The Last Quarter

In auras like these, words are futile
like a broken judge’s gavel
you appeared in broad day light
and announced your presence,
unlike the others, resolutely and aptly

In her eyes, you define borders
and stretch out a hand
Good and healthy
Good but short
Good but short-lived

In times like these, pictures are shallow
like the goddess who tub-thumps
you withered like a mirage
and there, you went away,
swift and seemingly unnoticed

In his mind, you are almost sacred
and care like no other
Matchless and true
Good but short
Good but short-lived

There I am again,
back to my old self,
a dreamer,
now, a balladmonger.



She sees in you a bossdom
like the likes seen in a princedom
In her mind, you are fiddle-footed
and prey in blameless grounds

The aura around you is clear-cut
not like the ones preached in Psalms
In her thoughts, you wander every now and then
and your voice, an earworm in her dreams

She knows of the brevity of life
and how swift it goes, sometimes abruptly or well-lived
In her eyes, you remain silver-tongued
and your shadow, always that of a gentle giant

© Prince Kenny, JR.


The days are too young to tell a tale
The nights are too insecure to sing
The stars are too bright to shoot
The waters are too cold to boil
But whenever you sleep,
Sleep like there’s no yesterday
Sleep like there’s no today
Sleep like there’s no tomorrow
Cos your heart is safely guarded
In a very good abode
And hopefully,
the days will have tales to tell,
the nights, songs to sing
the waters, excess to boil
And the stars, meteorites to shoot

(c) Prince Kenny JR.


The tides are evolving
like the susurrating winds of change
so if you can live up with yourself,
why run?
Darkness has set in
the lights are now faded memory
what baffles us, is the sound of the night
similar to a hiss of a snake,
not so lucid as a meow
The adjacent neighbours are also asleep
they are in wonderland, perhaps in dreamland
do they even dream?
they already bade farewell to the night
maybe, just maybe they are in unison with the night
maybe, just maybe they can’t let go,
let go of each other
so this is not their final goodnight
and this is also not my final

Cold Feet

Let me caress you henceforth
so I may fill you up with warmth,
whenever you have cold feet
don’t allow your heart to skip a beat
Cos some are in dire need of cold feet,
to make their hot summers complete
so some even go to feel the waters of Crete
So call on me as and when you have them
As I will stand firm
I don’t want to seem to rhyme
but you’re worth more than a dime
But just whisper my name always
as you take aim
cos it’s only for you that I came

Gone Forever

She misses the days of old
although she weaves her ways
towards her salient dreams
or perhaps, her pallid self.

so now that he has turned into a foe
and who knows as she sways
maybe she’d cease to gleam
and find solace in a darker shelf.

so all is but unclear
that she truly misses the days of old
now that he has turned into a big foe.


All the long lost words have been found,
on the rocks scattered along the Mont Blanc
which abutts the towns of Courmayeur,
Saint-Gervais-les-Bains and Chamonix
On its cradle lies metonym of passion,
tenderness and glee

And from its peak shall these words take flight,
in head-over-heels fashion
to deprecate any pledge to ossify
the extolling, deemed aright

Cos my thoughts have been on long a journey
And now that these long lost words have been found
They will always be the sceptre of fondness
that had to be revealed ages ago
cos ‘No, sorry, I, love, you.’



It’s a stub of a lighted cigarette that’s most likely to set a house ablaze
And whenever a door is set ajar,
it’s the mother who wakes up in the midst of the night to shut it
Then, what happens when rain outruns boundaries,
Do we run outside vehemently to chase the rains out?
Maybe we would someday
Although I’m young in years,
I’m already a man of the world
To know the bland and disingenuous remnants of haiyan
May we regale our dithers with inimitable wits
So as fresh as a rose-bud,
shall we mend the broken ties between Cebu,
Tondo, Maysapan and Mai
And what do we say to the Ati woman in Tacloban, who sits at the bend, where reporters and aid-workers sojourn
Let us not falter and collapse as injured ants
Even if the churches have fallen;
it’s us who make the church
So when time’s winged chariots surround,
it’s our resilience that shall be afforded praise

Born Again In A Second Language

Had normalcy never lost its course 
The brightest of bright will such a persona be 
Orchestrating an obvious childhood fairytale, into reality 
Maybe he’d be thriving in glee lozenges 
and be eerie than he is now 
Aloneness may be a chosen rubric 
while quiteness, a fostered acronym to relief 
Walking with royalty above the sky’s zenith, 
and latter, slapping hands with prominence where necessary 
Born again in a ‘known’ language 
A first but second language 
Maybe time was irreversible then 
while nature, defiled its promise 
Temporary minor gentry will have been epoch of the recent past 
and the not-so far tomorrows, resilient 
Maybe the familiar circles will have been squared by now 
Without hefty hitches and colossal giveaways 

Somnolence will then reckon with baited breath, 
and procrastination, a fore gone mirage 
Multitudes would have been staring 
with great avidity, 
oblivious to high resume’ acquired 
Had normalcy never transgressed 
Hearts would be spared taunts 
And the break of silence, 
highly invigorating 
Nature would have assumed its mission 
and the sky’s zenith, as usual, 
a footstool for the coming auras 
Anyway, once the heart’s palpitation 
has never retrogressed 
And the Abba, bestows grace 
Destiny should also take its due course 
And should opportunities decide not 
to knock, 
doors will be built 
While the spurt within the minds eye, 
remains forceful but poised 
Born again in a second language