Saturday, September 29, 2018

Strong Women

A woman who isn’t afraid to break her nails
or mess up her hair to get the job done.

There’s nothing wrong with a woman being girly,
but can she withstand the hurricane?

Can she keep your head up as well as her self esteem?
Can she be independent without fully hating the male species?

Strong women remain standing after taking life’s blows.
A strong woman and a strong man form a solid bond.

If a strong woman falls, she doesn’t hesitate to rise again.
A strong woman doesn’t wait to be saved.

She saves herself and defeats her foes without mercy.
A strong woman is the woman for me.

Wonder Woman, Michelle Obama, Oprah,
Beyoncé, Lisa Simpson, Maya Angelou

And my own mom are all lodestars of strong women
whom I look up to.

Thursday, July 19, 2018

Writers Write

Writers write.
They have to,
or they wouldn’t be writers, right?
I write,
type words almost every day.
It’s not always easy
to keep the habit
when life keeps showing up
and sitting on your front porch.
But if you try to make it a habit,
a devotion with heart and loyalty,
you can be a writer.
You should not write for fame or fortune.
This would be a foolish errand.
You have to write
for the right reasons:
to have an audience in mind
and wanting to keep your words,
sentences and paragraphs on the page.
Don’t lose your edge,
your hook that keeps luring your audience,
or you’ll lose them
like fishermen losing fish to the sapphire waters.
Once you catch an audience,
keep them
or you’re no longer a writer.
You’ll be writing only for yourself
and empty seats,
like an actor only acting in an abandoned theater.
Writers write.
it’s not a math problem.
Writing is entwined in our DNA.
You can’t erase it.
A preacher practices what he preaches,
so must a writer live to his/her title
every opportunity given.
Even if it’s a few lines,
a few sentences,
or a few words…

Watch Your Words

The ink dries,
the pencil marks fade,
and the keyboard strokes can delete.
But words,
spoken or otherwise,
can strike like lightning,
or embrace you like your mother.
Choose wisely, my friends.
They sting and dig in the flesh,
deeper than Rambo’s army knife.
sharp as a sickle.
Careful what you say,
because you can’t take them back,
once they hit the atmosphere
and strike the human ear.

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Poems from a Friend: Introduction

I give you this book of poetry from me,
your closest and truest friend on the earth.
A friend is loyal,
a friend is honest,
a friend never leaves your side in your darkest hour
or when you reach your highest pinnacle.
As you take these poems with you,
you’re taking me with you.
My words speak not what you want to hear,
but what you need to hear.
If I shall perish,
you hold my heart,
my voice,
my vows,
my morals and principles.
Though my fleshy shell will deteriorate,
my words will never fade…
though these poems were meant as a means of my self-expression,
they seemed to mean a lot to readers.
Now I leave this tome of love, pain, joy and Christian faith in your hands.
Enjoy them,
keep them in your mind and spirit,
keep them close like our friendship.
Share my words with others closest to you,
so they can share them with their loved ones and so on,
so that one day practically the world will say:
“The Mad Writer is my friend!”

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Is Rain Really Tears Falling?

Is rain really tears cascading from the angels above?
Are they weeping because Death swiped another (or several) souls
and placed them inside the backpack on his back and were delivered
to the infernos of Hell instead of the rich gates of everlasting peace?
Or do they shed tears that land on the earth because of how Death grabbed the souls?
A flipped over car in the middle of the freeway,
a school shooting and the victims were students who were only trying to learn
and make something of themselves in the world.
Or maybe someone’s heart snapped as they were headed to work.
Could the angels really cry for this world of sinners?
Or could the tears belong to God’s tear ducts?
He’s weeping because the world He made in the beginning
is under the grip of corruption’s diseased hand.
Maybe His tears are meant to baptize the region which they land
and purify His children and the rest of the human race.
Is the rain really rain or tears from above?

Tuesday, May 8, 2018


You enter the room haggard,
out of breath, tear-smeared eyes,
and hair curling south and spinning east.
Most may overlook you,
but I don’t.
I hear you say you’re sick,
barely got any sleep the previous night,
and your mom just passed.
I offer a hug and weep with you
to express my condolences.
I’m sensitive.
I feel with my heart
and pick up on emotions
like a bloodhound picks up on scents.
I’m the shoulder to lean on,
I’m the counselor who sits you on my couch
and lets you purge.
Alas, sensitivity is a curse as well as a gift.
It’s rare for others to console or listen to me purge
in my various scenarios.
Although there are other sensitive people on this earth,
they are harder to find than a pirate’s buried treasure.
It’s the biggest conundrum since mumble rap.
But sensitivity is part of my nature and authenticity.
I’m the sensitive man with the ability to understand
and cope with others’ emotions.

Sunday, April 29, 2018

The Writer Never Dies (Interlude)

When paper and pen become outlawed,
my voice and thoughts will still find a way
to purge into the minds and hearts of others.
through the written form. My words and voice
will never die even when paperback and
hardcover books no longer dwell on shelves.
Like the Bible and Mr. Shakespeare,
my work will be immortal even
when my soul and heart is not
and my body becomes worm food.
I have enough stories, articles and poetry
to make an entire anthology.
The poet never dies.
The writer never dies.
The writer never dies…

Bianca, Bianca, Bianca!

Bianca, Bianca, Bianca!
One night you got dressed and deserted me,
as the whole city went into sleep mode.
I’d never hurt you

With any flamethrowers, spiked balls,
mighty swords or pistols. No sir.
I wouldn’t even hit you with my fists.

So why did you scurry off?
(Your footsteps echo in my ears).
Was it something I said?
Bianca, Bianca, Bianca!

When you’re pet fish, Francine, died,
I bought you a new one and called it Francine II.
When you were down and blue as the ocean,
I concocted some warm chicken soup.

You felt better the next day!

Bianca, Bianca, Bianca!
I’d never cheat on you.
You wanna see my phone? Go ahead.
The passcode is your birthday.

There are no other women in my life.
I only made room for you,
but I guess it wasn’t enough for ya,

You packed up all your stuff
in a red briefcase and scrammed.
I know you won’t return…
because you even took your pink toothbrush.

Your long brunette hair,
chocolate brown eyes,
and tall curved figure
don’t live here anymore.

Bianca, Bianca, Bianca!
Why did you have to go?

Thursday, April 26, 2018

Give Me a Hammer

“I’d hammer out danger/I’d hammer out a warning/I’d hammer out love between/My brothers and my sisters/All over this land”—Peter, Paul and Mary “If I Had a Hammer”

Give me a hammer
to break away the debris and battered remnants left here.
Give me some screws and nails,
to attach the missing external pieces
within this still-pumping cavity.
I have a sledgehammer,
to disintegrate the old bricks that stood here before,
because they blocked the sunshine and fresh air.
Give me a hammer
and let me repair what was damaged
by the tornado, tsunami, hurricane and earthquake.
Let me create something sturdy and withstanding
in place of the thing that was flimsy and unstable with my hammer.   

Thursday, April 5, 2018

My Journey

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” –Psalm 23: 1

Don’t expect me to go in the same trenches
you went in when you were my age.
Don’t expect me to follow the same path you did.
Your advice is wisdom for the library inside my brain.

Your faith and relationship with God motivates me.
But I have to dig deep inside the caverns of myself
and unlock my own faith.
The road I’ll tread on will be merciless.

I’ll stumble into valleys,
but discover myself in that shadow.
The Lord will comfort me.
Don’t expect me to be you.

You found your authentic self in the fire.
I’m searching for and holding on to the pieces
of my authenticity as I travel.
But like Usher said, I do it my way.

This is my life!
You can’t live it for me.
I’m moving along as steady as I can.
It won’t always be green pastures or still waters.

But the storm won’t last always either
because joy will clean me in the morning.
Jesus puts the coals in my soul
to keep my fire steaming.

When men/women meet and leave me,
I’ll still have Him and I have no intention
of leaving Him behind,
just like how He stayed by my side

On those cold lonely nights,
when my ride was on delay
and the moon was up high.
When the rain was extra wet and cold,

He was my umbrella.
When the sweltering sun roasted my forehead,
He was my lean tree of shade.