Rainwriting on the Earth

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

The first drops fall like whispers on the tin roof,

hesitant, as if testing the rust, slipping through the gaps

where old nails have loosened, where time has unstitched the seams.

The island has been too dry for too long—

grass turned to brittle thread, soil cracked like parched lips,

trees standing with their arms lifted, begging the sky.

The wind has been cruel, carrying heat in its teeth,

flinging dust against walls, against bare backs,

against restless nights where even sleep burns.

But now, the rain comes—soft at first,

like a child’s breath on a windowpane, then steady, then all at once,

its weight pressing the world back into itself.

It drowns the dust, darkens the sand,

makes a river of the road where footsteps vanish.

The air thickens with the scent of damp earth,

with the coolness that moves through the house

like a long-lost song, slipping through open windows,

past curtains stiff with heat, past the rim of a forgotten glass.

It settles on skin like a memory,

and suddenly, it is not just rain—it is childhood again,

bare feet on wet ground, puddles swallowed by small running steps.

It is the taste of rainwater caught in cupped hands,

the sound of laughter breaking through thunder,

the sky leaning in, heavy, close,

seen through the blur of a summer storm.

The island drinks deeply, its thirst momentarily quenched,

and so does the heart, opening like cracked earth

to the promise of green.

Because this rain is more than water; it is return,

it is remembrance. It is proof that even in the driest seasons,

the sky does not forget how to give.

The Turning Mechanism

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Life is a factory of trials,

a slow-moving belt where hands, warm or calloused,

reach for what is given—water or stone.

Some wake to the scent of morning,

to the hush of bread rising, the soft swell

of a child’s breath against their skin.

Some wake to hunger, to doors bolted shut,

to the weight of nights that bear no answers,

only the hard arithmetic of survival.

Here, love moves like a thread through linen,

pulling strangers into the shape of a family.

Here, love is a lamp in a hallway,

left burning for someone still finding their way home.

But the machine does not run on love alone.

In another room, the air is thick with iron,

words sharpened like cutlery, the cold press of rage

against a ribcage.

Some hoard light and call it power,

lock the doors and count their victories

in the ruin of others. Some burn bridges

and call the ashes justice.

The machine does not choose.

It only turns, rusted and relentless,

offering a thousand doors—each one a question,

each one an answer waiting to be made.

And always, the choice:

to close a fist, or to open it.

To build a wall, or to break it.

To love, or to leave love waiting.

The machine does not wait.

But you do.

A Letter of Apology

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

To those I have hurt—
like a glass knocked over in my hurry,
spilling more than I meant to,
shattering in places
I never thought to check—
I am sorry.
I am sorry for the times
I failed to understand,
for when I listened but did not hear,
like wind through curtains,
a passing thing,
weightless, insubstantial,
gone before it could settle.
For when I saw but did not truly look—
glancing over your grief
as if it were a street sign
I passed too quickly,
as if your silence was just
another shadow in the room.
I was careless with my words,
like a hand reaching too fast,
knocking the delicate off its shelf.
Reckless with my actions,
like a driver who assumes
the road will always clear for him.
I am sorry for my stubbornness,
for standing my ground
as if I were the only one
who deserved to stand there.
For the moments
I could not step aside,
could not give way,
could not let go—
even when my hands
ached from holding too tight.
I held onto my pride
like an old coat,
mistaking it for warmth
when it was only weight.
Mistaking it for armor
when it was only rust.
I am sorry for the times
I was too much—
a room filled with too many voices,
a radio blaring static.
And for the times I was too little—
a chair left empty,
a name unspoken,
a space you did not know
how to fill.
I am sorry for the tantrums,
for the sharp edge of my voice,
for the way I threw my anger
like a stone into still water,
rippling outward
long after I had forgotten
what made me throw it.
For the times
I let my emotions
crash through doors
instead of knocking,
for when I let my own storms
flood the rooms we shared.
I was foolish.
I was selfish.
I was human—
but in the way a fire is,
devouring all before it
realizes it is alone.
If I could gather the things I broke,
if I could take back the things I said,
if I could mend what I have damaged,
I would.
But time does not run backward,
and apologies are not erasers,
only offerings.
So this is mine—
a small thing, perhaps.
But honest.
And I hope,
in some way,
enough.

Philippine English: A Lingua Franca or a Lingua Fracta?

by Roger B. Rueda, PhD

Let us not kid ourselves. If English is the language of the learned, then Philippine English is the language of the undaunted. It defies grammar, bulldozes syntax, and mangles pronunciation—all with the confidence of a student who forgot to study but still raises their hand in class.

Now, I have no problem with linguistic evolution. After all, language is a living, breathing entity—unlike some politicians I know, who, despite being politically alive, are intellectually comatose. But when English in the Philippines starts resembling a linguistic crime scene, complete with the butchering of tenses and the massacre of idioms, we must draw the line.

A Nation of English Speakers—Sort Of

Ah, yes, we Filipinos pride ourselves on our English proficiency. We wear it like a badge of honor, proudly declaring, “We are the third-largest English-speaking country in the world!”—never mind that some of us pronounce "video" as beydyow and "aircon" as if it were a life form.

We are so creative with our English that we have gifted the world with uniquely Filipino expressions—so unique, in fact, that only Filipinos understand them. For instance:

“Let’s eat first.” As opposed to what? Eating second? Eating last? “Fill up this form.” Are we inflating it like a balloon? No, dear reader, we fill out a form, unless the form is an empty swimming pool. “Can you repeat again?” Ah, yes, because once is never enough. “The traffic is so traffic!” Ladies and gentlemen, this is redundancy squared.

And then there is the greatest linguistic crime of them all: “For a while, sir.” This is our version of “Please hold,” usually uttered by customer service agents who then proceed to disappear into another dimension, never to return.

Survival of the Linguistically Fittest

To make matters worse, we have an elite breed of English speakers in our midst—the kind who insist on "British English" or "American English" as if they are choosing between tea and coffee. These are the people who say, “Oh, I only use British spelling”, yet pronounce schedule with an American accent.

Meanwhile, our local institutions have fully embraced their own linguistic inventions:

“Masteral” degree. This word does not exist in any English-speaking country, but in the Philippines, it is a proud academic milestone. “Bedspace” and “bedspacer.” Because apparently, in this country, we do not rent rooms—we rent the air above the bed. “Aircon.” In any English-speaking nation, this is an adjective—air-conditioned. But in the Philippines, we have transformed it into a noun, a verb, and possibly, a way of life.

English, But Make It Filipino

And let us not forget our national pastime: inventing words and pretending they belong in the dictionary.

“Traffic” – In English, this is a noun (There is heavy traffic). In the Philippines, it is an adjective, a noun, and possibly a state of mind (It’s so traffic!). “Topnotcher” – A word Filipinos love, but which confuses the world. In the West, they have toppers, high scorers, valedictorians—but no topnotchers. “Colorum” – Originally Latin, but in the Philippines, it now refers to illegal public vehicles. Because why should Latin remain dead when we can repurpose it?

Of course, the greatest crime of all is the phrase "I cannot cope up." This monstrosity has no place in any civil society. You cope with something—you do not cope up unless you are trying to reach a high shelf.

A Plea for Sanity

Do not misunderstand me. Philippine English is a marvel, a linguistic cocktail of creativity and resilience. But if we are to claim global competence, we must at least attempt linguistic coherence.

So the next time you hear someone say, "I am good in English," please, for the love of Oxford, remind them—you are good at English, not in it. Unless, of course, they are physically standing inside an English textbook.

Let us speak English, not invent it.

 

The Betrayal of Merit

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Summa Cum Laude is a crown,

polished by long nights under library lamps,

its weight pressing against a skull

filled with theories, equations, words

that blur into the dawn.

A distinction, a bright flare against

the ordinary—gold ink on paper,

a name called into a microphone,

applause rolling like waves, then fading

into the tide of forgotten honors.

It is an honor—so they say—

stitched onto résumés, printed on

certificates framed in glass,

displayed in houses where dust

settles just the same.

A mark of excellence, the pinnacle

of scholarly pursuit. But is it always?

Sometimes, it is a stroke of luck,

a decimal rounding in one’s favor,

a professor who sees promise

where another sees only effort.

Sometimes, it is just a matter

of chance, a dance of circumstances—

a schedule without distractions,

a semester without grief,

a mind unburdened by hunger

or homesickness, or love

that comes at the wrong time.

The brightest minds do not always

wear the medal; sometimes,

the medal finds its way

to those who slip through

the cracks of expectation,

who fall upward into the light.

A fraction of a point, a forgiving professor,

an exam taken on the right day,

when the brain was a river

instead of a drought—

luck, disguised as merit.

And so, the act betrays

the taxonomy of brilliance,

makes it a construct,

a shifting thing,

a phantom in a borrowed robe.

Not being a Summa Cum Laude

is not a disgrace, nor is it

a mark of mediocrity.

It is a label, too—

just one less spoken,

one less gilded in the mouths

of parents at dinner tables.

Sometimes, it is the product

of a single misstep—

a question misread,

a deadline missed

by the width of a second,

a flu that turned a final exam

into a fever dream.

Some walk in the shadows

of the ordinary, but others—

just as luminous, just as relentless—

are merely misplaced

by time and chance,

by a professor who saw

what was written

but not what was meant,

by a moment that slipped

between fingers reaching

for something grander.

Their brilliance does not dull

in the absence of a title;

instead, it flares defiantly,

like a match struck in the dark,

a fire that burns outside the margins

of certificates, diplomas, programs.

And so, the act betrays

the taxonomy of the ordinary,

for some rise beyond the weight

of distinctions, become something

uncatalogued, unmeasured, undeniable.

The world, then, is a potpourri

of contradictions—

where the summa falls

and the silent ascend,

where brilliance is neither

the name on the program

nor the tassel turned

but the thing that endures,

long after the last

clap has faded.

What Remains in the End

    a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You sit in your chair, wrapped

in silk that once meant power,

now just fabric over bones

too brittle to carry your name.

Your hands, shaking,

trace the edges of ledgers,

the ink fading like faces

you no longer bother to recall.

The house smells of incense,

burning slow, curling into prayers

you mouth but do not mean.

The medicine stings, metallic,

a last attempt at holding on.

You pray, yes. You pray

for salvation, for a heaven

that will not count the debts,

that will not ask where the bodies lie.

But you do not pray

for the daughter who left,

who will not return to empty hands.

You do not pray

for the friends turned to dust,

for the clerks who worked

your fortune into their hunger.

You speak of wisdom,

as if it has ever touched you.

Of righteousness,

as if you have ever followed it.

Of God’s will,

as if you have ever bowed

to anything but your own.

Your mind is a battlefield

where no one fights back.

Your enemies are ghosts,

but still, you sharpen your teeth.

You call their names in silence,

chew on revenge

as if it were bread.

Even now, with the world dimming,

with death pressing close,

you do not wonder

if kindness might have kept

your hands warm, if love

might have been

the better inheritance.

You do not see

that the maid pours your tea

without looking, that the nurse

checks your pulse

as if counting coins.

You do not see

that when you speak,

the room holds its breath,

not out of reverence,

but to let your voice pass.

You are dying,

but not of sickness.

You are dying of hunger—

not for food, not for breath,

but for more. More time.

More power. More proof

that your name will outlive

the silence you have built.

And when you are gone,

the house will sigh in relief.

The ledgers will curl at the edges,

turning to dust between fingers

that do not care for your sums.

The world will not pause.

The doors will be left open,

the wind slipping through,

taking only what it needs.

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3Gabriel Ceralvo Delariarte and 2 others

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