down



where I am



dying



nothing



Where I am


lifeless

breathing what is left

of stale air

I would rather

choke myself

that I do not have to
breathe.












Down
Where I am
I am
defeated














and i do not rise

again.



I would rather burn
remain as ash
See myself
scattered

Dust

And the wind
just might


Carry me

Home.

STRUGGLE

spliced in this crevice
of muffled sanity and impulsive insanity
this repose
a cursed escape
from a spiteful bedlam
of an eccentric monotone

the line splits not knowing where to go

should it be total abnegation
of what was past?
or
an imprisoned suffocation
of a redolent present?

the air is just above the heavy water

i either drown
or
swim


can i not struggle with both?

be sane
and
insane?

be ephemeral
and
eternal?

silent

yet

heard?

the line is thin

BUT THE CHOICE IS CLEAR:

darkness and light
can never be congruent

nor can they even be seen
on the same plane

-pambie herrera
8/3/2003

UGLY HANDS

I have
Ugly hands
Not worn
Not weathered
Just plain
Ugly.

Short
Almost stubby
Fingers.
Nails
Shaped strangely
Mine
Like my mother's.

I have
My mother's hands
Worn
Weathered
Now.
Beautiful.

Pambie Herrera's Incence Series

INCENSE

unlit
yet your incense
burns
upon my nose

hungry
for the taste
of pine

being held
by a longing
to swallow
its cone

to feed the sight
that this eyes
were unable to hold

-pambie, 7/18/03



INCENSE 2

incense lit
smokes tendril
into mid-air nest
of woven pine needles
of translucent dreams
in a hazy afternoon

and its scent wafts
past me
that i follow its traces
as it goes back
from where it came
past highways
that knew roses trails
and mountains
that stood for ages
beyond the silhouettes
disclosed not by early fogs

only upon a memory
of wrapped smokes
of the incense burning
and the touch
of its pine scent
sheeting my nose
can lead me back
to your doorstep

and i lit the next
for me to enter
your door

-pambie, 7/18/03



INCENSE 3

what shatters me is:
nothing in this scent
of pine needles
can intrude your sanctuary

for how can smoke sulk back
to a less dense air
that covers your space?

how can this fragrance
unwrap the quietness of you
that scorches distance?

and how can another
incense burn
without losing its scent?

no amount of this burning
can reach you,
no aroma can

for its familiarity
numbed you

the ashes fall in soft laces
giving its last sweet smell
that is my soul

but you never opened your door
you never let me in
your opaque seclusion

-pambie, 7/18/03



INCENSE 4

the pack, empty
incense gone

just the aftermath
of its heavy weeping:
ashes covers
my calloused hands
and smokes
curtaining a translucent
memory

shelved.

soon to fade
with the last trembling scent
rising to my nostrils
that wants to deny
its honeyed suffocation

my eyes closed
to savor the taste
of the last tears
of this pungent burning

as the air blew its last
the smokes clear
yet the fragrance
never left
this i know: it never will

for to me:
i smell the fresh memory
of the pine cones
so close that
the memory became real

the air thicks
with the sweetness
of rose petals
reckoning me
to open my eyes

and when i did,
i realized
that you brought back
the pine scent
right on my doorstep

-pambie 7/18/03

Untitled

your silence
impenetratable

black as ebony
creeping shadows
stealing dusk's
riot of colors

no moonlight
can unmask
the hidden quietude
of my crested
distance

still i securely delight

for unto us...

not even your silence
nor my distance
can blur
intimacy

pambie herrerra,7/8/2003

Hindi pagbabalatkayo
Hindi tungkulin
Hindi sapilitan

Sapagkat may dahilan
May patutunguhan

Mula dito.

Pagdating ng araw
Doon.

Katapusan.

Net Connecting

Amazing
How all these wires
Unseen
Can make
The universe
Such a smaller place.

Are you here?

I am.

Transformed
Into zeroes and ones
But I am just as real

As you are.

Head Over Feet
Alanis Morissette

I had no choice but to hear you
You stated your case time and again
I thought about it

You treat me like I'm a princess
I'm not used to liking that
You ask how my day was

CHORUS:
You've already won me over in spite of me
Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet
Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are
I couldn't help it
It's all your fault

Your love is thick and it swallowed me whole
You're so much braver than I gave you credit for
That's not lip service

REPEAT CHORUS

You are the bearer of unconditional things
You held your breath and the door for me
Thanks for your patience

You're the best listener that I've ever met
You're my best friend
Best friend with benefits
What took me so long

I've never felt this healthy before
I've never wanted something rational
I am aware now
I am aware now

REPEAT CHORUS

Mount Moriah

My palms shiver
Scarred with your touch of goodbye
Eyes closed yet burn
With saline tears
I see gore
Bloodshed.
I was hesitant to draw
The knife
Upon the innocent face
That knew not of pain
If only i can numb this heart
For me not to cry
For me not to see you die
But i have to draw the knife
And see your blood
Drench the parch land where i lie
Water the thorns
In the thickets of my soul
Your flesh i need to cut dead
To burn my selfish desires

Blood.
Ash.

Daybreak of crimson sky
And the air breaks
Tears of dust that
Will sting my eyes

As i strike the knife
On the sacrifice...

I saw my God
Glorified!

-pambie herrera
march 21, 2003

MASTERPIECE
by Lydia T. Bayedbed
Igorota, February 2003

The dream catcher hangs above my head
dancing to the melody of a nearing slumber
as the night lulls itself in darkness
will the moon echo the chants you whispered
or your heartbeat while you twined the beads
and spun the thread to weave it?
will it ever capture the mystery in your eyes
the countenance you always disguised
as the silhouette of a full moon god
will it enchant your mortal soul now
see through the dreams of sleeping goddess
and make you believe in my magic?
Will you find the beauty you imagined
paint it, sculpt it with your hands
purge the hues from your soul
or will you elude the moment
sleep in the land of shadows
and let a masterpiece slip out of your dreams?

AN INQUIRY TO A REDDER WINTER
can the winter be redder?
redder than the blood of autumn leaves
weeping profusely from the bare majesty
of a naked tree?
redder than the scorching sun
bathing the earth
with its crimson cries?
redder than the blooms of roses
basking the spring's early dawn rains?
maybe redder as snow blisters
my ashen palms and face
still i surmise:
how can winter be redder?
--pambie herrera, 3/ 7/ 03

COMFORT ROOM

Funny
How this
toilet
has become
my sanctuary
when i reflect
how much
of a less
noble character
I am.
No, not funny.
How proper
that this
toilet
should be here
so that I might pour out
tears
Reflecting
How much
Failure
I have become.
The toilet bowl
stays strong
supporting
while i crouch
dejected
And this roll of tissue
continues
Available.
The door stays
Closed
that I might be left
Alone.
I cry.
The waste of my soul
Disposed.
I am heard.
I am comforted.

Sometimes I would slip into the library and give myself a reading of Time or Newsweek. I had enjoyed much of these "escapes" and though I am reading mostly "history" as the issues arrive much later than the dates printed on the covers... they were still worthwhile reads. I am, afterall, reading them not because of the the information or analysis eck. Truth does not have to come in glossy pages. Instead, I read them as literary journals.... I was reading much of the prose and the poetry.....more than the fact. Here are some favorites:

".... I savored her sorrowful voice, felt the ca - chunking rythm of the wheels in my bones, the echo Thomas Wolfe called the sound of forever, and looked outside to see whom I could say hello and goodbye forever all at once. A young soldier huddled by a cooking fire. I waved. He flipped me off." - Mike Meyer, "Immigrant's Song," Time, August 19 - 26, 2002.


"...As the train eased into Moscow, the conductor pulled me aside. He'd also been silently worrying. 'Listen, little brother,' he said, placing his arms on my shoulder. 'Be careful. You're a foreigner here. A tourist. It's not safe. Don't drink too much.' I remembered him putting me to bed the night before. 'Germans can drink. Mongolians can drink. You ar nor German or Mongolian.'
'But what about.....'
'Her?' The conductor chuckled, looking to Miss Zhou. 'She's Chinese. She'll be fine.' The train shuddered to a stop. We stepped from it into the world. A pair of kindly looking aunties greeted Miss Zhou by name. She waved goodbye and walked with them, toting her little bag, chattering happily in Chinese. I stood alone on the platform, wondering where I was." - Mike Meyer, "Immigrant's Song"

"Every piece of duckweed floats down to the sea; People will always meet each other somewhere." - "Journey to the West", Time, August 19 - 26, 2002.

"A day in the life of Africa," Newsweek, October 21, 2002

VISIT

For a while
It was delightful
That you have
seen
heard
tasted
What I have
seen
heard
tasted.
For a while
It was delightful
To blabber
In a language I know
and understand.
This strange new land
Did not seem strange
Anymore
Than I felt new.
And I am home
For a while.

TERMINAL

There are yet stories
Waiting to be told
Feet shuffle
Awkward
Seats wait
Lonely.
Time does not.
Time approaches
Baggages carried
Or tugged along.
The stories wait still
Untold.
Maybe next time
When the bus arrives.
Time comes
The bus leaves.

Ender's Game
Nebula and Hugo Award Winner
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From its first publication in January 1985, Ender's Game quickly became a classic in the science fiction field. It was greeted enthusiastically by the Science Fiction Writers of America, which gave it the Nebula Award for best novel of 1985, and the 1986 World Science Fiction Convention awarded Ender's Game the best novel Hugo. (What really stunned everyone was the following year, when the sequel, Speaker for the Dead, also won both awards -- something no author had ever done before, still less for a book and its sequel!)

While Card has gone on to win other awards (two more Hugos, a World Fantasy Award, and in 1996 the Locus Award for Best Fantasy Novel of the year for his book Alvin Journeyman), Ender's Game continues to be his most popular novel, capturing the imagination of children, teenagers, and adults. Ender's Game has been translated into French, German, Spanish, Japanese, Dutch, Czech, Danish, Finnish, Hebrew, Hungarian, Italian, Polish, Portuguese, Romanian, Russian, and Swedish.

Why does the story work so well? Many people call it "the science fiction novel for people who don't think they like science fiction." While the trappings of science fiction are there -- spaceships, aliens, futuristic machinery -- the reason the book works for so many people is that it's first and foremost a human story, of a boy who finds the burdens of the world placed on his back. Isolated and alone, his anguish resonates in the hearts of all readers.

Yes, kids who read the book really enjoy the whole idea of the Battle School, a three-dimensional playspace where children in special suits have mock combats between armies. Others are intrigued by the military aspects of the book. When the Marine University at Quantico required students in one class to read Ender's Game, it wasn't for the strategy -- tactics in 3D space aren't really a big deal for the Marines. Rather, it was because Ender's Game is virtually a textbook in how to develop a strong relationship between a commander and his troops -- with plenty of examples also in how to fail as a commander.

Other people -- especially in the online community -- love Ender's Game because of the powerful role it shows for computer networks in the world of the future. The Internet has taken a few steps in the direction shown by Ender's Game, but we're still a long way from a time when public discourse takes place primarily on the Internet and e-discussions can influence public policy. So Ender's Game is still a dream.

Yet others find the "Mind Game" most appealing. This is the computer game that students in the Battle School play, allowing their teachers to evaluate their emotional state. Ender, however, forces the computer to reprogram itself to allow him to play the game in new, unpredictable ways. The whole idea of a self-altering game that responds to the needs and desires of the player still intrigues many -- though Card has still not been able to persuade any computer game publishers to develop a self-creating game!

Above all, though, Ender's Game is the story of growing up alone, trying to find independence when none is allowed, trying to find meaning in a life whose meaning has already been defined. Almost everyone has at some time felt himself or herself to be in the same kind of no-win situation as Ender Wiggin, and the triumph of the book is not that Ender Wiggin "wins," but that he grows up along the way.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright � 1985 Orson Scott Card

A Tor Book - Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

Jacket art by John Harris - Jacket design by Carol Russo
http://www.frescopictures.com/movies/ender/enderbook.html

Only Hope

by Switchfoot
From the movie "A Walk to Remember"

There's a song that's inside of my soul
It's the one that I've tried to write
over and over again
I'm awake and in the infinite cold
But You sing to me over and over and
over again

So I lay my head back down
And I lift my hands
And pray to be only Yours
I pray to be only Yours
I know now You're my only hope

Sing to me of the song of the stars
Of Your galaxy dancing and laughing
and laughing again
When it feels like my dreams are so far
Sing to me of the plans that You have
for me over again

I give you my destiny
I'm giving You all of me
I want Your symphony
Singing in all that I am
At the top of my lungs I'm giving it back

So I lay my head back down
And I lift my hands
And pray to be only yours
I pray to be only yours
I pray to be only yours
I know now you're my only hope

www.switchfoot.com/walk_to_remember.html

You ask me of autumn?
It is a loveletter,
unfolding.
Like a cupful
of emotions
all stirred
and drank
such that each bitter
and sweet
wraps each tastebud.
It is stretching
your hands to rain
pouring
but only within.
It is closing your eyes
So that the wind
can touch
every patch of skin.
It is opening your eyes
So that your soul
can embrace
colors
swirling.
It is a loveletter
read and folded
and kept
Where treasures hide.
You ask me of autumn?
Beautiful.....
Autumn is.
26 October 2002

If I had not met you
at Babel
I would have asked
your name
How you're feeling
or what you've done
The day before
I would have asked
What you think
is beautiful
I would have asked
Why you thik it so
I would have asked you
Some thousand little questions
I would have asked
Who you are...

If I had not met you
at Babel
I would have told you
How fine the weather is
I would have told you
About the news I read
the day before
and how I felt about them
I would have told you
What I thought was beautiful
And why I think them so
I would have told you
Some thousand little things
I would have told
Who I am.

If we had not met
at Babel.

The fountains that sustain us
are not always quiet
Sometimes they rustle like streams
or fall like rain
But we are refreshed
just the same
13 june 2002