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…

More than one! By Jing Villamil   AND so it came to pass, that we tackle a subject we would rather not. In-laws! Its first known use as a term was way back in 1894. What term did they use then before that year? Originally, it meant “anyone of a…

Split ends! By Jing Villamil   IN the midst of the pandemic, there is this story of love. It has nothing to do with the disease. It is a story that would have happened anyway, anyhow, any which time. He was the youngest of three sons of farmers. He dropped…

We live! Again! By Jing Villamil   YEARS ago, when her dawn was a bright star rising and dusk was but colours weaning, waning, waiting to burst out again – Emmanuelle wrote a poem on déjà vu and it went on chirpily: Known you before! Before this birth, a death;…

Find this child! By Jing Villamil   YOU are the mould from which your child was cast. Until he be the mould himself, from which his own, too, is cast. On and on the cycle, it ceases not. Of the smooth twists, dips and hollows and the sharp-angled roughs. Your…