3 A.M.

As the clock ticks to 3 a.m., the sounds
of the city begin to fade: the honking cars
and jeeps and buses thin out along EDSA,
the cats in heat on the roofs stop screwing,
and in smoke-choked videoke bars,
the mike conks out, images of bikini-
clad ladies blurring into snow.

An ambulance siren dwindles in de-
crescendo until it fades into a mere
whimper, and one by one, the cellphones
cradled in sweaty palms mysteriously
flicker and die after beeping a last gasp.

Exactly at 3 a.m., like musicians stilled
by a conductor in an orchestra, like
a choir suddenly voiceless and holding
its breath, everyone is drowned by the purest
silence. And so the drunks in the neighborhood
are stunned, sobered up by the clarity
that silence brings, and couples nesting
on cramped beds make love quietly
yet intensely, each city-dweller awe-struck
by the immense, engulfing silence. In this
nightly miracle, does anyone imagine
how astounding a moment of no-sound can be?

Even the infants wake up from their dreams,
marveling at the stillness, and for once,
everyone can listen to his own heartbeat.

----
words: Rodrigo V. Dela Peña Jr., Philippines
image: Dorothee Lang (virtual notes)

solstice

winter solstice ~
when disporportional darkness
most overshadows daylight

but in this time of
endings and beginnings,
balance is regained
by encompassing the whole

for in the southern hemisphere,
this same day is gibbous
with summer's beginning

cold delight

Man, what a sunrise today. Overhead that infinity of black and the amazing moon, the crescent so bright and the orb so dark, strangely like a yin-yang. And the god who made maxfield parrish was at work in the east, with such subtle colors low on the horizon, a mixture of blazing daylight in India and hot African deserts blending into the green of Asian terraced mountains and the aqua of Mediterranean shallows before plunging into infinite sea deep blue. Ah. A cold delight.

welt ist überall

late afternoon. september winds, arriving from france, roam the trees here in the street, paint the grey sidewalks with whirls of yellow and red that keep moving. natural art, i think. leaf sculptures.

later i call a friend, and we talk about journeys to angkor and walks through autumn gardens. about long distance trips and short distance trips. about the time it takes to be in a place, to arrive there, to leave from there. leafs, i remember. leaves.

"die welt ist überall," my friend says -
"the world is everywhere."

In the Rubble of All This

If only the world

would spread itself out smooth before
us flat on a sheet of paper white and
starched for our convenience perhaps
life could be made simple but

there are oceans and skies and people

to cross. There are minds to
change to form to find to make
acceptance the only option left.
Only two words can be found in
the rubble of all this.

.... trust yourself.