I Hear My Heart

I hear my heart howl,
a wounded wolf fighting for shelter
along burning columns of mire
in the cold whiteness of a winter’s chest;
I hear my heart weep,
and his voice is muted by a hurricane
of ebony wings that soar like spears
onto a bleeding, barb-wired sky;
but I do not grieve long, not for long—
for, as I hear my heart whisper
the agony of volcanic ash
it also promises the ecstasy of waterfalls
that subside into a symphony
of rustling rain and playful wind
that plays on and on and on
through moments of a single midnight
onto the eternity of a new dawn
that starts with my trembling hands
finding calm and warmth
upon your breasts.

* * *

A Vampire’s Song to His Beloved

I would like you to whisper me a poem
a poem that hisses like copperhead wind
a quiet, intrusive, searching poem
that snaps like sweet poison kiss
that brings me to quick sleep—
as the rain wafts softly
among the trees’ shoulder blades
finding refuge in the cold
damp night, darkness collecting
a weary head.

I am so tired, so please say the words
like the lost language of crows
that find shelter in the wounded intimacy
of an aftermidnight dreary.
Touch me, oh touch me
like pangs that fuses death
and make me rest in the abyss
then wake me up with the song
of healing like sunlight that sneaks
through the flesh of dusk and mends
the cracks of broken blinds…
my love, my beloved
your love is my peace
and my home
amidst the light of night
and the dark of days.

* * *


Like a quiet seashore that offers refuge
to the ocean’s turbulence and calms down
the waves’ frolic and adventure;
like a riverbank that pacifies rapids
and neutralizes overflow—
my rampage and my meekness find
solace and frenzy, sleepy surrender
and sweet unease around your hips.

* * *

The Taming of the Wild Woman

I want to negotiate the depths
that reveal ladders into your dark
into your steep cave of treasures
into your sleeping volcano—
and then, I will thrust my head
upon those black clouds, swallow your fire
and clear the smoke as I unravel
and claim my home in your heart.

* * *


When our universe is reduced
to a solitary driftwood upon
a famished riverbed
at the end of days and nights,
I shall lift us from the abyss
and hold you tight, so tight
as we ride through the rapids
onto an angry waterfall—
but I will stay with you
with all my might and madness
until we merge with the sea.
About the poet: Pasckie Pascua currently lives in Candler, in North Carolina. He is a journalist and poet. After his arrival in the United States in the late 1990s, Pascua edited the Manhattan-based Headline Philippines from 1998 to 2001. In North Carolina, he is the founding executive director of the ‘Traveling Bonfires,’ a non-profit “people’s culture” organization and editor and publisher of ‘The Indie,’ a community newspaper.


Please follow our commenting guidelines.

Comments are closed.