Some 'poems' I wrote when I was in the Philippines

I mentioned in my introduction that I wanted to share some of the 'poems' I write when I have this impulsive urge. When I was in the Philippines I had a 3 hour car journey, around half of which I had a torrent of writing coming out of me. These were actually the first things I ever shared, around a month ago on my family travel blog, and I thought they'd be a good place to start on steemit with the poetry I want to share.

I've selected some photographs from my trip which hopefully will complement what I wrote. The words came at the end of 4 weeks there, the photograph's I've chosen I took during that period and kind of fitted the words that spewed out of my brain! I've put all the writing first, all the pics at the end, so scroll down to see them first if you're interested.

This first part contains things I wrote separately in my journey then at some point later on I re-ordered them, with some minor editing, it's not really written as one poem but collated together from separate thought bursts. The rest is mostly as it came out, and more 'poemy'.

Whether you think it's good, rubbish, whether you're indifferent to it all, this is the first of several I've already written that I want to share.

OBSERVATIONS OF THE PHILIPPINES BY SOMEONE PASSING THROUGH
Home is not a house.
Home is where the heart is.
A place to sleep,
A base,
With limited personal space,
To get out of your neighbours face.
Home can be a bamboo hut,
Where animals sleep at the foot,
Of the bed.
Shaded by palms and banana plant leaves,
Living life amongst the trees.

The washing it hangs at the side of the road,
Catching the sunlight,
Away from the shaded houses.

Breeze block walls, corrugated roof,
The neighbour of a bamboo hut.
Across the road a modern brick palace,
Straight from the western dream,
Garishly painted, clean and bright.

Everyone stares as you pass,
Raising their heads
From their everyday chitchat.
The chickens and roosters
Scrabble in the dirt of the yard.
Keeping their heads down,
Randomly pecking in no particular order,
Then you pass through the border,
To the next barangay.

Happy to a degree, when there’s food
It lifts the mood, And the people
Seem so free.
But their lives are so hard,
Because when you discard
The sun and the heat,
And they're sat outside
In the afternoon,
You see,
Often it’s not choice
But because their labour
Has no voice.

Crop rotation,
Rice and then corn,
Thrice annual harvests,
Such weather has borne.

Fields hedged by trees,
Growing fruits,
Some unknown.
A line of trees nearby
Growing bags,
To the untrained eye.

Fields with name boards
To markout their rice.
Egrets wade in,
Fill their beaks,
Cool their feet,
Among the rice plants
Aiming straight for the sky,
From the cool muddy waters.

Goats, some tethered
Some munching around
Through rubbish and scrub
It’s all fair grub.
A rectangle of corn husks,
Dry in the sun,
Golden-yellow,
Against rich green fields

Riding by trike
With Legs hanging down
Weaving through traffic
That’s buzzing round town
The sidecar is full
Two children and mum.

Dogs roaming round
Living almost free.
Running in packs
On their turf by the sea.
But when crossing the road
In the cities and towns,
They too have nine lives
Like the cats or they'd die.

The dog doubles back
From crossing the road,
Avoids certain death
At the last minute -
The water filled sidecar
Stops
To deliver
His lifesaving product

LEAVING SAN JUAN

Leaving the sea
We first drove along the shoreline.
Flashes of blue between the shops
And houses.
It called at me,
I waved goodbye,
For now,
My friend.
We shall often be parted
But never apart.

We continued inland,
Over dry riverbeds
And wide flowing rivers,
Working our way
Along slow roads,
Through local traffic.
Honking our way past trikes
And the like.
We passed the Hulk,
Who waved his motionless hand
From the petrol station
On the corner
Of the roundabout,
As green as the fields
We were about to pass.
The merchants lined the roads,
Waving their arms
And their goods,
When they could,
I’d buy from them all
If only I could.

SOME MODES OF TRANSPORT ARE MUCH COOLER THAN OTHERS

Somehow both shiny
And tattered and old
Combing the heighway
And mining for gold
Emblazoned with script
A name or a tag
And laden with people
Their luggage and bags
Stopping and starting
Greeting and parting

Rolled up notes
Side by side
Lining the roof of the cab,
Where the sun shield should sit.
Coins scattered but not disorganised,
Across the dashboard,
On a small rectangle of cloth.
Constantly changing hands
From the back of the cab to the driver
And back
Through the hands of the people
Honesty, living socialism,
People helping people trusting people

AMERICAN INDIANS IN SAN LEON?

Classically quiet and unassuming
Proud and visibly strong
Of body, mind and soul.
A deep and heartfelt smile,
Rare,
A gift when given,
A gift when received.
A living portrait
Of the Native American warrior chiefs,
Made real in San Leon.

SURREAL DREAM OF THINGS I'VE SEEN

I dreamed of things I’d seen
Or heard about.
Cockerels fighting
Some fitted with blades,
They hacked at each other
As I watched from the shade.
Of bugs the size of mammals,
Scurrying over my bed, as I slept,
They waited till I dozed,
And then slowly out they crept.
I dreamt of the sun
As it scorched my face,
Sweating and thirsty,
I awoke and in its place,
The harsh light,
The naked bulb
Attacked my eyes,
And alongside the heat
It invaded my sleep.

I dreamed I rode
A giant carabao.
From its horns dangled lanterns,
And a queen slept in its jaws.
I wore her crown,
And rode as king,
But then they asked
For me to sing.
The videoke screen it played,
I crowed a line
All out of tune,
Howled at the moon.
The people jeered,
Their queen awoke
Dethroned I scarpered,
Shamed and broke.