Memories of the monsoon trail

On the monsoon trails
On the monsoon trails

we sang on trails then
our throats were quenched by rains.
climbed cattle fences, i recall
i caught your fall, your pain remains.

we danced on bridges,
and struck the moon at midnight.
we starved on hikes, you held my hand
and we survived on starlight.

Licuan, Abra
April 25, 2008
(with revisions October 29, 2013)


So call it gloating. It’s my moment of superiority.

I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar. Call me serenity.
I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar. Call me serenity. Music saleswoman Elena Koniaraki, 39, rides her bicycle between cars at a central street in Athens July 11, 2012. REUTERS/Yorgos Karahalis

I’ll make this short and sweet. Short and sweet, like my trip home on evenings like this.

So it’s a Friday, and a payday at that. So most everyone with bulging pockets are rushing out of their workplaces—as if they were running away from a fearsome monster.

So hordes of them are trooping to their favorite TGIF foodie corners and weekend hideaways—the farther away from the feared work monster, the better. Continue reading “So call it gloating. It’s my moment of superiority.”