Saturdays are Hell days for me. My classes start from 8:00 A.M and end at 8:00 PM. There is a one hour lunch break, a 3-hour class, a 4-hour class and the dreaded final period... a whooping 5-hour class! To make matters worse, I am insomniac and I really find it hard to wake up early no matter how I try to sleep early. Trust me. Been there, been that says Ms. Marquez. Therefore, in order for me to get to class @8 AM, I would keep myself awake the whole Friday night up until Saturday morning. So, while most people love and live for Saturdays, I effin' hate it! Usually, I would be soooo pooped by the end of the classes that I could barely make time for my customary night cup of coffee. I thought today would be hell incarnate. After all the shit that has happened, what with the car break downs and accident I got in to, throw in some conundrums in my chest, it could have easily been a torturous day. Surprisingly, while I sipped my night cup of coffee at my favored spot, inspiration hit me. I grabbed my pen, and viola! Two pieces came out of my indefatigable pen. Pardon the rough first draft, but here they are. Rainbow colored chuvaneskenitications!
First Rainbow
Poetry
This Is How My Kisses Die
By: Luis Batchoy
The skies are cheeks rouged red, perhaps, lipstick smudges
From the million kisses I have blown you.
It aggravates the orange blast from the gasping demise
Of a golden yellow sun's final soliloquy.
I am certain that the outstretched branches of a huge
Mango tree snatched a few wayward kisses too.
Now, its boughs are laden
With yet unripe heart shaped fruits.
Branches droop, somber leaves brushing
The Carabao grass. They trade whispers, I suspect,
Of the kisses and of that epitaph I carved
On the trunk; initials bordered with an arrow pierced heart.
How these pass from blade to blade, green to green
And how the grass shed dewdrop tears.
These drops too, shall homeward bound be, to the sea,
In turn to tell the tale by waves, to the gritty sand
In a habit of shores, blue notes sung to the winds.
Oh how the wind knows of these indigo dreams,
Nay, fantasies, as the color suggests that of watered down
Violets or purples; the color of blood clots.
If this then, be a cosmic conspiracy,
Why can the wind not simply chill and kill
Every kiss I have for you before they even leave my lips?
After all, you never seem to see the colors emanate from me.
Yes, beloved, I too, am a rainbow.
By: Luis Batchoy
The skies are cheeks rouged red, perhaps, lipstick smudges
From the million kisses I have blown you.
It aggravates the orange blast from the gasping demise
Of a golden yellow sun's final soliloquy.
I am certain that the outstretched branches of a huge
Mango tree snatched a few wayward kisses too.
Now, its boughs are laden
With yet unripe heart shaped fruits.
Branches droop, somber leaves brushing
The Carabao grass. They trade whispers, I suspect,
Of the kisses and of that epitaph I carved
On the trunk; initials bordered with an arrow pierced heart.
How these pass from blade to blade, green to green
And how the grass shed dewdrop tears.
These drops too, shall homeward bound be, to the sea,
In turn to tell the tale by waves, to the gritty sand
In a habit of shores, blue notes sung to the winds.
Oh how the wind knows of these indigo dreams,
Nay, fantasies, as the color suggests that of watered down
Violets or purples; the color of blood clots.
If this then, be a cosmic conspiracy,
Why can the wind not simply chill and kill
Every kiss I have for you before they even leave my lips?
After all, you never seem to see the colors emanate from me.
Yes, beloved, I too, am a rainbow.
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