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Turbo (*, *)
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Male - *, United States
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Updated: 2022-09-14 5:39:02 pm Viewed 544 times Likes 6

When the sun goes down the cool and salty wind ruffled her thin white dress, but it also made the dress caress her body. She looked so beautiful and alluring. The slight smell of the sea wafts in the air, and the soothing rhythmic sound of the waves relaxes me. The coconut fronds dance slightly in the wind. I grabbed my wife’s hand and thanked her for saving my soul. She just looked at me and smiled.

 

It’s so honest. Unfortunately those pristine cultures seem to be at thresholds where they will lose integral pieces that define who the people are. It is a bit sad to see the old timers fall into reverie and lament the course of history as they watch conventions disappear for good. Perhaps the fond memories take a little sting away while their hearts are heavy.  Sometimes some things must end and not to be.  

found the whole documentary fascinating.  After watching several documentaries like that, I get the impression the survival of pristine cultures are often tenuous.  The older people watch as the younger people eschew the old ways of life and lament the future might not be connected to the past.  

 

 

 

I am a lonely poor poet in a big world looking for my concept of home where I am safe and contented, for everything around me changes like the ebb and flow of the sea.  I search for the constant in a society of variables to anchor my soul and peer into the dark night sky full of luminous stars to see if my daughter is riding in her golden chariot exploring the wonders of the universe without restrictions and time limits.  She was taken too early from us.  Perhaps we will meet again and see each other for eternity.  That would be nice.

 

Sometimes the delightful moments disappeared before I knew they were even there. Oh, if I only had the wisdom to be more perceptive and less stupid. I have only myself to blame. My regrets are many and some are deep. Forever I will keep.

 

 

THE FRUIT MARKET AND THE MUD CRAB

I often went to the local fruit market in Angeles City, Philippines with my father on Saturdays. It was a lazy affair as we wore shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops. My father often wore shirts with holes much to the dismay of my prim and proper mother who scolded him for his poor taste in attire. He had a confident look and a twinkle in his eyes as he put on his flip flops. I think my father had a special liking to the fruit market for various reasons.  It was a social event as well.  It was a place to rekindle relationships with his favorite fruit peddlers.

He was in his element. The market is an interesting and dusty place of old stalls covered with different colored vegetables and fruits. Vendors tried to make eye contact and smile as we strolled down the main street of the market. Were the vegetables and fruits harvested from farms or picked from the wild? I did not know. He talked and smiled with his favorite fruit sellers and became reacquainted with them again.

My father was keen on buying new fruits to check out their flavors and textures. I can say with no hesitation that we found new, interesting, and tasty fruits unknown to us. Fruits whose names I have forgotten. Some looked quite odd like they were alien eggs from outer space, perhaps they had profusion of seeds or large seeds, and they all had a unique taste. The Philippines possesses such a vast array of exotic and eccentric fruits.  It was quite a treat for us when we ate them for dessert.  The sweetest fruit I have eaten is called the Filipino Pear if my memory is correct.  I tasted like pure sugar.  We got our supply from the neighbor’s overhanging branches.

The market was my father’s coliseum, and he was in the culinary gladiatorial game of bargaining over the price of fruits and vegetables. He loved the jousting and bargaining as he put on his poker face and the vendor did as well. I watched with mild interest as they would go back and forth over a few centavos as if it really meant something. They would feign disgust with each other and pretend to be upset and make faces to accentuate their intense loathing for each other. It looked more like negotiations in a hostile takeover of a corporation instead of bargaining for a clump of small yellow bananas. The price was finally agreed upon and the deal was finally made. Both parties would invariably smile and shake hands. My father got fruits and the vendor got money. Now they mutually liked each other again. I kind of liked the market and its dealings although my father was more amused than me. 

One day at the fruit market a vendor peddled large mud crabs.  Perhaps they were 8 inches wide. My father took the rational approach of buying one crab to conduct a culinary test. Its claws were bound by cheap rope made of long grass, and my father told me to hold the crab as we drove to our house. My father’s odd antique car was too old to have an air conditioner, so we opened the windows. There was not much respite from the hot wind that day as it entered the car, but it ruffled my hair.    

Of course, I was curious about the large mud crab, and I visually examined it. Then I played with it a bit. That sucker had enough mobility to pinch one of my fingers. The pain was so very intense and excruciating. However, I was more afraid of my dad than the crab. I was screaming silently and sat in agony. He focused on driving and proceeded to talk with me, oblivious to my torture.

The hot air continued to blow into the car and the streets of Angeles looked like a blur because I cared about nothing but my finger in that huge claw. I know I was a boy, a stupid boy, throw rocks at me. After what seemed like an eternity of writhing in pain, the beast relented and gave me my finger back. I learned my lesson. Don't screw with large mud crabs. Never do that.

 

 

If only I knew to savor the moments in the Philippines.

I was too dull to foresee.

But sometimes I am lucky in reverie.

I rue there is nothing left for me.

Except in distant dreams.

I smile about some memories.

If only I had more time in the Philippines.

That is home to me.

But somethings are not meant to be.

I will love her for an eternity.


 

I AM GOLD

I sit and lean against a tree.
My jeans get dirty.
I lose myself. 
My mind is kind of clear in the simplicity.   

The forest tolerates my intrusion.  
I want to feel love despite my broken soul.  
I become small part of the world.
Time is a meaningless concept.  

Sunshine glitters through the trees.
It warms my broken heart.
Clouds float slowly above.
Leaves flutter and whisper to me.  Ken we are here.

The wind cools my cheeks.
Sweet smell of wildflowers waft in the air.
I absorb the beauty of the world.
This is a stationary journey.

There is brilliance around me.
Beauty in its raw state. 
Today might be a good day.
Perhaps I will find myself again.


 

THE OLD MAN

Wrinkles like dry river creeks

His face weather beaten

Love and sorrow fills his heart

But his end will come soon

 

There is not much left to do

He sees the future before it comes

Every minute is an eternity

He waits quietly

 

He is an old man

But there is still a little boy deep inside of him

Until he becomes no more

On his last breath will he see the sun or the stars?

 

 

 

 

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