A Song from the Past

I found this song on youtube after many years of looking for a copy. My high school classmate Dada and i used to sing it during our lull times in campus. It's a poignant song that speaks of a love that never was... (meron bang ganon?)

MY HEART (Harriet Schock)

My heart overprotected its first born
Sorely neglected its last torn pages
Of the book it had learned by heart
My heart runs at the first sign of danger
Opening up to the strangest stranger
Till time can tear us apart
Along with my heart
And scars like well travelled roads
Always lead home If the going gets rough
And the scars are deep enough
My heart like a road map to your door
Winding homeward for one more moment
The promise of one more start
My heart is crying I love you
But these words that I'd love to tell you
Got lost along my way
along with my heart.....

On Father's Day

On Father's Day i will say a prayer for a Dad who tried to do good by me. He may not have been the richest man, nor the most powerful king but i know he gave me the best: HIS BEST!

On Father's Day i will give thanks to a Dad and tell him I LOVE YOU!

Happy Father's Day!

A Mother's Love

We all know that being a Mom is the hardest, most rewarding job on the face of this Earth.
"You don't love me!"
How many times have your kids laid that one on you?
And how many times have you, as a parent, resisted the urge to tell them how much?
Someday, when my children are old enough to understand the logic that motivates a mother, I'll tell them...
• I loved you enough to bug you about where you were going, with whom and what time you would get home.
• I loved you enough to insist you buy a bike with your own money, which we could afford, and you couldn't.
• I loved you enough to be silent and let you discover your hand picked friend was a creep.
• I loved you enough to stand over you for two hours while you cleaned your bedroom, a job that would have taken me 15 minutes.
• I loved you enough to say, "Yes, you can go to Disney World on Mother's Day."
• I loved you enough to let you see anger, disappointment, disgust, and tears in my eyes.
• I loved you enough not to make excuses for your lack of respect or your bad manners.
• I loved you enough to admit that I was wrong and ask for your forgiveness.
• I loved you enough to ignore "what every other mother" did or said.
• I loved you enough to let you stumble, fall, hurt, and fail.
• I loved you enough to let you assume the responsibility for your own actions, at 6, 10, or 16.
• I loved you enough to figure you would lie about the party being chaperoned, but forgave you for it...after discovering I was right.
• I loved you enough to shove you off my lap, let go of your hand, be mute to your pleas and insensitive to your demands...so that you had to stand alone.
• I loved you enough to accept you for what you are, and not what I wanted you to be.
• But most of all, I loved you enough to say no when you hated me for it. That was the hardest part of all.

By Erma Bombeck, columnist, essayist, book author

Looking forward to Mother's Day ;)

Mama taught primary school children until her retirement. Up to this day, i can only marvel at her patience and determination at handling 40 seven-year-old pupils per school year, for more than twenty years!

For the last twenty years of my own life, i have been spending weekends with Mama at our family home somewhere in the suburban south. Her cooking is something to look forward to, but more importantly, it is the mother-son time that i really cherish most.

On weekends, Mama and i will spend hours swapping stories and thoughts on the latest matters: siblings, friends, celebrities, work, relatives. Although not necessarily in that order! Mama would be her usual supportive self. Forever encouraging me with my hopes and dreams, she never fails to put in a wise word or two. Ah, mothers are God's gift to aging guys like me!

As i grow older, these moments have become more precious to me. Perhaps, weekends like these are the strongest links that will bind us together... across distance, beyond time and space.

I LOVE you Mama!

Romantic... Poignant

Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight

Slowly England's sun was setting oe'r the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,--
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,--
"I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must "die.
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung,-- far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,--
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.
"Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring tonight!"

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night."

*From Ringing ballads, including Curfew must not ring tonight, Rose Hartwick Thorpe, 1887

Christ has risen!

There is Hope!

Happy Easter!

A Lenten Reflection

The following is a dramatic reading written and performed by Richard
Harris on his album, "Slides" [copyright 1971 by ABC Records]. As a young boy i used to hear it being played on the FM radio during the lenten season. Many years later, this piece would be a favorite material for my friends and i whenever we felt like shooting the breeze in the then so bare Greenbelt Park, some twenty five years ago!

According to some accounts, this was written with regards to the fighting in Northern Ireland which was particularly bloody around that time. But a deeper look into the prevalent mood of the piece, i think it does have a more universal appeal.


"There Are Too Many Saviours On My Cross"

There are too many saviours on my cross
lending their blood to flood out my ballot-box
with needs of their own.

Who put you there?
Who told you that that was your place?

You carry me secretly naked in your hearts,
and clothe me publicly in armour, saying
"God is on our side,"
Yet I openly cry
"Who is on My side? Who, tell Me who?
You who buried your sons and crippled your fathers
whilst you buried My Father in crippling His Son."

The antiquated Saxon sword, rusty in its scabbard of time,
now rises.
You gave it cause in My name,
bringing shame to the thorned head that once bled for
your salvation.
I hear your cries in the far-off byways, and your
mouth pointing north and south,
and my Calvary looms again, desperate in rebirth.
Your earth is partitioned but in contrition
it is the partition in your hearts that you must abolish.

You nightly watchers of Gethsemane,
who sat through my nightly trial delivering me from evil,
now, deserted, I watch you share your silver.
Your purse, rich in hate, bleeds my veins of love,
shattering my bone in the dust of the Boxside
and the Shaghill Road.

There is no issue stronger than the tissue of love,
no need as holy as the palm outstretched in the
run of generosity,
no monstrosity greater than the anger you inflict.

Who gave you the right to increase your fold while
decreasing the pastures of My flock?
Who gave you the right? Who gave it to you, who?
and in whose name do you fight?

I am not in heaven,
I am here, hear Me.
I am with you, see Me,
I am in you, feel Me,
I am of you, be Me,
I am for you, need Me.
I am all mankind, only through kindness will you reach Me.

What masked and bannered men can rock the ark
and navigate a course to their own anointed kingdom come?
Who sailed their captain to waters that they troubled
in My font, sinking in the ignorant seas of prejudice?

There is no virgin willing to conceive in the heat of
any bloody Sunday.
You children, lying in cries on Derry streets,
pushing your innocence into the full-flushed face of Christian guns,
battling the blame on each other,
Do not grow tongues in your dying dumb wounds speaking My name.
I am not your prize in your death,
you have exorcised Me in your game of politics.

Go home to your knees, and worship Me in any cloth,
for I was never tailor-made.
And who told you I was? Who gave you the right to think it?
Take your beads in your crippled hands.
Can you count My decades?
Take My love in your crippled hearts.
Can you count the loss?


I am not orange, I am not green,
I am a half-ripe fruit, needing both colors to grow into ripeness,
and shame on you to have withered my orchard!

I, in my poverty, alone and without trust,
cry shame on you and shame on you again and again
for converting Me into a bullet and shooting Me into men's hearts.

The ageless legend of My trial grows old, and the youth of your pulse,
staggering shamelessly from barricade to grave,
filing in the book of history My needless death one April,
Let Me in My betrayal lie low in My grave,
and you in your bitterness lie low in yours,
for our measurements grow strangely dissimilar.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, sullied be Thy Name!