right across

shall we take a quiet walk together?

The ways we go

Two nights ago, I dreamed of pulling a tooth---
two, an incisor and a molar.  There would have been
third, but in the dream it stopped being loose---

and I woke up distraught.  Dreams of teeth

are not good in this country of dreamers, they mean
death.  I spent the rest of the hours watching
for light.  Morning, she tells me, 

death in the family, but it could also mean simply

change

exactly the way I was told the first time
a reader explained the cards before reading.
A transition, she had said, gesturing at a cup.

What do I know?  What do I know?

I called my mother in the dark of morning
she replied, pray.
In the corner I watch the stillness and the quiet

Who knows?  Who knows?

J-- had a stroke of luck right after our meeting, 
and passed away.  A woman with terminal cancer
brought her oxygen tank to listen to a poetry reading.

The Danish neighbour hit the truck at the freeway

the same day my new motorcycle arrived.
His wife and months-old child I had greeted just that morning,
and she had spoken kindly to the dogs.

Who knows?  Who knows?

There is an envelope upstairs waiting for the last paper.
There could be a leaving, but do I dare 
finally go?

woman across sea

A sandbar connects us.  That disappears and appears according to the tide. We are two islands whose distance from each other bridgeable by whoever chooses to take the boat and paddle it across the shore.

on mystic writing

I.

another detail i recall:  her side of the bed is
side-by-side with a patch of leaves of grass.

this is another house.  not the same one
that had appeared in too many dreams, 

like a puzzle.


II. 

roger, the mystic says, do i not keep
a journal of dreams.  no, i say, no.

we are surrounded by dark green walls
in the middle of a steak house. it is noon.

how did the conversation move to dreams?
i tell him of the house that appears

recurring in my dreams, now for years.


III.

this house, stands at the edge of a land, looks
at a body of water. on its feet a lake, bay, or beach.

right of the house, a cliff.  where on one dream, 
i was standing on when i saw the house.

left, pebbly driveway where i manoeuvred 
my motorbike on another dream.

the driveway, next to a boundary wall.  
the driveway aligned to a small bamboo cottage

by the lip of the water.  in one dream, 
i was in a group beach picnic when i looked up

and saw the house is whitewashed wood.
with a large glass window on its forehead.

european design, but the location 
philippine. "two-storey?" roger asks.  

"yes," i say,
"and with a balcony up front."

he laughs.


IV.

it exists, he says.  
after the description in detail.
european house, by a lake in bukidnon.
cliffs, yes, driveway too.
and the short rocky, pebbly slope
to the lip of the water.
right, even the cottage.
an artists' retreat.
housed at one time, a poet.
in another, a painter.
heavy furniture imported 
all the way from germany.
constructed in 2011.
been there.
with g* and p*, he says. 
we took photos.  beautiful place.
even though
the house is hostile.


V.

i began dreaming of the house, 
2009.
in all the dreams, the sky
always in shades of gray.
the last time
i dreaded
seeing it.


VII.

didn't you mention about going on a writing retreat this summer?

i woke up shivering

Any one can comment about the strange weather these days.  One country can talk about their drought and heat wave, another about intense cold, these happening all at once.  It is the middle of January, 

and none of the things we used to know apply.  In this humid country, for instance, closer to the ring of fire than others, typhoons are keeping themselves at  bay, watching the too many dead and the grief-

stricken. Now coldness has come, temperatures dropping lower than people can imagine.  In the mountains, animals are dying and the whiff of their death like pollen everywhere, she said, 

commenting on my state over an elaborate breakfast of fluids.  I had woken up in the middle of the dark morning, shivering with fever. Now she looks outside the window and listens to the sound of the river.  

the shore

i dreamt again, last night, of coming back to the bay.
the same bay reconstructed several times; each time different
and the same.
i was flying and saw it again from above.
the waters were tumultuous and gray
and there was a big boulder, uneven, jutting out towards sea.

i tried to come as close as i could to the shore.
there was a small patch of sand, a small valley
between the weather-beaten house and the large dark boulders
on the small patch of sand there will always be people
beach happy and unaware 

a few meters before them, a few meters past the line
where their children play on the shore
a cliff begins, where the bay gnaws wide
and there will always be, recurring in every dream,
the unexpected rising tide
the whipping of larger and larger waves.

the children would scramble to the shore.  
parents would collect them in towels and
young friends would laugh.  everyone would 
hide their fears, everyone would hurry
to leave the shore and the bay and head home.

i knew these.  having dreamt the same shore again and again.
changing the scapes of its face: one time it was a pier
so very long and stretching towards another bridge
that crumbled too soon and fell apart 
people fell into the cold 
turbulent seas.  i knew these.  having dreamt the same shore

again and again.  the deeply gray, downcast skies.
last night, i dreamt i could fly. 
and came to the shore as fast as i could
urged the people to leave.  the gray was fast getting dark.
i recognized the people: they were my family.

and they were about to leave when i came
climbing on shared motorcycles to leave 
the remote shore that had suddenly gone narrow.
i was to leave with them, to drive my sister's motorbike
taking the handles and revving the engine.  
my sister climbed behind me on the scooter.  we were leaving

the road had suddenly gone potholed and steep
ninety degrees up of slowly loosening dried mud
again, i revved the engine.  and again.  trying
to keep steady.  the tires trying hard not to swerve.
i became afraid of the inevitable fall from the vertical incline.
all the other motorcycles had sheerly, barely made it.

loose dirt and gravel danced beneath the tires.
the scooter didn't have enough power.  i turned to look
at my sister but she was gone.
her motorbike couldn't make it.  i carried it on my shoulder
instead, the land and the shore was falling apart
there was a balcony of the weather-beaten house again 

i clung on it with my other arm.  and across, into the house
i could see, between
the scooter i was holding on on one shoulder and 
hanging on for dear life on the other, i could see
someone recognizable from the house noticed me.