Feelings

By Jing Villamil THEY moved on fast, these young ones. From sweet dates to wedded bliss, from pregnant bellies to squealing babies,   who in turn, by their little selves, moved on even faster, from crawlers to toddlers to brawlers. And having moved  so early on and so furiously fast, a…

A crossing . . . By Jing Villamil   WAS it browning or greening, this broad strip of grass fronting the half-block of her home? And as she pondered on the puzzle, she slid down to it on her numbed haunches. She crossed her legs, leaned her elbows on her…

No tears for him! (a monosyllabic prose) By Jing Villamil   SHE, too, has her tales to pour out of her cup. Which, she says, is not half-full, but half-chucked. “Not all my fault,” she claims, “not all.” And she lifts her eyes up to the skies. She heaves a…

Still . . . (a monosyllabic prosepoem) By Jing Villamil   SHE bares her soul, in one swift sweep. There is no way to do it. She says: “I have met love. And I have donned its skin. And tight it wrapped. Zipped in it, I tapped and hopped, swirled…

Awakenings! By Jing Villamil   Is our reality the stuff from which dreams are made of? Or do our dreams cross-over from night to dawn to become the reality of our days? Usually, after shaking and knocking hard your head, the lingering waking effects of your dream disappear to nothingness;…

Her place! By Jing Villamil   IF you studied, post-studied, lived thereabout, visited or were here confined – you would know . . . This place, her place. Which she has in common with her grandfather, a few aunts, a fewer cousins. If I happened to spend regular motherly days…

Trekking! By Jing Villamil   LET us start from the very beginning. What if things did not proceed according to plan, and Mother Mary gave birth to His Daughter rather than His Son? According to the writer Emmanuelle, it would have been a story as grand as the original, to…

Wait another day! (A study in poetic redundance)     NOT only constantly. But continuously, incessantly, perennially, perpetually . . . she was and is puzzled, bewildered, perplexed. Imagine her through the years, from a young girl to grown-up, braking halting freezing on her tracks, standing still, her eyes squeezed…

Triple ripple! By Jing Villamil   THERE is this line of thought, that one’s destiny had long been “writ”; that to one’s half-a-heart is one’s fitting half somewhere. That, if one failed to link with “the One” in this lifetime, wait! One might be luckier in the next lifetime. Or…