P[e]NORAMA

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Your feet are forever on a race against each other

Trying to outdo the other, thus bringing you farther and farther.

But… where?

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The enormous desert spreads itself before you

Offering you her company, filling you with all that she has.

You can’t help feeling sorry.

For all her vastness, she’s so empty.

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You thought that only in leaving would you find

Not realizing that which you seek

Lies snuggly in the backyard of your mind.

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Such is the paradox of the quicksand

The harder you struggle in it, the faster you sink.

The least resistance you make, the better chances you have of getting out of it.

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I watch my grandmother

As she patiently winnows the grains

Moving the winnowing basket

Up, down; up down

Tossing its content into the air.

I see the chaffs being blown away

Leaving behind the grains.

Then, when there are no more chaffs left,

She stops, but she’s not yet done.

She spreads the grains out thinly on the flat basket

And looks for pebbles that might have

Been mixed with the grains.
She picks the pebbles and throws them away.

I stare at her hands, rough from hard labor;

Amazed at how patiently she works.

Then I begin to realize, life’s like that —

A continuous process of winnowing;

Of separating the grains from the chaffs.

Only that sometimes, we throw away

The grains; not the pebbles, not the chaffs.

[And then we spend the rest of our lives

Staring at the empty husks of our choices

Wondering where the grains went,

Chasing after them, and not seeing them

Amidst the mountains of chaffs

With which we have surrounded ourselves.]

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For Lola Matda. When I was young and life was simple, every afternoon, my grandmother and I would go to the big square pavement near our house where grain buying stations dried their rice grains. Using walis tingting (broom) we would sweep the pavement and gather grains that the workers have not swept (we were more meticulous than they).

Everyday, we would get about a kilo of grains, or more. When we got home, my grandmother would winnow the rice grains. And she would patiently take away the pebbles that were mixed with the grains. Sometimes, I would help her. At other times, I would just watch her. The ratio of pebble to grain could have been 1:6. So it was really a kind of work that needed lots of patience.

I remember, after several weeks or months, my grandmother would gather a cavan of rice.

Oh, I so miss my childhood. And my grandma.

//Sherma E. Benosa

June 5, 2009; 8:10am

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Letters

Fill the sheet.

I read the words

But find no message:

I see only the misplaced question marks

And the oversized period.

I read not the words

But the gaps between them

Mirroring how

You stare at me sometimes:

Blank, yet undevoid of meaning.

Full in its emptiness.

Finally, I understand

What you’re trying to tell me:

You’re still here

But already gone.

I stare stupidly at the question marks

And curse the period.

Sherma E. Benosa

February 26, 2009; 8:45am

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(To the Peeking Morning Sun) 

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Brush aside the curtains that conceal your bright smile

And hide not behind the clouds of your scars.

Let me view the full color of your splendor

Let me see my heart’s aspirations reflected in your soul.

Be the magnificent dream I so wish to reach;

The hope that softly flickers in my every step

That I may learn to let go of my wayward ways

And walk the path that leads to your warm embrace.

For cP.

 //Sherma E. Benosa; 14 December 2008; 1241am

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Inspired by the JumelPinedaChua’s Peek-a-Boo photo..

The following piece was inspired by a conversation I had with a great friend and writing mentor who was grieving the loss of a loved one. Soon, the conversation turned philosophical.

He said: “If I had not loved, I would not be in deep pain now.” I replied, “Yes, but you will also not have the memories you now cherish in your heart.” The conversation went on. Then, I murmured: “In the end, like the ones who had gone before us, we will just be a memory in the heart of those we will leave behind.”

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On days when gloom seems to take up a semi-permanent residence in all the corners of your heart; when all the windows are closed and there seems no other way out; when everyone is gone and all you have is the wretched company of hopelessness; may you not forget the promise of the open door:

that it shall stay there, somewhere along the dark, cold corridors of your life; right next to the rubbles of your shattered dreams; at the bottom of the quicksand that seems to swallow you whole; to lead your unrelenting hope to the welcoming arms of realization, where your dreams shall give birth to fruition.

Keep walking, my friend, no matter that your steps at times stagger, for only by not stopping in your search will you be able to find the door that’s been left wide open for you somewhere.

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Copyright 2008 by Sherma Espino Benosa.

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In collaboration with Jumel Pineda Chua (http://gmacomics.wordpress.com).

View Jumel’s “Pathway” photo that inspired the text here.

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Writing Details: //Sherma E. Benosa; 08 November, 2008; 12:04pm

Summer reigns
In your lips,
But I see flickers
Of autumn
In your eyes.

The lid
Of your anguish
Is tightly clasped,
But the tempest
That dwells inside
Bares the parody
Of your smile.

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