Posts Tagged ‘death’


Posted: May 29, 2019 in Poems
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In my mother’s embrace,
While yet unseen,
I began living.
Before I could ask for it,
I was given moments.

In my mother’s arms,
I was loved long before
I could yearn for it.
Before I could cry out for it,
I was lent my breath.
My movements.
My heartbeat.
My smile.

But while yet unseen,
I began leaving
My parents’ grasp, so loving.
While yet unheard
I felt my breath fading.
I am being called,
being reclaimed.

Before my race started,
I have been called away,
out of a world and its crooked ways.
And to my Master blessed,
who lent me this life and breath,
I now yield and say, “Yes.”

I have been given,
And now I am being taken away.
In my life’s short span
I’ve had brighter and darker days,
But never one that’s too far removed from grace.

And so, this borrowed breath,
I will give back to You–
In a sigh of surrender
In a sigh of cease
In a sigh with tears,
yet not without hope.

For this borrowed breath
Is but a fraction
of Your beautiful promises.
You have given me for a purpose
And have taken me away for a reason.

And in this I stand–
that in my fleeting moments
You have given me life,
and life abundant.



Posted: May 29, 2019 in Poems
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I stand in silent anticipation
as an old friend drives up my door.
He has come for yet another visit–
I swear he drops by more often than before.

He has never yet arrived quite unannounced,
but he’d always give a very short notice.
Yet perhaps no heads up is advanced enough
for someone’s visit such as his.

There are always more things to be done,
more preparations to look after;
And every time that he leaves,
there are countless details I wish I did better.

So with every goodbye he utters
every time he steps out of my place,
I would make amends on my planner
so as to receive him next time with more grace.

It’s been eight months since Death first knocked at my door,
since I first rehearsed and prepared for his return.
But no matter how much I plan my worded greetings,
every time he comes around,

I could only offer yielding silence.

(Written March 10, 2019)


Posted: August 7, 2018 in Poems
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Bea Pangilinan

Photo by: John Carlo Cielo and RJ Fulache

White-washed, plain, smooth walls;
Halls of linear, brown, wooden doors;
Wards full of beds with identical sheets
Smelling of strong ethyl and chlorine.

I sat by my room’s only window—
Glass and sill cleaned a little too well
To protect me from the world’s harms out there.
I looked outside to try remembering
What it’s like to live beyond white walls.

They say I’m missing nothing at all—
Only threats, dangers, and my very death;
That my life is kept better within these walls so white,
with syringes, IVs, and the machine beeping at my side.

“This food will make you stronger,” they would say,
always, as they give me my silver-plated tray.
The IV fluid will fix whatever is wrong,
My two tablets and five capsules would heal what’s broken,
And so long as I stay inside these white walls
I’ll live, and the rest of the details would be rightly woven.

That’s what they say, what I’ve always been told.
And I could never say they’re wrong, but I guess
there’s just a lot of things that they don’t know.

They don’t know that every time I soak my hands
With alcohol to touch nothing after,
I’m being stripped not of my filth but of my joy.

And every time I eat my colorless meals,
My mind and heart cry out I’m being poisoned.
Every time they change my sheets with another dull blanket
I run out of breath a little slowly.
Every time the IV is inserted in my veins
My blood runs dry a little more.
And every intake of my prescriptions
Seems to be little deaths, part by part, little by little,
Capsules replacing my cells a million at a time.

Call this depression, or call it insanity,
But for me it’s just plaintively funny
how the institution that exists to give life
snuffs that very essence out of me.