An Empty Chessboard

(A/N: Technically, this piece is complete on its own but somehow, I still feel that it isn't finished. Regardless, I'll have to post this one as is. Anyway, enjoy.)

An Empty Chessboard
By: Ezekiel de Guia

Sitting in the middle of the room
Between two forces, opposites by fate
Evoked with a game yearned to finish.

One to dare and assume
That the game has not come too late
Or this madness has nothing to furnish.

Empty, pieces stand not in this loom
Fate unseen as our souls lark and rate,
Nay, the game runs at a garnish.

The adversary laid the game's attack
Here, I said "The move, the force it lacks."
Mistaken was I, she declared "It is not a mere knick-knack."

Checkmate.

Amalgamation

(Author's Note: Once again, I'm posting another poem. This was published in Pundasyon 9, this went first before Vermillion. I hope it amuses much. Without further ado, here it is.)

Amalgamation
By: Ezekiel de Guia

Amalgamation
Fearing what is invoked,
Ailing the tears of men provoked.

Invocation
Weary thoughts meandering,
As words fade to wandering.

Renumeration
In full, we mask our scars
To stare at endless wars.

Redemption
Of fear and sins received,
In the end we want reprieve.

Dissolution
Pristine white now tainted,
Alas, our world is now painted.

Cease and desist,
Everything exists,
It ends where it begins.

Vermillion

(Author's Note: This poem was published in Pundasyon 10 and is being reposted out of a friend's request. Sharing it to everyone here now. I hope you enjoy.)


Vermillion
by: Ezekiel de Guia


Tell me dear child, what is despair?
Is it when shades howl at twilight's behest?
Nay, that's fear in its blatant unrest.


Then what does it hold if hope has been snuffed?
When chains make you turn from the nightmare's mask,


And wish that the fury you feel that had grown colder,
Lest the cold is worst than Nifleheim's frost,
Fear the law of the world's indignation.


Sanguine offering had the chalice engulfed.
Bitter wine gathered in Malice's flask,
Poured out in enmity, he is feral yet frail.


Fury grown cold, schemes hold with vengeance.
Yet when roused awake, its ire holds no penance.


When the grail is poured out...
When the bitter ale turns sweet...
Your offering has been taken
While thy good deeds are forsaken...


Drink, dear fallen, it is over.

Countdown Mode: 4 Days before Renunciation

As a way to dust off this blog, I decided to input some new things in here. To start off, let's go with the news.

First, having gone through Thesis and such, the chances of graduating are attainable but still under the risk of change. Anything can happen even at the end game. Can't say much about it but I'm getting close.

Second, this blog will serve as both "journal", "literary collection", and "anything that comes by a whim". Gonna put categories on that one. As for that, I'll get started with the poems.

That's all for the updates so, time I get the tags fixed and get the posting order back to work.

Seven Masks at Once

A gloomy day...

Marking the days of my journey, I step through a rusted gate wrapped in vines. Time had worn so much of this entrance that even its walls are wrapped by the entangling plants. The stone path lead to one direction that it did not take a curve to the left or to the right. With the dark shades marking the trees, it seemed to carry over this heavy air. If my mood was as gloomy as this day is, the place made it worse than that.

For some reason, I can't help but just walk through this strange woods and end up somewhere. And in fact....I did. This mist-laden place seemed to have covered more than just anticipation as it began to let its veil clear away at every step I took. Now that it has covered everything around me, I couldn't tell which direction I'm walking to right now.

I grimaced at what welcomed me...or more of what I just saw right there and then.

Seven graves, different in shape but grave markers nonetheless. All bore names, all of it I recognize very well. Names that bore no meaning to everyone else but to myself. How did I end up in this graveyard, in this place where time forsook with abhorrence and despair?

Unless I'm the one feeling that despair and horror....

I ambled closely, trying to see each name engraved on the black marble marker. I smirked at what these were to me. Names that belonged to me...names that had very distinct descriptions, separated by insignias that I recall not seeing elsewhere but here. I shook my head at the idea, I shook my head in denial that these were my remains.

Note that when I say remains, I mean the ones that have been buried in the deepest of consciousness, bound to be forgotten as if they have died. I am breathing and still walking amongst civilization.

Why is this place here? Why am I here? Those questions, I indeed found no answer to them except for one.....

"Do you remember what you have done here?"

I jumped at the sound of that voice. I looked around and searched for the source...and found nothing.

"What do you mean?" I asked back.

"Do you know why you built this place?"

I sneered at the idea of answering that. I know I have no answer, I'm convinced that I don't.

"Shall we replay them for you? Every scene that took place here?"

For some reason, I gave out an answer that made me scratch my head.

"How about lay out a gallery of paintings and I'll guess them myself."

Great, now the voice laughed with amusement. The next thing I knew, frames hovered above the grave markers, the canvas revealing these various depictions of every scene captured with detail. I hated the fact that I suggested this part to happen.

Each painting had a certain scenario laid out. From left to right, each had borne a timeline on every depiction. A painting of a man in robes, surrounded by a great library while holding a book, was the first that I saw. He bore a sparkle of fascination on every book laid out on those shelves.

The painting next to it had a different picture. It was that of a priest, seated inside a confessional booth. This one bore darker robes compared to the other, but his expression was that of a listener intent on mincing every detail while keeping the darkest secrets within the crypt of his heart.

After that, there was another painting. It was that of a boy, clasping a lute while singing songs under the moonlit night. It was a picture filled with bliss that I can't help but wonder how his voice would sound like if he were to sing.

There were others. On the very right, I saw this painting filled with chains and bound to it was this blindfolded figure. Stifled and restrained, I felt a pang in my chest after seeing how much this one had suffered in silence.

The one next to it was a masked knave, thanks to the clothes he wore. A card on one hand and a knife on the other. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of scheme was being made inside his head. But the only thing that left me questioning was the smile on his face....a twisted smile.

This one bore a face of wrath and anger. Bloodied hands and clothes torn asunder, revealing wounds that were crimson with blood. In hand was a sword, rusted and stained due to a number of encounters placed. I never bothered asking what caused it to be like this.

Lastly, I saw an empty frame. On it was a chair in the center of an empty gallery. The only thing I could make out in that place was the top hat and a cane. I wondered where that came from.

"That one on the center is the only one you haven't given a proper burial."

I turned back and saw this figure that I recognized. He looked similar to me, however, he was dressed in a black suit. I realized what these things were and shook my head at how slow I was in figuring it out.

"This was my graveyard. I buried so much of my other selves here....I never thought I'd be here, again."

He chuckled at first before walking past me. By the time he was already behind me, he started laughing. I faced the painting and saw him staring at it intently, as if he was waiting for me to say something.

"Why did you leave me as is while the rest slept in their graves?" I heard him ask me this.

"I cannot find any way to end your story just yet. I still have yet to see how this would turn out." I answered him. Placing my hands inside the pockets of my jacket, I smiled.

"I still need my Magister. I still need the Count to see if this will be fitting for his tale. After all, I have a few more years to straighten out your tale. As for the others, I have concluded them as fitting as they should."

Feeling as if there's nothing else to do, I turned my back on the dandy gentleman and left the graveyard. I heard him speak loudly as I neared the gate.

"You will come back here.....soon."

((This post was done a year ago on Facebook. I just thought of posting it here to show it. Link:  http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150220645665431))

The Zero System is Online

Looks like this ship is going to be on full force from this point on. Did some preparations for now and let's hope we get more. Enjoy while you're paying a visit to this corner of the web.

Flagship starter, while we have exams for the week, the writing is about to commence. Excited right now and I guess I should get to work.

However, exams are still in order and the finals are waiting. Time to hit the books/production table and do something. After this, let's get going.

Waking Up from the Dreamless Sleep.

Waking up from something is easy at times. But there are instances that make this process harder than it appears. For one, it will feel like the person would want to go back to the dream and continue. They struggle to get out of bed and start moving. For a person such as myself, who had not picked up the pen due to fickle habits and constant hesitation, I was in for a rude awakening. Well, quite close.

This is where the Philippine Press Institute's seminar came to be. On the very first day, I had faced one simple trial that would be the starting point. Remembering names (definitely hard if you haven't used the faculty for memory). It took me a while to get their names right with the adjectives describing them but it got me awake. After that, I was not up to falling asleep again.

It’s strange that I mentioned something about falling asleep. When one thinks of it, boredom is the cause of people being distracted. Roots to it are from every angle but leads to one thing, disinterest. With that, I ended up realizing that I was stuck with excuses rather than real causes. To put it simply, I was having a hard time waking up from procrastinating. After stirring from the mental warm-up, I knew I would be up for more.

I continued to listen as veteran journalists and regular practitioners had their experts stand by the podium one after the other, sharing their insights and tips. From their stories, a shape of what journalism is began to materialize. This was more than just a profession; it's a vocation. It was not far from a priest serving his ministry. Driven by duty and the community, that's how terms like Civic Journalism came to existence. For the first half of the day, I had my notebook open and I was jotting down thoughts and notes non-stop, pausing only to listen when I want to grasp more to think about.

This routine was beginning to break the ice. The mind was breaking out after relearning about some basics. The principle of Writing Beyond the Written Word now comes into mind. The amusing thing was that I ended up thinking to myself, "What if I make a journalist as a pivotal character for a fictional story? What would be the driving force of the story?" The next thing I knew, I was listening to a talk about the social media (to which I got the encouragement to dust of my blog and get this post out) and ethics.

The talk about ethics now played a critical role with my sense of justice. I thought I had a grasp of the black and white spectrum with terms of moral issues. That's where I found myself stuck between crossroads all thanks to one question.

Is it ethical to expose the abusive behavior of a fellow journalist? (In this case, abuse in terms of corruption and its practice).

Stuck between two views, I found myself baffled. How do I approach a sensitive topic like this? While asking this to myself, I had an ethical journalist (and definitely a veteran due to her age being an old lady) beside me and I asked her. She smiled with a definite answer that soon made sense. If it was for the pursuit of truth, "pull the trigger" and expose. I think it made sense and that existing would only defeat the purpose.

The day ended with ethics. While sent towards our respective groups to cover news as part of the exercise, I was convinced about one thing.

Our job as a journalist; it is more of calling than mere application. It is a commitment rather than mere contract.

Dusting off the dashboard and getting things kick-started.....again.

Been a while since I got this one running. This has only functioned as a journal for me to write things of interest. Right now, I've just thought of using it one more time.

A lot of things have happened lately and one of them includes me dusting off the old dashboard of this little blog. I'll tell you now, nothing seemed to have changed.....yet. But I can tell you one thing, this has made me thinking about getting back in to putting this in circulation.

Well, for now, this is just a test run if it still....runs. Time to get working.