Of Moonlight, Lanterns, and Mangoes: Poems for Samhain
In this collection, Manila’s nights come alive through the quiet pulse of city streets, where the moonlight, lanterns, and urban lights illuminate both place and memory. Lanterns—from the moonlight, glowing windows, street lamps, and fleeting reflections—capture the rhythm of the city, moments of introspection, and the subtle remembrance that lingers at the edge of night, echoing the reflective spirit of Samhain (or Halloween). Mangoes—the lingering taste of summer fruit—carry the warmth of sensory memory, fleeting sweetness, and personal intimacy, embodying moments that refuse to fade even as time moves on.
Together, lanterns and mangoes weave a tapestry of the seen and the felt: the urban glow and the human heart, the quiet streets and private recollections, the passage of night and the persistence of memory. The poems explore the space between day and evening, between loss and hope, between the ordinary and the luminous. In them, Manila breathes with the subtle music of remembrance, the fleeting touch of sweetness, and the gentle, enduring light of what one carries—visible or unseen—through every passing night.
After Seeing the Crescent Moon
As I rode towards home,
I saw a silv’ry crescent moon,
Shining o’er the dark night sky,
Swaying to a heavenly tune.
It shimmered above Manila’s skyline,
Like calm after a fleeting drizzle;
A hush of breeze broke the weary heat
Of the sun’s last golden sizzle.
Jeepneys hummed their usual song,
Headlights flickered like fireflies’ gleam;
And puddles mirrored neon lights,
Turning asphalt into a dream.
The city stretched, unchanged, the same—
Far from its painted postcards’ grace;
A past that lingers, half in shame,
Still reaching for a brighter place.
Rust gathers on forgotten gates,
And billboards fade with stories told;
Yet in each shadowed street remains
A pulse, unbroken, faint but bold.
Children’s laughter, muffled, drifts
Through alleys lined with candle smoke;
A vendor hums a mournful hymn,
Of love and hunger interwoke.
And there—the crescent, pure and bright,
Adorns the sky with patient fire;
It speaks of endings, speaks of light,
And whispers softly to inspire.
It tells of lives that came and passed,
Of hands once warm, now cold and still;
Of vows once whispered, meant to last,
Now echoes down a silent hill.
Tonight the veil grows thin and near,
And memories breathe the evening air;
Each flickering flame, each whispered prayer,
Recalls the souls we hold most dear.
Yet still, beneath that silver glow,
This weary city dares to dream;
Each window flickers—hopes that show
Through cracked concrete and broken seams.
Still it counters all the blight of morrow,
A quiet song through streets of sorrow.
Its silver glow upon the urban seam
Whispers of life that dares to dream.
Through alleys worn, through fading light,
It hums of hope within the night.
Though shadows stretch and old scars stay,
The crescent keeps the dark at bay.
Each window flickers, faint but true,
A gentle pulse, a promise new.
The city breathes beneath its gleam,
And stirs again, as in a dream.
So I watch, pen in hand, and know,
Though time moves on, and winds may blow,
This lunar flame, though soft and small,
Still guards the life that binds us all.
Samhain Night in Manila
The night spills slow across Manila streets,
Streetlamps flicker, neon hums and greets.
I sip my coffee, bitter, warm, and deep,
Watching the city stir but never sleep.
Smoke from vendors curls into the dark,
A faint aroma of sweat, spice, and bark.
Jeepneys pass, their headlights sharp and brief,
Tracing tired arcs through asphalt and grief.
Above, a crescent leans toward the east,
Silver witness to a day released.
It whispers softly of the times gone by,
Of voices lost beneath the urban sky.
Windows flicker in apartment towers,
Each a quiet glow, a fragile power.
Families speak, or laugh, or sit in pause,
Connected to life, to memory, to cause.
I stir my cup and feel the quiet hum,
Of lives that lived, of battles lost and won.
Samhain in the city—soft, not grand,
A gentle nod to past that holds my hand.
The night is long, but not unkind,
It holds the weight of all behind.
Coffee warms, the streets breathe low,
And Manila waits for morning’s glow.
I sit, I sip, I watch, I write,
The dark, the city, the fading light.
A simple night, a quiet rite,
A fleeting moment on Samhain night.
Summer Fruit Lingers in the Night
The heat of day has bled away,
Yet sweetness clings upon the air.
The night, half-tired, half-awake,
Breathes softly through the city’s glare.
A cup of coffee cools beside
The windowpane of fog and light;
Manila hums its sleepless tune,
Old dreams return, then fade from sight.
The crescent moon above the City
Watches lovers part, or stay;
Its silver glaze on roofs and glass
Makes even grief seem far away.
I taste the ghost of summer fruit—
Ripe mango, sun-warm, tender, slow;
It lingers still upon my tongue,
A memory too sweet to go.
Perhaps it’s love that never left,
Perhaps it’s time that will not yield;
Each night recalls a fragrant dusk,
Each dawn renews what once was sealed.
The rain begins its quiet song,
Across the tin, the stone, the vine;
And though the city wears its scars,
Its breath still mingles close with mine.
So here I sit between two seasons—
Where warmth and sorrow intertwine;
The summer fruit still lingers on,
Its taste—like memory—divine.
When she walked through the night
The night carried her name like a whisper,
soft as steam rising from a cup.
The City was half-asleep,
but she walked as if the streets remembered.
Her shadow passed beneath the lamps—
gold spilling over damp stone,
and the scent of rain-washed air
mingled with something sweet—
perhaps perfume, perhaps memory.
She paused by a café window,
where someone’s pen scratched faintly on paper,
and the hum of conversation
fell quiet for a breath.
She once said the city felt alive at night,
when everyone else had given up pretending.
She loved the way the lights
hid the broken places,
the way coffee and smoke
felt like warmth in borrowed time.
The moon leaned low, a silver eyelid,
watching her cross the intersection
like the last dream of summer—
soft, deliberate, gone too soon.
And though the hours folded into silence,
something of her lingered—
like ripe fruit left on a table,
still fragrant even in the dark,
still reminding the air
of sunlight and of home.
The Scent That Stayed Until Morning
The night unfolds, half-quiet, half-awake,
A city breathing through its scars.
I sit with coffee gone to cold,
While streetlights hum like distant stars.
Outside, the drizzle veils the glass,
And every drop recalls a face—
a voice that softened every pause,
a warmth the years could not erase.
The air still holds that fleeting trace—
a summer scent, both shy and sweet;
perhaps from memory, perhaps from grace,
it lingers long where loss and hope meet.
The breeze that moves through narrow streets
seems borrowed from another time,
when laughter crossed from lips to rain,
and love was simple, near, sublime.
Now shadows drift through dim cafés,
the tables still, the hours slow;
but something tender, unresolved,
remains in places hearts still go.
And though the night will soon retreat,
its silver fades, its music dies—
the scent that stayed until the dawn
still hums beneath the urban sky.
Moonlight and Caffeine
Looking at the moonlight,
I reminisce your presence,
Your beauty, warmth, and charm,
More than an evanescence.
Your love, as if like caffeine,
Wakens my restless mind,
A spark that burns eternal,
No shadows could ever bind.
The night wind whispers softly,
It carries your gentle voice,
Each memory a melody,
Each thought a tender choice.
Stars glimmer like your laughter,
Each beam a silver thread,
That weaves around my aching heart,
Where every hope is fed.
In dreams, I chase your figure,
Through gardens drenched in light,
Where roses bloom eternal,
And darkness yields to night.
Your eyes, twin constellations,
Guide me through every storm,
Your love, a boundless ocean,
Forever keeping me warm.
Even as the dawn approaches,
And moonlight fades away,
Your essence lingers deeply,
To color all my day.
So here beneath the heavens,
I whisper, soft and true:
No time, no space, no distance
Could dim my love for you.