LOOK, MA, THE ROBIN'S BREAST BLEEDS---POEMS

RECYCLED WATER 
by Blanca Datuin

They say this is water from the sewer.
waste from the world's wanton usage,
feces emitted from toxic humans,
dissolved in bogy ground, fluid from
bodies relieving the excesses of the system.

Is this the quagmire of my soul
begging recycling? Agua de Dios, what have
they done to you? Where is the water of my river
that flowed in my veins when rain was pure,
luxuriated flowers of a softened sun?


Where the brook water that flowed endless,
when birds flew without fear, fishes swam
without the venom of man? Rid it of man's 
waste were that likely. Bleach it to a gleaming
white. Slake the wilted soul.
                       Easter, 2009

               TO BE HUMAN

              By Blanca Datuin

The thing hoods his head and shrouds his face

Scared to let others know the real him.

Would he let us see the contour of his soul?

Beloved earthling, why do you hide behind

a black shade? Is your face so accursed

it glowers beyond my nightmare? 

 What kind of god tells you to behead 

One who touched not a single strand

Of your hair?

What power sets your mind to mangle

a world so lovingly shaped by the one

true God, then rend yourself to pieces?

What vileness breaks your fragile brain

And turns your humanness into a chimera?

Oh, that you would wake up ,

Look to the sun and not be blinded,

Shake off the shackles and taste

The heroic, wresting lives from the dragon.

Breathe in the fresh scent of flowers,

Cradle a  baby, nurse a wounded soldier.

See, the sky bends to kiss the sea.

Sun gleams resplendent if you let it in.

See the you that is human and beautiful

With all the fullness of your splendor.

                                                  - 2009

  .

END OF THE VIRGIN

 By Blanca Datuin                       

A wonder of creation was she,

Standing so pristine,

untouched by human hand,

birthing the fruits of heaven

from the crown of her head

bejeweled with green

down to her feet clothed with

more green.

None but nature tended to her,

quenching her thirst, feeding,

husbanding, with nothing but

drops of rain from heaven.

This was she, of my universe,

standing so serene and beautiful,

before the wanderer hid under

her skirts and violated her thighs,

before the ax man cut her down

to make way for the new highs.

Father Alexander

What is charisma? A special charm, allure that inspires allegiance or devotion. It is a grace, a gift from God that Father Alexander made good use of in inspiring people. Not by proselytizing or propagandizing, but by being just himself, quietly telling you not to be too hard on yourself. To "live in the present. Forget the past. Just listen to the call of God because He loves you." Always, his message was God loving you. So much so that even a despairing sinner gets to believe it and turns his life around because there is God waiting for everyone to come to Him. He made it sound like a simple requisite that one void of  a sense of self-worth can not not heed it. No wonder, when parishioners knew he would be the presiding priest, the church would be filled beyond the entrance door, a Hispanic student of mine had once told me. Adult students of mine who had not gone to Church for years started coming back because they could relate to him; he spoke fluent Spanish, Vietnamese aside from his English language, and learning Tagalog the last few weeks of his life. He was like a star that skyrocketed from heaven and then vanished.just as fast.

To him there were no rejects. The poorest of the poor always first on his list of priority programs. He was so eager to embrace the continuity of our Food Program for the needy, the free health program, the Meal of the Month for the homeless, the ESL Program that has actually been my baby, so many more. At the time of his death, he had some project for the youth, I understand, and put at its head Chuy Sandoval.One of the first things he did upon assumption as administrator-pastor of our parish was refurbish the physical facility of the whole compound. Operation Beautification and Cleanliness, he called it. He enjoined the whole neighborhood to participate in the Street Cleaning Operation. Plants and flowers started springing up around. Security fences went up. Suddenly we had a modernized gate built to make ministry members meeting at night feel more secure. The Police was invited to meetings to help build community unity in fighting crime. It seemed like he was always full of ideas he just had to put into action and reality. He helped the needy, counseled the despairing, was always ready to rush to the bedside of the sick and dying whenever called. Perhaps, this was what drained his emotions: he suffered with the suffering.

  I had just finished reading my Legion of Mary annual report and had barely sat down when a co-Legionary tapped my shoulder and showed me a text on her cell phone: Father Alexander passed away this morning. That was Sunday afternoon. We were in disbelief, No,it can't be true! Eloisa, seated next to me, and I bowed our heads, started praying quietly even as we couldn't help weeping, "Lord, please, don't let it be true. Don't take him away from us. Not our beloved pastor." My other co-Legionary went out of the hall where we were having the Curia meeting, frantically trying to reach anyone from the Our Lady of Peace to verify it. Then came an answer from one ministry member: It's true. It was announced in the last afternoon Mass.

I wonder if there was a single one in the church with dry eyes after that.

(To be continued)