
Not in grand gestures,
not in declarations,
but in the slow, steady rhythm
of being seen.

Love became the sound of his voice
when he spoke my name.
Love became the way he touched
the small of my back
as we walked through a crowd.
Love became the spaces
where words were no longer needed.

And now—
even after all these years,
love is still here.

Not as a bright and blinding thing,
but as something quieter,
more persistent,
woven into the very air I breathe.

It is the way I still wake
and reach for him.
The way he still knows
how to quiet me
with a single look.
The way he remains,
when the world once told us
we could not.

So you,
who are just beginning—
do not fear the lightning.
Let it strike,
let it undo you.

And you,
who do not believe—
perhaps you have never seen
what comes after.

Because love,
real love,
does not fade.

It deepens.
It thickens.
It gathers into memory,
into time,
into the quiet defiance
of two men
who refused to let go.

And if you are lucky,
if you are willing,
it will take you farther
than you ever thought
you could go.

The Light You Left Behind

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You were always larger

than the space you stood in,
a girl who turned fairy tales
into something real,
who made the impossible
feel like it belonged to everyone.

Now, the world wakes
to a silence too sudden,
too sharp to hold.

Barbie,
they say you are gone.
That a fever,
a breathless night,
a quiet thief called pneumonia
took you from us.

But you were only 48,
still young enough
to step into another story,
to turn love over in your hands
and call it yours again.
Still young enough
to wake tomorrow.
Still young enough
to begin again.

Your sister grieves
in the language of gratitude—
"I am grateful
that I could be her sister."
But what is gratitude
if not love pressed into absence?
What is love
if it can no longer be returned?

At 17, you became a voice,
a name carried beyond itself.
First, a girl in song,
then, a girl on screen,
then, a girl who taught us
that love can be survived.

You were their Shan Cai,
the girl who stared down power
and refused to shrink,
who turned the weight of the world
into something she could carry.

And now,
they cannot let you go.

"Big S passed away,"
they write,
as if saying it
enough times
might make it true.

1.5 billion echoes
of disbelief,
of refusal.

"This is hard to believe."
"It was so sudden,
life is too short."

Your old co-star,
Ken Chu,
can only say—
"What a bolt from the blue."

Because grief is always that—
lightning in a clear sky,
a silence so loud
it leaves the world reeling.

You had already
stepped away,
left the stage in 2022,
closed a chapter
that once made you larger
than the body you lived in.
Divorce, reinvention,
a second love,
this time with
Koo Jun-yup.

You were writing
another beginning.
Now, the pages
have been left unwritten.

You leave behind
a husband,
two children,
a world still holding onto
the weight of your name.

Perhaps they always will.

You were never just an actress.
Never just a singer.
Never just a face
frozen in time.

You were a thread
woven into an entire generation,
a quiet electricity
that will not dim.

Some stars collapse,
folding into themselves,
never to be seen again.

But you—
you leave your light behind,
still burning,
long after
you are gone.

Hunger Weighs More Than Water

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The ocean is both their home and their hunger.
At dawn, they slip into its blue silence,
casting nets that know the weight of need,
dragging lines through water that
has given them more than the land ever has.
They know the tides by touch,
read the wind like scripture,
feel the nervous schooling of fish
before they even rise to the surface.
But of conservation, of policies and petitions,
of the fragile role the parrotfish plays
in the reef’s slow-breathing body—
they know nothing. How could they?
No one has ever told them,
and if they had, would it matter?
Would a lesson in sustainability
soften the ribs of a child gone too long without food?

Education, they say, is the answer.
Teach them, and they will care.
But tell me, has a lesson ever filled
an empty pot, ever soothed a fever
burning through a body left untreated,
ever built a boat strong enough
to carry a man past hunger?
They are told not to catch parrotfish,
told they are breaking the sea
each time they pull one from the deep.
But what is the sea to a man
who cannot afford to take his wife
to the doctor? What is a reef
to a woman whose last meal
was yesterday’s scraps?
To them, the parrotfish is not
a keystone species, not a guardian of coral,
not a small, bright link in a world
they have never been asked to understand—
it is only food.

It is easy to preach preservation
when your stomach is full,
easy to speak of shared responsibility
from the safety of land.
It is easy to call them reckless,
to say they do not care,
when you have never had to make
a choice between hunger and harm.
They are not reckless,
and they are not unthinking—
they are abandoned.
The government makes its promises,
draws its maps, drafts its laws,
but the sea remains the only constant,
the only place that has never
turned them away.

What loyalty can be expected
from those who have never
felt the weight of the nation’s hands
except to take?
What care can be demanded
from those to whom care
has never been given?
Before we tell them
what they must leave in the ocean,
perhaps we should ask
what we have left them
on the shore.

The Art of Almost Believing

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

 It started as nothing,

a sentence misplaced,
a breath between moments
I should have remembered—
but she said I did.

"You told me," she whispered,
eyes soft as confession,
a voice sculpted in silk,
so certain it made my own
memory waver.

"You told me it was fine.
You even suggested it."

The words curved in the air,
settled like dust
on something once untouched.
Had I? Could I have?
I know myself. I know
what I would and wouldn’t do—
but her voice was a thread,
pulling at the weave
until I saw the pattern
she wanted me to see.

"You don’t remember?"
She sighed,
as if my doubt was a weight
she had carried for too long.
"You said it last week.
We talked about this.
I wouldn’t have done it
if you hadn’t agreed."

A kindness laced the lie,
so careful, so clean,
as though I had left
the thought there
for her to pick up
and hand back to me.

I almost took it.
Almost let it shape itself
inside my chest.

But the body knows
what the mind forgets—
a pulse quickens,
a silence sharpens,
the space between truth
and untruth glows
like a fault line.

No. I did not say it.
I did not.

Still, she had already
pressed the words into me,
already left, her absence
a quiet permission
for the doubt to stay.

Drifting, Still

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The balloon drifts by the river,

its thin skin shivering in wind,

held by nothing but breath,

kept whole by pressure, by air,

by the silence between movement.

It rises alone, caught inside

a current larger than itself,

spinning without anchor, weightless,

certain only of the sky.

I think of my mother’s hands,

floured with morning, dusting the air

with stories sewn between hours.

I think of the market’s sprawl,

voices breaking against ripe fruit,

barter thick with sun and sweat.

These are the things I carry,

stitched to my ribs like thread.

Memory, shifting as breath, floats

beside me, light as the balloon,

offering glimpses before dissolving.

Dislocation is an absence with teeth,

a leaving that does not end.

It lingers in rooms, pressed

against windows, spilling into light.

It is standing still inside crowds,

a face lost in foreign sky,

a name slipping from tongues

not my own. The balloon, quiet,

knows this feeling too—adrift, visible,

held by nothing but longing.

Art is the net I cast,

the only way to keep

what wind would pull apart.

It catches the things that fade,

makes visible the half-remembered,

lets ink hold what hands cannot.

So I write. I kneel

by the river, let silence

spill into pages, let absence

shape itself into something whole.

Perhaps we are all balloons,

stitched with memory, filled with wind,

rising into skies without promise.

We drift, we waver, we hold

tight to what we have left.

Yet always, an unseen thread

keeps us from disappearing entirely.

Memory, love, the weight of art—

these things hold us still,

even as wind beckons away.

I watch the balloon dissolve,

swallowed by the empty sky.

It leaves nothing behind, no shadow,

no proof of passing. And yet,

I feel it still, pressing

light as breath against my ribs.

The Quiet River

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

There is a river that runs,
soft and gray, slicing fields,
its edges fraying like worn threads.
At dusk, it thickens, silvered,
a snake’s back glinting under shadows.
It moves slowly, lugging silted words,
the driftwood ribs of fallen trees.

On its banks, we stand still,
our toes pressing into damp earth,
the grass bending under bare heels.
The river hums, its breath warm,
its pulse steady, a hymn beneath,
the restless chorus of whispering leaves.

Hunger hangs in the air, brittle,
like the crack of a bird’s wing.
Clouds stack themselves against the horizon,
gray like smudged fingerprints on glass.
Arrows break the sky’s silence,
their tips glinting like broken teeth.
The river keeps its secrets, endless.

We clutch handfuls of what remains:
grains of sand, wet and cool,
shells cracking under the press of palms.
The water slips through our hands,
each drop erasing what was held.
Still, our fists curl, determined, stubborn,
shaping hope from what crumbles easily.

The river rises, devouring its edges,
swallowing reeds, the old wooden bridge.
Its surface shivers with unspoken words,
a dark mouth murmuring to itself.
The town dissolves, brick by brick,
its reflection breaking into jagged shards,
while shadows cling to what is left.

To live is to wade in,
to let the river drag your name,
pull it apart syllable by syllable.
We are carried by its current,
bruised, softened, shaped like river stones,
smoothed by the endless friction of time.
The river flows, and we flow,
its breath threading through our veins.

Inheritance of Nothing

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

She moves through hallways
as if power belongs to her,
as if the weight of the university
rests on her name alone,
as if her presence alone
were enough to hold its walls in place.

Her hands have never built,
never labored over thought or work,
never drawn plans in the hush of study,
yet she carries herself as if
this place is stitched from her breath,
as if she alone has shaped its name.

She was not chosen for skill,
nor for talent, but for loyalty—
the kind that stirs conflict,
the kind that bends when power bends,
the kind that wages wars
that are not hers to win,
as if victory alone is what matters.

The ones in power know her name,
not for what she has done,
not for what she has given,
but for how well she follows,
how quickly she takes up their fights,
how easily she makes enemies
of people who have never wronged her.

Her husband bends where he must,
a man of easy laughter,
of pleasantries smoothed over
like stones beneath a river,
principles folding neatly
into the hands that feed him,
into the voices that call his name.

And so, she rises,
not by effort, not by work,
but by standing in the right rooms,
by whispering the right names,
by making herself necessary
to the wars that are not hers
but for which she fights all the same.

She does not greet people,
she measures them,
weighs their worth in glances,
decides in an instant
who is beneath her,
who does not deserve
to walk the same halls.

She looks at scholars
as if they are small,
at leaders as if she were their equal,
at those who have built
this place with time and labor
as if they should bow to her name.

She walks like the dean,
like the vice president,
like the board of regents—
though none of them
carry themselves as she does,
though none of them
have ever needed to be seen
as badly as she does.

She believes the university is hers,
that its success lives beneath her feet,
that without her,
the walls would fall to ruin,
that without her voice,
this place would not speak.

She does not know
that the ones who built this place
do not move like she does.
They do not collect nods,
do not gather titles in their mouths
like offerings to the wind.
They work. They build.
They do not ask to be seen,
do not ask to be named,
do not ask for a place
that is not theirs to claim.

But she—
she loves the fight,
wears grievance like gold,
holds her anger as if it were a gift,
as if it were a weapon,
as if it were all she had.

She does not fight for justice.
She fights to be known.
She fights to be seen.
She fights to make herself
as large as the walls
she did not build.

And yet, when the halls empty,
when the voices lower,
when the power she borrowed
turns from her name—

she will be what she was before:
without title, without legacy,
without anything
that time will keep.

 

The Softness of Fire

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

She kneels in the front pew, hands folded, eyes closed,
lips moving in silent devotion, steady as a prayer.
Light spills from high windows, blessing her face soft,
as if heaven itself approves of the grace she wears.

When she speaks, her voice is warmth, quiet and sure,
a balm for the lost, a whisper to the grieving.
She tells them to be kind, patient, gentle, forgiving,
that love is the answer, that anger is a poison.

She leaves the chapel, steps into air thick with shadow,
where hunger waits, silent, where she becomes someone else.
She moves through the dark, through hands that know her,
through lips that call her name in secret and sin.

She smiles in the hallways, her light a soft glow,
her students believing she is all goodness, all grace.
But she watches, listens, collects the words they speak,
the careless betrayals they do not know she sees.

Forgiveness is a virtue, she tells them, smiling,
but she forgives the way fire forgives the burned.
She carries grudges like coins hidden inside her dress,
waits for the moment they will pay what is owed.

No one sees the rot beneath the softness she wears,
the fire she feeds, the hatred she folds like linen.
No one knows the names she whispers before sleeping,
the ones she will cross out when the time is right.

She watches. She waits. And when the moment arrives,
she does not forget. She never forgets. She never will.

 

The Quiet Fire

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

When do we wake,
when do we break—
the spell, the silence,
the long, slow sinking?

A ship drifts blind,
rudderless in waters it stains.
Storm-tossed, we call it fate,
call it history—
but the hands at the helm
have always been the same.

Listen:
the wood splinters under stolen weight.
Listen:
laughter, silver-thin,
floating above the bodies
bailing water with bare hands.

And we—
we are the deckhands of ruin,
adrift in our own forgetting.

On the hill, the great house rots,
but see how the gates glimmer,
how gold glows
against the bones of the hungry.
Inside, the future is bartered
like small change—
a child’s dream cut down,
shredded into wages
that never reach the table.

When the last candle sputters,
when the window stays dark,
when the rope frays
into nothing but dust,
who will say
we didn’t know
this was coming?

How many mothers will hold
the cold weight of their children,
whispering names
already erased from the ledger?
How many hands will reach
for the loaves thrown like scraps,
while the feast remains untouched?

But this—
this is how silence is made,
how hunger is shaped into obedience,
how crumbs become currency
for those who take
and take
and take.

And we—
we are the ones watching,
still and breathless,
as if the house is not ours,
as if the ship is not ours,
as if the fire will not find us
in the end.

But this is not survival.
This is surrender.

The ship, the house,
the rope, the bread—
they are all in our hands.
And it is we
who must decide
whether to watch the fire burn
or to rise before the ash
becomes our inheritance.

Let us stand.
Let us break the hush
before silence writes the ending.

Let us rise,
before the wreckage
makes its claim.

The Bloom and the Rain

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Twilight leans into the pond,
its body heavy with rain.
Each drop strikes the surface,
a soft percussion,
the kind that makes you stop
and listen, makes you feel
the stretch of the world around you.
The water bends and shudders,
and in the middle of it all—
a single water lily, blooming.

Its petals are too bright,
too alive for this hour,
as if it has forgotten the rule
that says things fade with the light.
The sunset gathers itself on the horizon,
its colors spilling out in great streaks,
and the lily catches what it can,
its white edges dipped
in something almost too beautiful.

The rain falls as if it doesn’t care—
onto the pond, onto the lily,
onto the darkening grass around it.
The lily sways but doesn’t bend,
its bloom open like a mouth
just barely breathing.
It doesn’t flinch
at the weight of the rain,
doesn’t tremble at the coming dark.
It’s alive in a way that’s almost obscene,
so raw in its brightness,
its vividness against the water,
that it hurts to look at it.

This is what it means to be fleeting:
to bloom like this,
in the middle of the rain,
in the middle of the twilight,
knowing the night is coming
to close it down.
To hold nothing back.
To let the rain find you,
the light touch you,
to be opened
even as the day unravels itself.

By morning, it will be gone—
the petals curled inward,
the color leached out of it,
the pond smoothing itself
into quiet reflection.
But tonight, this bloom burns
like a small sun,
its brief brilliance enough
to make you forget
how the world always
ends things,
how it always moves on.

The lily doesn’t care about tomorrow.
It blooms as if it’s the only thing
it knows how to do,
as if its shortness
makes it matter more.
And maybe it does.
Maybe this is the point:
to throw yourself into the light,
to open your body
to the touch of rain,
to bloom so fiercely
that even the coming dark
can’t take away
what you’ve given the world.

The lily floats there,
its reflection caught in the ripples,
its life spilling outward,
until there’s nothing left
but the pond,
the rain,
and the dark.

 

The Shallows Under the Moon

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The moon hangs low over Guisi,
its light spilling into the sea,
turning the shallows into a trembling sheet
of silver. The children and teenagers wade in,
their shadows soft-edged,
their laughter stitched into the night’s quiet.
The water rises to meet them,
lapping at their ankles, their knees,
cool waves folding gently
over their movements.

They splash without ceremony,
their gestures simple,
like punctuation in the sea’s
ongoing sentence.
Each motion dissolves almost instantly,
ripples fading into the larger rhythm,
yet leaving behind a momentary mark—
a brief impression of joy.
The ocean, indifferent yet receptive,
takes it all, as though this play
were its own reflection.

It’s a kind of mindfulness,
though none of them would call it that.
They are fully here:
their bare feet sinking into the sand,
the salt air clinging to their skin.
The night holds them lightly,
as if it too understands
that this is what presence looks like:
the deliberate way their bodies move
through the shallows,
responding to the moonlit tide
with nothing but their quiet, unthinking grace.

The sea is a mirror,
reflecting not just the moon
but the essence of their being.
Each splash is fleeting,
a brief flare of water against the light,
but it resonates,
its echo folding into the vast pulse of waves.
This is life, after all—
a series of small moments
that ripple outward,
their significance carried
even after they are gone.

On the shore, their laughter lingers,
its threads stretching thin as the tide pulls back.
The moon shifts, the shadows deepen,
and the children return to the sand,
their play already dissolving
into the rhythm of the night.
The sea smooths itself over,
its surface unbroken again,
yet carrying the memory of their joy.

In the end, it is not the stillness
that matters, but the brief movement—
the small splashes, the ripples,
the way they broke the surface
and brought it to life.
The waves will carry it,
folding their laughter
into the larger rhythm of the ocean.
Somewhere, in some unseen current,
it will live on.

 

The Worm and the Light

a poem by Roger Rueda

I am the soil.
The mute bearer of roots and rot,
the slow archive of what falls,
what settles, what dissolves.
I know the weight of the world—
its pressing stillness,
its quiet erosion—
as though it has folded itself
into me, and I, in turn,
have agreed to hold it.

The worm moves through me,
blind and ceaseless,
its body a thread stitching the earth,
turning death into the promise of green.
It knows nothing of the light above,
yet its labor feeds the trees,
those steeples of sky
whose leaves shiver in wind.
It does not ask for recognition;
it only moves,
it only transforms.

Above, light falls fractured through the canopy,
a golden scatter on bark and stone.
It dapples, it burns,
its impermanence a kind of grace.
The trees reach for it,
their branches trembling
like hands mid-prayer.
But none of them see
the worm tunneling below,
the small, essential engine
that keeps the living alive.

The worm understands what the light does not:
that beauty is rooted in decay,
that all things are borrowed.
It moves without witness,
its purpose quiet but absolute.
Its work reshapes the earth,
makes space for the new to grow.
I feel it, feel everything—
the leaf curling into its final softness,
the roots pulling what they need from me,
the slow pulse of a world
built on impermanence.

And the light?
It will move on,
its brilliance brief,
its shadows fleeting.
But I remain.
I cradle the worm’s endless work,
the hunger of trees,
the weight of the fallen.
I know what it means to hold both
what rises and what returns.

Life is this:
the quiet shift between what ends
and what begins.
The worm burrowing, the leaf falling,
the light breaking itself into pieces.
It’s not permanence that matters,
but the transformation,
the way decay folds into bloom.

The worm’s path,
the light’s scattering,
the leaf’s descent—
all of it is the same prayer,
the same becoming.
It is enough.

 

Where Memory Meets the Breeze

 a poem by Roger B. Rueda

There is a rustle in the curtains,
a moth caught in its folds, its wings
like thin paper crumpling in the air.
The room smells faintly of lavender,
the way your mother’s hands did
when she pressed them to your forehead
as you drifted into the heat of fever.
Memory is like this, I think,
a whisper of talc and citrus—
something you cannot see
until it leans close enough to breathe on you.

I step outside. The sky is
a dull sheet of zinc stretched thin,
the edges frayed where clouds gnaw at its corners.
The acacia, gnarled and weary, bends
as if carrying decades of wind.
A dog barks at a figure
hidden in the glass reflection of a jeepney—
its voice fractures into the city’s static:
the sputter of tricycles, the hiss of burning tires,
and the faint murmur of someone selling bread.

Once, in the middle of the storm,
we pressed our hands together
on the thin wooden door of a chapel.
Your fingers, damp with the rain,
left faint trails of salt
on my wrist, and I knew then
that this was the shape of holding on—
like wind cupping fire.
Your laugh cracked the air,
a ricochet between the tin roofs,
as the storm swirled into itself
and spat us back into silence.

But beauty is a fickle thing.
It doesn’t linger;
it hangs in the cold glint of sunlight
that breaks through the dusty capiz windows—
a promise that dissolves
when the light shifts,
when the day folds into shadow.
To love is to know this erosion:
the slow drip of water against stone,
the way a mango ripens to sweetness,
only to drop, bruised, into waiting dirt.

Now, I watch the wind again,
pulling at the laundry lines,
making the white shirts billow
like restless ghosts.
What do they know of permanence?
What do I?
We are all temporary shapes—
faces reflected in a rain puddle,
the ripple that follows a stone’s descent.

Yet there are moments—
a boy’s laughter bursting
from the window of a passing jeep,
or the smell of lechon lingering
long after the coals have gone cold—
when despair feels like a lie.
In those moments, I wonder
if meaning hides in the smallest things:
the crackle of garlic in oil,
the sharp sting of calamansi on the tongue,
the fleeting clarity of a dragonfly’s wings.

So I stand here,
watching the world exhale
its chaos into the street,
the brittle laughter of vendors,
the hiss of rain on hot concrete.
I hold the fragile joy of being,
even as I know
the wind will one day take it—
its hands steady,
its touch sure.

The Weight of Rain on Banana Leaves

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The poets are the capturers of truths

so small they slip unnoticed—
the silver arc of a teaspoon catching light,
the gentle exhale of a door closing.
They are the weavers of fleeting moments:
the clink of ice against a glass,
the frayed hem of a dress
dragging across linoleum.
They filter the world through
a sieve fine enough to hold
only the essence of what matters.

The poets carve meaning
from what others discard.
They sift through the small, the quiet,
the almost invisible:
a strand of hair caught on a collar,
the bruised edges of a peach
left too long on the counter,
the way rain lingers on glass
before surrendering to gravity.

Every small act passes through them—
the flick of a wrist stirring tea,
the lilt of a voice saying goodbye,
the ache in a pause
that stretches just too long.
They stitch these fragments into lines
that glimmer,
their words an invitation
to see what has always been there:
the extraordinary folded
into the ordinary.

Their wisdom pools
in the pages of books,
spines bowed on dusty shelves.
The wells are deep,
but people no longer stoop
to drink.

These days, they skim the surface of life,
scrolling past its subtleties,
rushing through its stillness.
They forget to pause—
to notice how the scent of coffee
pulls morning into focus,
how the creak of a swing
can pull time backward,
how light shifts at dusk,
a fleeting blessing
on the face of the day.

They forget to wonder,
to connect the poetry of their lives
to the poetry in words.
They miss the threads that tether them:
the rustle of leaves caught in autumn’s sigh,
the sticky sweetness of mango
clinging to fingertips,
the ache of a love song heard alone.

To read a poem is to sip
from the essence of life itself—
to touch what endures,
what waits quietly for us to return.
But in the rush of days,
few stop to taste this sweetness.
Fewer still allow it
to guide them back to themselves,
to where love and gratitude
are waiting,
fragile as spider silk,
but strong enough to hold us.

Yet the poets persist.
They write for the ones
who will remember—
the ones who will one day
sit still long enough
to feel.

They know that the little things matter:
the nap of velvet on a chair,
the half-moon imprint of a fingernail
pressed into a palm,
the way warm air
smells before a storm.

These are the things
that strengthen us—
the unnoticed, the unspoken,
the fibers of a lattice
woven so tightly
we barely see it.

The poets see it.
They always have.
They write for a world
too hurried to notice,
hoping their words
will catch someone mid-step,
mid-thought, mid-breath,
and remind them:

The little things are everything.

 

Peeling Back the Silence

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The first time she combed my hair,
I was six. Her hands were sure,
parting my hair into straight rivers,
her fingers slicing the waves,
steady as a machete through banana leaves.
She braided tight, pulling the strands
into patterns only she could weave,
as if binding something unseen,
something secret,
into the braids.
“You’ll thank me when you’re older,”
she said, her voice like a lock snapping shut.
In the kitchen, the smell of frying bananas
spun in the air, sticky-sweet,
her hairpins clinking between her teeth.
I believed her then, her care sharp as sunlight
through the slats of a nipa roof.

The last time she combed my hair,
I was sixteen. Her movements were slower,
as though the years had weighed
on her wrists, but the comb still tugged
with the same tension.
Her silence hung like damp laundry,
each fold holding its disapproval.
“Don’t cut it too short,” she muttered,
her voice brittle, the words falling
as if each weighed too much.
“It doesn’t suit you. And no one likes
a boy who doesn’t look proper.”

She didn’t know—or maybe she did—
that I wasn’t waiting for anyone to like me.
I never told her who I was,
but her words hunted me,
unseen arrows through the undergrowth.
“One of those boys,” she called me once,
her tone filled with ash,
like a fire smoldering in her throat.
“What kind of life is that? Who will
understand you?” Her words struck
harder than the silence that followed,
both lingering,
both heavier than her hands.

Still, I think of those hands,
how they worked through my hair
like gardeners taming vines,
their firmness hiding
a kind of tenderness.
These were the hands that braided me tight
enough to last a school day.
The same hands that wiped my tears,
cool and certain,
when I came home bruised and ashamed.
“You’re tougher than this,” she whispered then,
and her words stayed,
iron-strong, unbending.
She carried contradictions
as easily as she carried baskets of fruit,
balanced and effortless,
a strength I never understood.

Now, I see those hands in the kitchen,
peeling bananas with practiced ease,
the skins falling in soft curls
on the cutting board.
The fruit, bruised in places,
still sweet, still good.
She sliced them into pieces,
the blade moving with the rhythm of habit,
and the oil hissed on the stove
as golden edges crisped.
I wonder if, in those quiet hours,
she doubted herself,
if her judgments tasted bitter
in her own mouth.
Did her words echo back to her
in the silence of the phone line?
Did the shadows in her kitchen
whisper the things
she couldn’t bring herself to say?

To understand her
is to understand myself.
Her judgments cling to me still,
like the caramel scent of bananas
cooked too long,
familiar and inescapable.
She was the tug of the comb
and the hush of her hands after.
For every sharp remark,
there was a plate of fried bananas
pushed toward me,
still warm,
her fingers brushing mine
as if saying more than words could.

I think of her often,
dissecting her the way you would
an eye.
The iris, deep and dark,
reflecting both her fears
and her tenderness.
The cornea, thin as glass,
sometimes clouded
but clear enough to see
when she wanted to.
The lens, a secret vault,
holding everything she’d seen,
but never spoken aloud.
Each part of her holds a truth
I’m still untangling.

I don’t know if forgiveness
is something I owe her—or myself.
But I know she was never just one thing,
and neither am I.
She is the comb that hurt
and the hands that healed.
She is the judgment
and the quiet care.
And in peeling back her contradictions,
I am peeling back my own.

She used to say bananas,
when ripened just right,
taste sweetest where they bruise.
I think of that now,
as I sift through her legacy.
The core remains—soft,
imperfect—
but it glimmers faintly.
Perhaps it always will.

 

The Fragile Geometry of Light

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Teaching is meant
to be an act of service,
a bridge of bamboo and rope,
knotted with care,
its planks bending
but never breaking
under the weight
of footsteps.

Below, the ground blooms green,
fertile with ignorance,
a kind that craves tending.
Each plank is shaped
from what we know,
the knots pulled taut
by the desire to know more.
But even bamboo cracks,
even rope frays,
when the burden becomes denial.

Truth, too, should be alive—
not the dead weight of coral,
pale and brittle,
but the supple shift of river water,
its surface dappled with sunlight,
its depths dark and unknowable.
Truth is both clarity and shadow,
the possibility of drowning
matched only by the thrill of discovery.

Yet in some classrooms,
truth is stifled,
choked like a sapling
reaching for sunlight
through a lattice of undergrowth.
Its roots tangle,
not in ignorance,
but in the heavy vines of pride.

There are teachers,
hardened by time but untested by change,
their years folded tightly around them
like woven palm fronds,
their rustling mistaken for wisdom.
They wear their age like armor—
not protection, but weight.

They do not exchange ideas;
they drop them carelessly,
like overripe fruit bruised by the fall,
the sweetness turned sour.
Their lessons are tough-skinned, bitter,
the kind you chew on but cannot swallow.

To challenge them
is to summon the storm,
to send a single gust
that unravels their fragile canopy,
a shelter that was never strong enough
to weather truth.

It is not the mistake
that enrages them—
it is the sound of it breaking.
The loud, raw splintering of certainty
as truth presses upward,
like the relentless root
of a mangrove breaking the mud’s skin.

When a young teacher,
or a student with hands calloused
by the work of asking,
presses a finger
to the hollow coconuts of their certainty,
they are not thanked.
“You don’t know enough
to correct me,” they say,
their words as sharp
as machetes hacking through underbrush.
Or worse,
their voices roll in thick,
heavy with ceremony:
“Respect your elders.”

But what is respect
if it demands silence?
What is wisdom
if it refuses the rain?
If it cannot shed its withered leaves
and sprout anew,
what good is it?

They forget
that teaching is not
about permanence,
but the courage to let words fall—
to let them scatter like ash
on fertile ground,
where truth might take root.

Instead,
they cling to their mistakes
like fishermen gripping
nets worn thin by years of use,
the holes gaping,
their catch already lost.
They insist it is enough—
because they said so.

The classroom becomes a battlefield,
the chalkboard a shield of bark,
the desk a stump,
its rings of age carved deep.
Young teachers,
still green in voice
but golden with hope,
carry the warmth of the sun
in their words.
But even their light is turned away,
mistaken for fire—
destructive, not illuminating.

And the students?
They should grow like vines,
reaching, stretching,
their tendrils tasting the air,
climbing toward treetops.
But they are told to coil inward,
to root themselves in shadows,
their curiosity twisted tight
and buried in the loam of obedience.

The pursuit of truth
is trampled like seedlings
under careless feet.
And in its place,
a quiet rot spreads—
resentment,
its spores feeding
on the damp soil of unspoken anger.

It could be different.

They could see the cracks
for what they are:
openings.
They could look at the light
pouring through
and say,
“Thank you for showing me
what I had not seen.
Let us learn together.”

But too often,
they do not.

And so the young teacher,
the questioning student,
walks away,
carrying the weight
of rejection,
their footprints fading
into the sand of an empty shore.

Not because they were wrong—
but because they were right.
And being right,
in the wrong place,
is unforgivable.

Still, they persist.

They teach,
their words scattering like seeds
from a coconut husk,
floating across the tide,
seeking land to grow.

They endure,
knowing that truth,
like water,
will wear down the sharpest rocks,
will seep through the smallest cracks.

Teaching is not about
being untouchable,
immaculate,
immune.
It is about standing bare,
under rain and sun alike,
allowing the water
to wash away what no longer serves,
letting light
pull new life from the soil.

The best teachers know this.
The rest, perhaps,
will learn it too—
if they dare to unlace
their roots,
to open their palms
to the tide
and let truth flow in.

 

How the House Remembers

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The house wore its silence thick—

a woolen cloak after rain,
settling into the threads of curtains,
seeping through the slats of shutters.

He stood in the living room.
Her chair, angled toward the window,
still bore the weight of her absence:
an imprint faint as the memory
of hands folding into prayer.

The dogs' corner smelled
of fur and sleep—
a shadow of warmth where
their blankets lay.
He traced the indentation
of paws on the wooden floor,
the spaces they left behind
too vast to fill.

The cats once prowled these walls,
their tails curling around table legs.
Now the air hung still—
a whisker, caught in sunlight,
a ghost of movement that vanished
before he could reach it.

Loss sat with him,
its weight pressing into
his ribcage, its breath
a draft that never ceased.

He touched the walls,
as if pressing his palms
against a mirror:
what once reflected him,
now, only absence.

The echoes came
in fragments:
the faint lavender
of her lotion in the bathroom,
a chew toy hidden under the couch—
its rubber worn to threadbare teeth.
Even the sun refused permanence,
its rays slanting through the window
like a visitation, brief and fading.

Grief worked its way into the house’s marrow,
pushing against the rafters,
seeping through the pipes.
He tried to live inside it.

They said:
move forward.
They said:
grief softens,
folds into the body,
becomes less a stone
and more a ripple.

But forward meant
leaving them behind:
the recipe book inked
with her steady hand;
his oldest dog’s nose
pressed against his knee;
the scratch of claws
on his bedroom door—
a chorus calling him back
to the life he lost.

He picked up their remains.
He set the leashes on a shelf.
Folded their absence
into something he could carry—
a museum built
of unspoken things.

At night,
he swore he saw them:
her humming in the rocking chair,
the dogs chasing stars
across the yard,
the cats stalking shadows
under the moon.

He knew these visions
weren’t real,
but the flicker of them—
a lit match against his chest—
was enough.

Grief, it seemed,
was both severance
and tethering:
one hand letting go,
the other gripping tight
to the edges of memory.

In the end,
he lived between the two:
the recipe book closed,
but kept;
the photo of the dogs
fading on the fridge;
the cat’s paw print
on his desk,
still sharp enough to cut.

He let grief settle,
its bones becoming part of his own.
And in that place,
where absence met permanence,
he found something—
a pulse, faint but steady,
a love that lived
even in the silence.

 

Fissure

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

There is a peculiar ache in being human—
like the pull of an uneven thread in a wool sweater,
the way it catches and scratches,
a tension between the open hands of strangers
and the locked chest of your own secrets.
It is the silence of a parked car after a long drive,
engine ticking as it cools,
your thoughts louder than the night outside.

We walk through life carrying our burdens—
a canvas tote sagging with bruised apples,
receipts stuffed between pages of a novel,
forgotten but still there.
Each of us, silent keepers of truths
wrapped like glass figurines in tissue,
hidden in the attic of the heart,
too fragile or too sharp to hold for long.

Some truths are small—
the sting of a word left hanging in the air,
like smoke curling from a burnt-out match;
the ache of an unopened invitation,
the shame of a borrowed book never returned.
Others stretch wide, shadows lengthening at dusk—
a father’s slow retreat into memory,
a lover’s suitcase at the door,
a hunger unnamed but familiar,
its edges sharp as a broken shell.

We press these burdens
tight against the walls of our hearts,
like postcards pinned to corkboards,
their corners curling from the weight of time,
as if the weight itself might define us,
might make us whole.

But the weight does not make us whole.
It bends our spines like young bamboo,
pulls at the seams of our smiles.
We become performers on the world’s smallest stage,
the tilt of a laugh, the practiced nod,
each gesture choreographed to say,
“Look, I am fine.”
Even as we retreat into the quiet corridors
of ourselves, the doors closing softly behind.

And yet, in rare moments—
like the first rainfall after a dry spell—
when we let the mask slip,
when we show the raw, cracked skin beneath,
something extraordinary happens:
connection blooms.
A stranger’s hand brushes yours,
a friend holds your gaze just a second too long,
and the weight shifts,
the boundary between you and the world dissolving,
like sugar in tea.

Still, the duality remains.
For every open door, there is a shuttered window.
We bury pain like heirlooms beneath floorboards,
clutching our secrets as though they were pearls
instead of stones.
Why do we hold so tightly to what hurts us most?
Perhaps it is fear—
of someone turning away at the sight of our scars.
Or the strange comfort of wounds
that fit us like an old coat,
frayed at the cuffs but familiar.

To live fully is to wrestle this duality,
to sit with the ghosts in our empty chairs
and ask them their names.
It is to trace the outline of our hungers—
for the touch of a hand across a table,
for the weightlessness of forgiveness,
for freedom from the shadows of old doors.
This reckoning is no gentle thing;
it is a garden spade cutting through rocky soil,
a lantern held to the face of the mirror.
But it is also grace,
the kind that comes with the first light of dawn,
when the world stretches awake.

For in naming our hungers, we let light in.
In saying, “This is my truth,”
we place our burdens gently into another’s hands,
trusting they will carry them without breaking.
We discover that pain, like bread,
can be shared, torn into smaller pieces,
its weight lighter in the offering.
And in the quiet reciprocity of being seen—
the nod that says, “I know,”
the touch that says, “I am here”—
we find a kind of healing.

To those who carry unseen burdens,
know this: the ache you feel is real,
but so is the possibility of release.
It begins with the courage to speak,
to uncurl your hands and let the stones fall.
And to those who witness another’s pain:
your presence can be the balm,
your listening the thread that stitches
a broken seam.

We are all, in some way,
hungry for a place at the table,
for the sound of our name spoken kindly.
The duality of connection and isolation
is not a battle but a balance—
the tide’s ebb and flow, the moon’s shadowed face.
In solitude, we learn to know ourselves;
in connection, we learn to be whole.
Together, we can scatter seeds of healing,
lighten the load, and weave a world
where burdens are shared,
where no truth is carried in silence.

 

In the Spaces Between
a poem by Roger B. Rueda

It is only with
the heart that one sees clearly,
what is essential lies
beneath the skin of things,
in the quiet places the eye
cannot reach. Here, truth settles
like a whisper in the dark,
waiting for the heart to feel
its way toward it. The eyes
skim the surface, but the heart
knows what lingers in between—
the unsaid, the overlooked, the delicate
threads we barely notice,
woven into the air between words.
The heart catches what light
cannot show, sees
what is hidden in plain sight, like
a secret folded into the breeze.
It knows the pauses between
breaths, the weight of what is not
spoken. The heart, steady and sure,
feels what the eyes might miss—
the spaces in a smile, the flicker
of truth in the briefest glance. It holds
the silences, the untold stories,
and while the eyes
may falter, the heart carries
the deeper meaning, searching
for what is real, for the quiet truths
woven into the fabric of this world.

On Anti-gay Laws

an essay by Roger B Rueda

Anti-gay laws are extremely cruel. They are irrational. They reflect the bitterness and viciousness of a country. They manifest the lack of intelligence and sensitivity of a country. They are very distressing. They are doggedly unrelenting. They are made of doctrinaires and bigots and intellectual sloths. They are made by one-dimensional people.

Humane societies encourage people to act in a kind and sympathetic way towards others, even towards people they do not agree with or like. And those countries which have anti-gay laws are so unfeeling. I think these people have been very selfish. They've been mainly concerned with themselves. And I’m happy that the Philippines is a country whose leaders are non-judgemental and humanitarian.

As it happens, a lot of gays are more productive than non-gays. They send their siblings to school. They provide their family with money and food. They work hard. They share their life and talents with non-gays. They have respect and regard for other others’ feelings. They cry when they are sad. They laugh when something is amusing. They take care of their family when they are sick or when they are old. They feel or show pity, sympathy, and understanding for people who are suffering. All these are normal attributes of being a human.

I know that culture and tradition have prejudiced many anti-gay advocates. They put the blame squarely on the Westerners for the existence of gays in their countries. But without the Westerners though, these countries would be so uncivilised and ignorant as yet. The Westerners could only expect ingratitude from these countries. I think they are rather churlish and unappreciative. Perhaps, their countries would still be populated by primordial forests; their people, destitute.

One African told me that gays are subhuman. For me, such a comment is openly contemptuous. If criminals like murderers, rapists, thieves, terrorists, and otherwise are considered as human how come he considers gays as subhuman. I think such a comment is crazy and illogical. His fear of gays and gayness is tenuous and pointless. I think he is a bigot.

If for no reason at all, the US declared that all Africans should be made as pets because they look like a monkey or gorilla and they don’t look like a normal human being, would that person feel good. Wouldn’t he raise objections or disapproval? Would he have power to change himself into a Caucasian so that he wouldn’t be made as a pet or a working animal? Does he think everything is just easy to transform himself to fall in what the influential power is imposing on him?

If Africans don’t like all the philosophies of the Westerners, why don’t they go back to their own ways? Why don’t they take off their clothes and live like those barbaric people hundreds of years ago? Why do they follow Western cultures when those destroy their custom and distinctiveness as Africans?

I think bigotry comes from the people who are particularly liable to discrimination. Their skin colour should remind them of who they are. Their being an African should remind them that the world respects them despite their undesirable/objectionable look. Openly telling me that gays are subhuman is impudent and insulting. If I told him I hate him because he is an African and he looks like an ape, would he feel pleased? Would he be happy that I don’t care if he is kind or educated or talented or productive because I hate him for being an African, for looking horrible despite the diamonds he is wearing?

Does being gay affect everyone’s life like how murder, rape, terrorism, or robbery does? It is insulting that gayness is equated with all these crimes. To murder someone means to commit the crime of killing him/her deliberately. If someone is raped, he/she is forced to have sex, usually by violence or threats of violence. Terrorism is the use of violence in order to achieve political aims or to force a government to do something. Robbery is the crime of stealing money or property from a bank, shop, or vehicle, often by using force or threats. These crimes hurt or kill someone. Has gayness hurt or killed someone? I think saying this is not based on logical reasons or clear thinking. It is denouncing before thinking. It is intellectual sloth.

I think societies like ours are getting sensible. In this country, everything is based on equity in the face of gender and sexual orientation. I’m happy that there is no anti-gay law in this country. Filipinos cannot allow dogmatism to stand in the way of progress.

I’m happy to hear comments from friends who are very bright and intelligent. I’m happy to know that they are non-discriminatory and compassionate and in the know of gays and their frame of mind and the issues they are facing in the present day.

Gays could be our parents, siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, friends, neighbours, professors, soldiers, police officers, doctors, workfellows, countrymen.

So, for me anti-gay laws suck. They are inciting social hatred and they are completely one-sided. They do gays and people who respect and love gays an injustice. They frighten gays into law-abiding subjection. They are a form of persecution.

Politics

a poem by Roger B Rueda

is a beast, its size and shape too small to see,
yet it is as colossal as our imagination.
It is calm but when it tousles its wool,
no one can hold sway over it –
politicians have tried out many things:
They lined up loads of rues
to break in the indefinable beast;
all didn’t come up to scratch.
They thought badly of each other,
calling upon that someone mounting
on it alight and leave off.
They came together at Edsa,
dragooning the frontrunner into leaving.
A woman, whose husband was slain on the tarmac,
came from evasion and mounted the beast.
It jolted into motion and ran more wildly,
shaking its head confusedly.
A lot closed their eyes and heaved a sigh.
Some squaddies made a grab for a rope
and tried to usurp control of the beast.
They all bit the dust.
Another frontrunner came.
The beast quietened down a little.
His challenger provoked him into a boxing match,
accusing him of cheating, a cynical ploy.
Then another frontrunner came.
Clinging to the withers,
he was dragged off from the beast’s back
at Edsa again and sent down.
Everyone conspired so that he would turn
a somersault down the feet of the beast
and be trampled underfoot.
Another woman mounted the beast.
Her nemeses flung many expletives at her
as she seemed to have no plan of alighting.
Their swear words are soaking into her fame
now as she is kneading her aching neck,
her pride and honour hemmed in by rigid laws.
Her 25th December is not a red letter day.
The son of a previous frontrunner
has mounted the beast, gnashing his teeth.
He wants to turn round the straight way.
He has chucked the crown of a justice
in the dustbin and dismissed it with ignominy.
He has smashed the pork barrel
into the face of his cohorts, feeding them
another unknown nourishment
like a mysterious fruit in a covert.
Bearers of the cross hardly dare open their mouths.
Will the beast put its feet up and become
visible and  untroublesome and gentle?
A hush has fallen over the crowd, its drift pendent.

Lars Mandurriao Batchoy

Lars Mandurriao batchoy can be marked out as different yet familiar: it's done to a turn, a nice warming coconut-shell of noodle soup. It has firm noodles and tasty coconut strips with a crisp texture. I love the crunch of its pork scratchings and the soup's natural coconut-y sweetness, and saltiness.

The combo of salty and sweet is one that doesn't work, but magically and deliciously does in a batchoy, I reckon. I can't get enough of it. The combo is heavenly. What's behind this phenomenon? Well, I don't know. But I think Lars Mandurriao batchoy is the tastiest breakthrough in the realm of batchoy experience in Iloilo City.

The batchoy, a union of Ilonggo tradition and modern creativity, is something rich and strange changing the templates of my consciousness. It has triggered a new understanding of the depth of who I am, someone, I've realised, who can be enticed to leave behind the sensory expectations of the familiar and take off for something new, something different.

The batchoy has granted me a return to innocence. It has not only woken up the digestion but granted me sufficient fire in the stomach for insight and for risk and adventure. 

Lars has indeed brought a touch of novelty to traditional catering without forgetting to give the batchoy gustative and visual value.


The resto is in De Leon Street in Mandurriao District, Iloilo City. 

Peter Solis Nery’s Hiligaynon orthography

an essay by Roger B Rueda

I love to accept and start to use Peter Solis Nery’s Hiligaynon orthography. For one thing, it is the smart way of conveying the Hiligaynon words. In Peter’s spelling revolution, words adopted from Spanish and English are simply adopted and used as they are. Adopting this new way of spelling in Hiligaynon is energising and exhilarating.

In Nery's Hiligaynon spelling revolution, Ilonggos may use Hiligaynon words if they are frequently used or they don't sound strange. They may use Spanish words that are part of the colloquial Hiligaynon and keep their Spanish spellings. Then they may turn to English when it is appropriate and without altering the spelling.

I think there is no way to force a word (an ancient word or a Hiligaynised one) into the Hiligaynon language at an individual level and to make sure it means what you want it to mean, so why break the oblivion and use stranger words like ‘naranja’ for ‘orange’ and ‘khaki’ for ‘brown’ and ‘keyk’ for ‘cake’ – and ‘hunghongan’ when it sounds so hoary and when using ‘telefono’ or ‘telephone’ is fine?

Linguistic purism in the Hiligaynon language is the belief that words of native origin should be used instead of Spanish- or English-derived ones. But, for me, the HIligaynon language has developed as a result of several invasions of the Panay Island in the 14th century; thus, the modern Hiligaynon language is the new epicentre of the Ilonggo experience. New things are always happening, so is the Hiligaynon language: it is reflective of the Ilonggos’intelligence and IQ upgrading culture.

The Spaniards added many words to Hiligaynon, so did the American. We cannot grope our way down the dark stairs of the pre-colonial Panay. We can’t force on ourselves the words we are unfamiliar with. We cannot sound as thick as two short planks. The modern Ilonggo can speak Spanish and English easily, well, and quickly in contrast to the Ilonggo who some writers want to promote – the Ilonggo who can’t pronounce Spanish & English words or parts of words clearly, the Ilonggo who is stupid in an age where technology allows people to talk and work with people all over the world.

Why use 'alkalde' for 'alcalde,' 'anyos' for 'años,' 'bintana' for 'ventana,' 'demokrasya' for 'democracia,' 'estudyante' for 'estudiante,' 'heneral' for 'general,' 'prinsesa' for 'princesa,' and 'telebisyon' for 'televisión' when we can use the Spanish spellings of these words?

Peter Solis Nery’s reimagining of the Hiligaynon orthography will enhance the Ilonggo life and culture shaping thoughts and emotions as it is a flash of the Ilonggo spirit. I believe it is his way of rethinking the nature of a language in the digital, connected world and opening the way to be modern and gracious to the past though HIligaynon is a little like a living thing that continues to grow. while new technologies, new products, and new experiences require new words to refer to them clearly and efficiently.

I am happy that God has blessed the West Visayas a brilliant writer like Peter Solis Nery.

Here is an example of how to write in Hiligaynon using Peter Solis Nery’s smart Ilonggo spellings:

Arrestado ang kilala nga holdupper sa ciudad sang Roxas matapos sia nga ginpaidalom sa drug buy-and-bust operation sang mga pulis.

Ginkilala ang arrestado nga si Ronilo Eribal, 36-años, sang Barangay 7, sining ciudad.

Nagpanindugan si Eribal nga indi sia pusher apang gin-aku sini nga isa sia ka user kag holdupper.

Gin-aku man sini nga sia ang nag-holdup kag nagkastigo sa isa ka babaye nga collector sang lending institution sang nagpamalibad ini nga ihatag ang dala nga bag kag naubos na ang Php 40,000 sini nga nataban.

Mahibaluan nga matapos nagpang-holdup ang sospechado, nagpaamulya ini sa provincia sang Guimaras kag didto sini gin-ubos ang cuarta nga iya nataban.

Samtang, patung-patong nga kaso naman ang pangatubangon sa karon sang sopechado nga yara na sa custodia sang mga autoridad.

Well, language will never stop changing; it will go on to respond to the needs of the people who use it. So the next time you hear a new word that grates on your ears or pronunciation or see a strange spelling, remember that like everything else in nature, the Hiligaynon language is a work in progress that is held in place in the past.

(Peter Solis Nery is West Visayas most admired writer. He is a 19-time Palanca winner and a hall of famer. He has a foundation dedicated to the promotion and development of Hiligaynon arts and culture.)