Good Morning

After what seemed like ages of rain,
the sun finally revealed herself
and kissed the mountaintops.

It's a good day!

And Yet More Rain

It looks like more rain for the next few days.

I have been tending a quaint little garden. In it I have planted orange jasmine, amaryllis, creeping gardenia, and number of forget-me-nots. I hope they don't get overwatered as the rain seems not to be letting up.

Meanwhile my zinniae seem to be growing up well. I have them in containers near the windowsill.

Rain, rain, rain.

Lazy Day

Pitter patter.
Pitter.
Patter.
Drip.
Drop.
Tabby licks her paws under the banana tree.
She squints her grey green eyes.

Splish.
Father's shoes are smeared with mud.
He scrapes the twenty-year-old soles against the concrete steps.

No thunder.
Only incessant rain.

Who is Katimugambalon?

Katimugambalon is a Filipinization of the name Southwell, one of the greatest English poets in the Elizabethan age. I took on the name to honor the great man, as well as to serve as an inspiration in my literary endeavours.

Among Robert Southwell's great works was Love's Servile Lot:

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT
LOVE, mistress is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serve ;
They reckon least how little Love
Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the wit,
The sense from reason's lore ;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core.

She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,
Pretending good in ill ;
She offereth joy, affordeth grief,
A kiss where she doth kill.

A honey-shower rains from her lips,
Sweet lights shine in her face ;
She hath the blush of virgin mind,
The mind of viper's race.

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find
To find, but not enjoy :
In many frowns some gliding smiles
She yields to more annoy.

She woos thee to come near her fire,
Yet doth she draw it from thee ;
Far off she makes thy heart to fry,
And yet to freeze within thee.

She letteth fall some luring baits
For fools to gather up ;
Too sweet, too sour, to every taste
She tempereth her cup.

Soft souls she binds in tender twist,
Small flies in spinner's web ;
She sets afloat some luring streams,
But makes them soon to ebb.

Her watery eyes have burning force ;
Her floods and flames conspire :
Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are,
And sighs do blow her fire.

May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers ;
But rather April, wet by kind,
For love is full of showers.

Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives,
Like surgeon, salve she lends ;
But salve and sore have equal force,
For death is both their ends.

With soothing words enthralled souls
She chains in servile bands ;
Her eye in silence hath a speech
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap immortal harms ;
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,
Her song bewitching charms.

Like winter rose and summer ice,
Her joys are still untimely ;
Before her Hope, behind Remorse :
Fair first, in fine unseemly.

Moods, passions, fancy's jealous fits
Attend upon her train :
She yieldeth rest without repose,
And heaven in hellish pain.

Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit,
And slippery Hope her stairs ;
Unbashful Boldness bids her guests,
And every vice repairs.

Her diet is of such delights
As please till they be past ;
But then the poison kills the heart
That did entice the taste.

Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath,
Remorse rings her awake ;
Death calls her up, Shame drives her out,
Despairs her upshot make.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,
Leave off your idle pain ;
Seek other mistress for your minds,
Love's service is in vain.

Scibbles on a Paper Napkin

It's been a while since I wrote something. The last time I held a pen in my hand was when I scribbled verses on a paper napkin, the ink finding its way through the translucent sheet embossed with tulips.

It's been a while.