Walking without shoes

Walking without shoes

Joey Clutario

When I was ten and the world

revolved around cartoons, and candies

and little nonsense, I said to myself:

I will run to the field without

my shoes on. I will catch crickets

and would put them inside jars,

tighten the lid, watch them slowly

suffocate. And I would feel their heart

Beating inside me. Suddenly breathing

will seem hard. My father will come

and see what I’ve been doing. He will get

angry and will beat me with his leather

belt—its buckles will hit my hips until

they are striped. His knuckles would

brush heavily on my face again.

He’ll take me home while the crickets

resound in the field. While mother

stirs the pumpkin soup, father would

take the rag to the kitchen, grabbing

it with his fists tight, dunk it with force, water

bursting into the air, then wipe my feet very hard.

He would say, “what did I tell you about your shoes!”

But it’s too big for me. Too heavy.

He always tells me to never leave without

shoes on.

FOR THE POET OPHELIA ALCANTARA DIMALANTA (June 16, 1934- November 4, 2010)

For the poet, author, editor, and teacher of teachers Dr. Ophelia Dimalanta.

"The older you become and the more mature your art becomes,

the more you realize that you have your own identity."

-- Ophelia Dimalanta

***

A Man (from Abel's Bride)

Denise Levertov

'Living a life'—

the beauty of deep lines

dug in your cheeks.

The years gather by sevens

to fashion you. They are blind,

but you are not blind.

Their blows resound,

they are deaf, those laboring

daughters of the Fates,

but you are not deaf,

you pick out

your own song from the uproar

line by line,

and at last throw back

your head and sing it.

***

What I wanted for us:

What I wanted for us:

by Joey Clutario

An oak bungalow,

perhaps,

built on a cliff― facing the sea―

(like a lighthouse cut short)

painted in stark white―

never stained―

shed roof ―except, of course,

on the living room: glass ceiling―

just like how you wanted it.

A pastel-clear canvass in mind:

how you loved to star-gaze

every night, always

reminding me that even the most

beautiful star dies. There,

I could stare endlessly

watching them, from the living room―say,

while I lie on the cherry carpet,

or while I enjoy dinner.

I could close my eyes and see

you in the morning―warmed

by the oceanic sun from the French windows―

we’re like a holy couple awakening―

our pure nakedness half obscured―

your sun-stricken hair halos the calmness

of your face―morning angel right under the sheets.

Life will be there.

And there,

I could stare endlessly.

When the skies reflect the color of your eyes

I could go out, watch the seagulls from afar―

the gentle rush of breeze against my face―

the ocean singing to a little boy, hush

while with a force it collides

toward the cliff

where like our souls

we

drift.

What I wanted for us:

What I wanted for us:

by Joey Clutario

An oak bungalow,

perhaps,

built on a cliff― facing the sea―

(like a lighthouse cut short)

painted in stark white―

never stained―

shed roof ―except, of course,

on the living room: glass ceiling―

just like how you wanted it.

A pastel-clear canvass in mind:

how you loved to star-gaze

every night, always

reminding me that even the most

beautiful star dies. There,

I could stare endlessly

watching them, from the living room―say,

while I lie on the cherry carpet,

or while I enjoy dinner.

I could close my eyes and see

you in the morning―warmed

by the oceanic sun from the French windows―

we’re like a holy couple awakening―

our pure nakedness half obscured―

your sun-stricken hair halos the calmness

of your face―morning angel right under the sheets.

Life will be there.

And there,

I could stare endlessly.

When the skies reflect the color of your eyes

I could go out, watch the seagulls from afar―

the gentle rush of breeze against my face―

the ocean singing to a little boy, hush

while with a force it collides

toward the cliff

where like our souls

we

drift.

Ocean II

Ocean II

Joey Clutario

You

pull me

up at constant

highs, drowning

myself with your

pulling or pushing me

away to lifeless shores

where all is destroyed by me―

My serenity. Rotating around

each other―you and me

each pulling the other

towards itself. (You

attract every piece of

matter in me) Rigid.

You deform me

successfully.