kitten and cat

I've read it somewhere:
That life is a kitten,
And death is a cat.
Certainly later,
The poor little kitten
Becomes a big cat.

It appears to me
I'm no more a kitten,
Yet I'm not a cat.
The trouble for me:
I see death as kitten
And big life as cat.

Why Should I Be Moral?

So, why should I be moral?--

The question's tough and complex (?)--

But try being immoral,

Try not to think of ethics,

And then let's see what happens

To the precious life you own--

I mean, it's simply nonsense

To doubt what's already known

If self-actualization
Is to care for others too;
Then I have no objection
'Cause it's not so hard to do
I mean, 'I' don't have a choice
To act without the 'others'
Unless I have talking toys
And to them I will 'converse'

If 'Why should I be moral?'
Would mean 'Why should I be just?'
Then let's measure the actual
Power-play and people's trust
I mean, it's just so hard
For people to be honest:
To loose the ego's guard,
To admit that their dishonest

If we view morality
As responsible action--
But not that we're so free
From blind determination--
And we should not be punished
Because of our 'wrong-doing;'
Our minds should be replenished
With proper human caring

I mean, goodness is like health
And evil is like illness
It's like having energy
But varying in degrees
If this simile is seen
As focus of attention,
The question would simply mean:
'How moral is my action?'


Looking for 'Truth' and 'Meaning'--
For a very neutral view?
The Truth-Meaning of 'looking'
Is a false god's-eye view
It's false because we 'guess'
That philosophy reflects
The pure mirror-image,
The 'world' that's tough and complex 

On Poem Writing

Someone writes a free-verse
And call it poetry
Without meter and rhyme
Of course, without beauty

And another one claims,
By virtue of "Meaning,"
That today's poems should be
Anything and nothing--
Which means one has to write
None but senseless bluffing

And there is one who writes
For the sake of that "form"
With lines and stanzas
Segmented like a worm--
Why not write it prose
Or in paragraph form?

Yet it is nice to say
That free-verse is free flow
Of emotions through ink,
A captivating show--
But I hope one admits
That "feelings" come and go

For those who care for new
Manner of expression
You want people to read
Poems beyond tradition
You are poets indeed
Beyond comprehension

Deeper appreciation
And a higher taste of art--
That's the sense of free-verse
And a sign that you're smart
So we don't need rhyming
And a simple sense of art?

Poets praise metaphors:
They read between the lines,
But can one read free-verse
With unrelated lines?
It's like deciphering
An alien's codes and signs

A poem must be pleasing
To one's ears, eyes, and mind
Like music or painting,
It helps the brain unwind,
Or say, think or what one
Can't literally find

For those who want to make
Their own poets verse
Make sure you don't appear
Like saying some dumb curse.

A Philosopher

Never will I sleep while others do
While they rest, I will continue to work
My eyes shall always be open to truths
And my mind shall tap where falsities lurk

Do not tell me that I will never be
An immortal architect and dreamer
Soon I shall build a university
That will mould a philosopher-ruler

And this may be my goal in planting trees
In the middle of this divine dark night
So that when the fresh dawn starts to break
They will be the first to receive sunlight

And if I die before that dream comes true
May another man be a night-watcher
He will never stop while others do
He will try to than others be better

I Value

There's a blood of uncertainty

In everything that we could see

Some men call it meaninglessness

For others, relativity

This world in in fact valueless

And all runs to absurdity

But there's a thing in man's nature

That I am very, very sure

It is non-rationality--

Like a soul that is most impure,

Almost like a drunk yet empty,

Like a madness that we ignore

Man creates his very speech

That shows value in every pitch

He even creates his nature

His beliefs that idly beseech

A relief from what is unsure--

A boredom he wanted to ditch

Though the reality's like that

I could still point out a dot

I could still love you, my Tang

I could defy what I am not

I could cut off my living tongue 

And break away from nature's knot

I have in my veins the freedom

That God doesn't have in his kingdom

What matters is how I behave,

How I let some go, others come;

How I value or how I save

My love for Sophie, Tang and Mom

I am 'man,' I am 'Being'

I must live what I am saying

The sublime, the unsayable

Is worth no more than the nothing--

It's end is impracticable

Only I who can mean something!

Philosophy measures our lives;

Our lives weigh our valuations

Cockfight: Something About Human Condition

Have you ever watched a cockfight?

Just like the other games you've seen:

Spectators around the site

And two cocks fighting for the win

But, of course, there's a referee

Who decides when the game's over

Then men would collect their money

Happy they'd bet for the winner

But before the end of it all

Let's see the real situation:

There are some men who shout and call

On bets for 'wala' or 'meron;'

Some men who sit in the front seats

Are the most addict for the fight;

Some in the middle are for luck--

They're not there for the spectacle

Cause when they lose, they always mock,

They almost die like a candle;

And there are those who feel boredom

Because they really want to free

Themselves from other men's humdrum,

That endless loud monotony.

So what's the moral of the scene?

I say, the world's really like that

For some it's good; for others, mean;

For few, boring; for many, not

But how about the referee?

Is he there in order to judge,

To neutralize, to oversee,

Or to cause in some men a grudge?

It is that every mind has role,

That each man has limitation,

That all mind's can't be in a bowl,

Can't be in total concession;

That there's always a difference

In the way every man values,

In the way a man gives license

To a life-belief he pursues

No one, even me to writes this

Anecdote of man's existence,

Has the power to feel the bliss

Of a God's mind of omniscience

And if there is a superman--

Or if there is truly a God--

He can't escape the heat of sun,

Not even the curse of the 'mad'--

No one, even me who tells you

About the game we are into

God Committed Suicide

My friend said that God is dead:
Lying cold amidst His angels,
His blood became His last bed--
Tears flowed even from devils

So I rushed up to see Him,
To see what really caused God's death:
His big face was full of grim--
What's it really that caused God's death?

His face was co'ered by a hand
That only hid His big left eye;
When I looked at the 'right hand,'
It held a knife which struck the thigh

There's a rope around His neck,
Thick and strong and tightly tied;
Poison tablets o'er His deck--
So, God committed suicide

My friend it's wrong that God is dead
Because He was really killed
By His one true beloved;
His demise He himself willed