A poem for Tootsie J., a very committed writer in the Bicol Region

Pen

Ink, like rivers,

rumble within hearing distance

from our fears.

Not all get moved

though everybody hears

but we all learned

that thoughts on paper

have the power of the sea.

Like tears,

ink cleanses the eyes

of our standpoints;

merges with the downpour

on the streets

and seeks our home of meanings

that is water.

.

Like blood, ink is life

when a story is told

about the sons

and daughters

of farmers

or of urban poor job seekers

wishing to send their kids to U.P.

or Ateneo

or to the nearest university;

or when a story is told

about children dying of dengue

without medical attention;

or about mothers giving birth

in the vicinity of stress

and death;

Like arrows, pens mark

and monitor

the infinity of our longing

or angst

or torment

or ecstacy

or all of the above

over the rumblings

ignored and lost

over our turtle steps

over our hopes

towards a new geography.

Copyright ©2009 Francia C. Clavecillas

A writer's huge income is on the psychic plane. The writer I am dedicating this humble poem to has written a lot on the aspect of local history and social consciousness. This poem is a tribute to him and a wish that he get well soon.