Caramoan. The Secret of the Shores
Charms of shells hummed
in my grandmother’s house.
Sacks of rice tucked
under the bedroom altar
It was getting dark and
we’re closing Farmacia Luz
The drawer was full of
coins. We were off to church for
an amateur contest
because I will sing “I Believe.”
I will try singing
soprano. Then once in my life and in
that old church the notes
reverberated in the vast grounds.
I thought I’ve summoned
the spirits; the townspeople gazing at me,
and how I did it, was by the grace of St.
Michael, the archangel.
The professor says,
“That’s a forbidden place because the locals
are even away from
elegance, nothing ever captures the senses.
You have to survive the
sea or mountains for hours and reach the
destination dead beat.
Mermaids, cats that fly, you can imagine
fairies, thunderbirds or
mythic of the new age in the giant cliffs
and waters.
There is a mystery around
the shores here.
When the boats start to
row the ripples one after another brush
the blue ocean and in the
winds flight, the sky bright and beautiful
turn the world. “Do not trespass,” or...
Perhaps, I think, this
can be a risen Atlantis, a virgin paradise
of meek peoples, arising
from the remnants of the past, growing,
flourishing in the modern
times and of the future
Whence from this place
were seeds in many dawns, far, farthest
from here, one with
waters that fostered, their old houses and
the red bricks of St. Michael’s church.
Rice and camote, our
staple food and the fisherman, like St. Peter,
cast their nets full of
fish. Loud speakers from the church inspire rising
workers alongside each
other, neighbors not wanting anything, but the peace
and lightness of the
place we all called home; because in this small place
we were all family, I am
a grandchild of the first mayor, and I am proud
to be one with the
kindness of the peoples
There is no hunt, but
don’t be a blabbermouth!
In the caves and deep
waters are nymphs who listen to
stories and pleas of our
longing and needs
The boatmen are the rock
stars; their bodies dark, neat and well-chiseled,
calm at sea. You can feel the blood flowing in
their veins
they held you with,
crossing waters to the shore
When I was a young girl,
I did not notice the drama of their work,
but from the boat to
shore, they carried you on their backs or shoulders,
they would never falter
nor blink for long. In their humble
work,
they are superheroes. My
uncle gave Manoy a pair of dazzling sunglasses.
Manoy wore it
proudly. And that is why we all come
back to the
mountains, to the
islands, to our homes because
when our eyes meet, we
don’t speak a language. We wear nothing,
but smiles and the secret
happiness we all keep in our hearts.
My grandmother, with all
her sophistication and spunk never ever
faltered to pray to Ina,
instilling a bequest of joy - transparent
and
glowing where we roam
around, casting our nets for the entire
universe and all our
relations. Mabalos to Padre de la Cruz
who
proclaimed me a third prize winner, Then I
know why, I believe!
“Ina hare mo kami
pagpabayaan huli ta kami sa imong aki.”
/rosalinda flores. rosevoc
a poem. Spirit of A Place
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