Those oysters to be had fresh and sweet
just clinging to some rocks; fishermen
pulling in their load before sunrise –
bygone treats. Who is footing the bill?

Yldara / Maria Stanphill  0611070918

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Above is another example of a quatrain considered good enough by my editor/mentor  for publication.  The writers in our group were tasked with writing poetry in any form that depicts the man made changes in nature and our surroundings.

Since I happen to have been born and also grew up in Davao City, I decided to make it my own “mini” challenge.  I love the beaches of Davao and nearby Samal Islands, but Davao Times Beach holds a special place in my heart. Many of my happy, childhood memories happened thereabouts.

I remember the many times my siblings, cousins and neighbors sneaked out to go to that particular beach. There were not a lot of huts for rent then. The structures that were there were mostly what I would call organic in composition.

Davao Times Beach at sunrise was peaceful. It was quiet except for the sound of waves crashing and the occasional splash and giggles we kids would make.

One could make a meal out of the bounty we would find on the beach.  There were also these rocks that jaunted so and most had oysters just waiting for anyone to make a treat out of.  Back then, you could help the fisherman pull in his net and as a reward you get some of the haul: fish, shrimp and whatnot.

I have not been back for over ten years.  Recently, I googled (such an odd term!) Davao Times Beach and got quite a surprise.  Instead of endless sandy beachfronts - I was being shown houses, resorts and everything else but the beach that I remember.

What my childhood friends and I experienced was not a dream but sadly now are just memories.  Hopefully, Davaoenos will take steps to NOT make Davao Times Beach - a nightmare.

Scavenging, searching for something
to eat, keep warm. By the ruins,
looking for some form of shelter
to shroud and rest one’s weary flesh.

With every heartbeat, in every
rustle of leaves and footfall heard,
fear rises – an eerie shadow
waiting to pounce, to still what breathes.

Pain. Anger. Silenced companions
draped over these weighted shoulders.
They keep hope alive against odds
chaining feeble humanity.

Cardboard boxes, sheets of metal:
makeshift bed and cover, enough
to while the night away, wishing
liberty rises with the sun.

Yldara/Maria Stanphill  2911070828

Colored pens, crayons and pencils
Pads of paper to write and draw on
Tied up strings, reminders all
Back to school in a seeming daze

Yldara/ Maria Stanphill  290907730

like blue green waves,
rising tall -
falling, breaking
unmindful
of hot white sands
underfoot

Yldara/ Maria Stanphill  1211070932

as it crackles and it burns
away the night; the cold air
slipping past wistfulness on a dare
billowing in smoke, still yearns
for the illusive light of dawn

hear the silence; make it yours
alone, before the cicadas start
their own chorus and your heart
chases it, straight out the doors
bowing in defeat to a yawn

Yldara/M. Stanphill

where sweet golden fruits
are grasped, handled, picked
and laughter of children
comes from you and I

where shadows of limbs, leaves
are welcomed with delight
and all the while considered
a fairy tale and plot

where being face to face
with bees is certainly a must
and giggles are as bountiful
as the mango pits, we discard

Yldara/ M. Stanphill  1411071104

August Moon, you shine on us all
a little less, somewhat bleakly.
A rugged globe with scars and rents
weighed down by truth, rather meekly
baring your naked, lonely soul
once veiled, in radiant silk stole.

Now, you seem just to coldly glance
at cracked, dry earth and withered grass.
Was it not but a while ago,
that you were fierce, an Irish lass
born to inspire, formed by fire;
silvern creature of desire?

Perhaps, mortals must be as gods
to bear the weight of such a load,
to weather three seasons, in hopes
and dreams of summers down the road:
echoing with laughter sublime -
for your sake, frozen fruit of Time.

Yldara 270807853

Paint has peeled all over the place;
some rusted nails have come undone;
still it exudes, a warmth and grace
that to me, comes second to none.

Creaky steps add an odd beauty
to this porch I hold in my heart.
For it speaks of its own duty -
when I come and when I depart.

How I treasure the times of old
impressed, engraved on every post;
the never-ending stories told,
by this quaint space, I cherish most.

Yldara 200807223

Getting up before the sun rises
before shadows, flit past in front
of my screen. Fingers, pounding on
keys, forming thoughts into verses.

Sipping on a cup of hot brew
thinking, then working on newfound
angles, to portray, paint in words
while the rest of the household sleeps.

Listening to one’s heart beating
rhythmic like cadence, so telling
of a reason to persevere,
to keep writing, while time, is mine.

Pressing on with an idea
or two – to raise the bar, trusting
moments and lines, to carve a place
before breakfast needs to be fixed.

Making time to write every day:
a mission, all, too possible.

Yldara 011207332

Author’s Comments:

Here’s a poem that rightly speaks of making time to write, be it poetry or whatever is your passion.

I fully understand, how impossible it all seem at first when faced with the multitude of tasks, chores and must do’s daily. But, I have to say that in such a case the old adage “if there’s a will, there’s a way” applies.

Of course, it does not all fall into place in a day (sometimes, it takes months of practice) to be able to fall into the pattern of making and grabbing that niche of a time to do your writing.

It may just be fifteen minutes of pure imagination and data organization, still it gets you closer to the next time around when you are finally ready to sit and write down those ideas waiting to get out of your head.

Before you know it, you will be doing it, like its second nature (pardon the flippant turn of words).

Remember, every opportunity to write is precious and always worth it!

To be able to hear music in its simplest form; to be able to listen with one’s heart out of pure enjoyment; to be able to feel the wind caress one’s face in awe; to be able to trust without fear; to be able to create a world inside a world and still be able to see the truth and accept it—such are the wonders of being a child.

So, why not take the time to remember?  Be a child again, wherever you may be at in your life.  Begin from within your heart then take a look outside, through your window; maybe begin in meadows, and….

Picture Me an Adventure

Tall blades of grass,
perfect cover.
Enemy spies:
grasshoppers, dragonflies.

Neverland? Yes!
In handfuls of
blue wildflowers
are pixie dust powers.

Yldara 1211070708