.
a wind of change within a heartbeat's thrum
will alter quite, if not destroy, a world
with unexpected loss in life's calm rhythm
into a dark abyss one can be hurled

a wind of change can also fairly flow
preparing us for life we know to come
allowing small acceptance-seeds to grow
declining in our turn, each one-by-one

but as those life-defining moments chime
some leaving gently, others all aflame
though winds of change are blowing all the time
all manages to somehow stay the same

Walking with my friends and kin
on another sultry summer day
quite a mess we've gotten in
yet we saw no other way

We've hiked too far from hearth and home
all the folks here sure talk strange
but we've miles left yet to roam
through wilderness and settled grange

We're not as many as at start
far too many have gone home
by chance chosen to depart
ending their part in this tome

TIGER’S HELL

A tiger has me in his teeth
sunken in my spine so deep
my world is his ,his is mine.
where he goes I go
places I don’t know
and never been
broken bones , torn skin.
no use to cry, no sense to yell
no one leaves tiger’s hell
his sleep is my peace
his death ,my release

If Spring came before Winter
if the sun hid in the noon
if the clouds rendered no showers
and the flowers neglected to bloom

if the hearts throbbed just for pennies
if for business, renown and gain
if no more fresh water ran for lilies
and fires couldn't flame again

if the stars became too dark
and trees' leaves in Spring fell
if the kids can no more lark
and only for coins we dwelled

Just then I shall cease a love true,
and say no more I could offer you.

The Path

by Noel Ikan Astillero, TSP/Vidya Lodge

09 June 2012, Manila

I was taught that a Path exists,

But to travel it, one has to read;

Volumes upon volumes of Theosophic lit,

They fill my Mind -

But after all: "Where is the Path?"

The Path is found, not in books,

But in Life.

The books suggest -

A truth one never knows exist

Until at last, Life tests it on the ground;

Then a lesson is learned

As one treads the ground.

It is not the number of books,

They say;

Stan the scribbler
is always a dribbler,
he reads some of mine
whenever...
but neither is he on my fan list
nor am on his
after all with bosses
one can’t be
too pally

Ian, comes next
after his heavenly rest,
He is my very best
for I’m a bard for him,
I thought small bard
Shakespeare!
till he clarified,
no, one who sells
what ever one tells…

down we walk
the afternoon block
The howl of the moon
crisp like a welcome
dime
behind the tired roof lines
she shines

Thirst you say
initiates
travel

Into the shade
The coveted cafe
chrome formica
and couchs for
slouching
how you shine
in this cavern
room

while outside the
small street slips
cars full of gleam

the coffee house scene

.
sometimes I find, to my amusement, thinking of the past
brings, with nostalgia, sagacity
so preached to me from when I stood (and sometimes quite aghast)
while eyeballing the top of my dad's knee

such things as those he told me from the time I was a kid -
to always choose the right tool for the job
and learn to change my own flat tyres, steer into the skid
behind the wheel be neither snob nor slob

~

Underneath my dream, idea tree
with full access to my library
where the moments only count if your breath's away;

tread soft through the canopy's veil
it's anyone's guess, in this odd tale;
are they at work? At rest? Or will they play?

~

So quick! Am I to sanitize
each moment bold, I categorize;
so I know when one does end, and the next shall start;

breathe each one in, or turn to stone
after all they're yours, alone
you gave her "life", very deep, inside your heart!

Sometimes, at times
there's a feeling
at the bottom most pit
in ones form
why do we compose?
and
expect others to repose,
faith in what one does say,
poetry is just a manner to display,
the nuances of the innermost
depths of one's own conflict,
why upon others our misery
do we have to inflict?