BARD & BRAIN

The following piece was inspired by a conversation I had with a great friend and writing mentor who was grieving the loss of a loved one. Soon, the conversation turned philosophical.

He said: “If I had not loved, I would not be in deep pain now.” I replied, “Yes, but you will also not have the memories you now cherish in your heart.” The conversation went on. Then, I murmured: “In the end, like the ones who had gone before us, we will just be a memory in the heart of those we will leave behind.”

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Memory

Why turn away from the rainbow
Just because it is ephemeral
When you can admire it while it lasts
And think of it when the thunder blasts?

Why deny yourself the beauty of the fugacious blossom
Just because you know that it would wilt very soon
When like the story you are reading
You too, will arrive at an inevitable ending?

At life’s final courtain,
We are all just but a precious memory.

But pray tell me:

What good is a memory
If there’s no one to remember?

It’s worse than passing on this earth
Without leaving a trail.

It’s like a carefully chosen gift
Without a recipient.

//Sherma E. Benosa; 20 November 2008; 11:09am

Photo taken at Magat Dam, Ramon, Isabela by SEB on 08 October 2008.

I have yet to deal with a government agency that comes close to receiving a passing grade from me. For some reason, many of our government offices (if not all) seem to consider being efficient and giving excellent service such an unbecoming act by a public servant.

Case in point: phone manners

Call them up for something that does not even require a technical expertise, and it would take you at least three days before your phone call gets answered (in many agencies, this is not an exaggeration). And if, for some miracle, someone does pick up your call, that person would tell you the one who could answer your query or concern is not in the office. He or she would then proceed to tell you to call the next day, or the following week, without even trying to understand what your problem is (as he or she would cut you while you are explaining your predicament), and without even pausing to reflect if your problem is something he or someone else in the office could actually attend to.

This has happened to me many times, and it has just happened a few minutes ago. It’s just so annoying.

I’ve worked in different private offices for almost a decade (eight years to be exact), and while I’ve seen some weaknesses in their systems as well, they’re nothing compared to what we experience from government offices. For one, calls you make to private offices are almost always answered. Missed calls are returned. And, people who take calls, even if they are not the one in charged (of whatever your concern is), would always listen to you and see if someone else can come to your aide. If the person you are looking for is away (and you really need to talk to that particular person), they would take your number and would ask the person to make a return call.

Sadly, I have yet to experience being afforded that kind of courtesy from any government office. To think that I am among the millions of taxpayers who are paying for their salaries.

On days when gloom seems to take up a semi-permanent residence in all the corners of your heart; when all the windows are closed and there seems no other way out; when everyone is gone and all you have is the wretched company of hopelessness; may you not forget the promise of the open door:

that it shall stay there, somewhere along the dark, cold corridors of your life; right next to the rubbles of your shattered dreams; at the bottom of the quicksand that seems to swallow you whole; to lead your unrelenting hope to the welcoming arms of realization, where your dreams shall give birth to fruition.

Keep walking, my friend, no matter that your steps at times stagger, for only by not stopping in your search will you be able to find the door that’s been left wide open for you somewhere.

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Copyright 2008 by Sherma Espino Benosa.

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In collaboration with Jumel Pineda Chua (http://gmacomics.wordpress.com).

View Jumel’s “Pathway” photo that inspired the text here.

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Writing Details: //Sherma E. Benosa; 08 November, 2008; 12:04pm

Summer reigns
In your lips,
But I see flickers
Of autumn
In your eyes.

The lid
Of your anguish
Is tightly clasped,
But the tempest
That dwells inside
Bares the parody
Of your smile.

Let it waver —
The warden
Of the enigma
That’s begging
To be set free

And deny not
The candor of the
Tiny slivers of your soul;
Let them
Narrate their story.

For while your pen
Continues to scribble
Songs of love,
The paper you write on
Keeps in its folds
The piercing cries
Of your heart.

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//Sherma E. Benosa
05 November 2008; 1:30am

I see reflections of your glory
In the still waters of your peace
Beckoning me to look deep
Into the calming shades of
Your humming silence.

Like a breeze,
I sway with the soft hues
Of your warm embrace.
My senses attuned to the scent
Of your magnificence.

My spirit begs to dive deep
Into your still waters
For a closer glimpse
Of the gift of inspiration
Swimming freely in your bosom.

My hands long to touch the
Face of your splendor
And trace the contours of your
Dreamy color.

But nay!
I shall not disturb
The tranquility of your smile.
Like a precious dream,
You are not to be tainted
By the imperfections
Of my errant thoughts.

I shall just watch you from afar —
A soft sigh escaping my enthralled lips
Each time your glow sows
Inspiration in my depths.

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Copyright 2008 by Sherma E. Benosa

Inspired by JumelPinedaChua’s  Father and Son Bonding picture.

Writing Details: Sherma E. Benosa; 31 October 2008; 12:17pm

Personal Note from the Author: While it seems that the poem removed from the picture the father and the son, they’re actually still very much in there. In the picture, the little boy’s head is tilted in such a way that suggests he is deeply enthralled by the magnificent performance (no less than by nature) he is witnessing. And so, it is from the boy’s heart that the words of the poem emanate. In my mind, the voice in the poem is that of the boy.

As individuals and as parents, Mom and Dad are by no means perfect. Just like any other parents, they, too, have their own weaknesses. But as their child, I admire how well they have played their roles. Here are some of the things I appreciate about them.

1. I appreciate that they always listened to us. And not only that, they solicited our opinions. Even when we were still in our elementary years, our voices were already heard on family matters. Like for example, they would ask us if we should get a house help. They would share the pros and cons, and ask us if we could add to the list. Then, we would decide as a family. When we were in high school and we were beginning to become financially burdened, we made together the decision to swap our residential land to an agricultural one so Dad could farm it.

And when one of us kids commit mistake, we were always given time to air our side and explain our actions. Only after we all have spoken would there be a decision as to the kind of punishment we would be meted out.

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Like other bloggers who have been blogging for sometime, I also sometimes blurt out words in my posts that seem to carry with them a tinge of wisdom.

That is not to say I am wise, though; oh no. But I do recognize that there have been moments that my fingers type things that I would have sworn I had nothing to do with had I not known they came from inside of me, like whispered thoughts.

I am sharing some of them here. I hope you find some truth in them.

I would never claim originality of the thoughts, as I am aware some of them may reflect some wisdom that may have been around since time immemorial. I claim originality of the words though, as they have flowed out not just from my mind, but my heart as well.

Here we go:

;

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Dear Failure,

I tried to court Success, but I guess she wasn’t looking when I jumped.

So though she was sitting right next to you, it was your torn net that caught me — sending me spiraling fast

down…

down

to the dark abyss of your trap.

Hearing an echoing thud, you hurry to me, imagining me lying on my hearse — still breathing, but already dead.

In your mind, you hear a dirge. You imagine the sky darkening as it wails.

Your phantom voice whispers for me to keep still, beckoning me to hug the misery of your embrace, urging me to welcome Death’s cold, unfeeling kiss.

You sing to me your eerie songs of despair, filling my heart with thoughts of nothingness.

Slowly, I succumb to your numbing company.

But now I see Success peering through your unsightly crevice — calling out to me; reaching out to me. Holding out to me Hope and the beauty of her dreams.

Weep! Weep, Angel of Darkness! Weep, for I was yours, but only for a fleeting moment.
Weep and wallow in your wretched defeat because once again, you lived up to your stinking name…

… and I in mine.

I am,

Survivor

(Original version is in poetry form.)

For someone who had always had everything he needed, even if he had to work hard for it, imagining how it is like to be poor in the real sense of the word would be very difficult. It requires one to experience getting on in an empty stomach to know how it’s like not to have a roof over one’s head, or to send your kids to sleep without supper. Seeing emptiness on the eyes of people whose only possession is ‘nothing’ would never be enough to comprehend the desperation and the self-pity that set in in them who subsist on almost nothing.

I’ve been poor myself. No, not the kind of poor that required me to walk on streets to beg for alms, but I’ve experienced not eating three square meals a day. And I tell you, it was so hard, it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about the things my family and I had to go through.

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She floats like an eagle

And whispers like the breeze.

She soars high like hope;

She’s calm like peace.

She’s a storm when she rages;

A nightingale when she sings.

She is sadness when she wails

And bliss when she beams.

She is a small step that leaps;

The blood that travels in the veins.

She is a cool wind that revives;

A fire that warms and lightens.

She minds not the frail body,

She roams beyond the horizon’s end;

She dives into the depths of the oceans

And breathes out of the pools within.

Dainty like the clouds in summer

She is a flower, wild and carefree;

She is a raindrop in spring

Her beauty’s not for the eyes to see.

She is a touch that heals,

And a love that pulsates.

She is a melody that beats;

A poetry that resonates.

Inspired by a great post. Read it here.

//Sherma E. Benosa

12 April 2008; 3:02pm