BEING alone in a big house triggers the “proet” in me to compose something about being alone and eating all by myself.
The word proet by my coinage is someone who writes prose poems. The computer’s internal dictionary doesn’t recognize the word and underscores it in red. But that is my word for what I have done. As a warning, let me tell you I wrote nothing profound. A proet merely expresses what he thinks or feels at the moment. Here’s what I wrote for this column.
Alone, all alone
Empty kitchen, lonely rooms
Family out of town
Someone’s gotta keep
An eye on the house grate
And doors and windows
That look forlorn
As they gaze out to the street.
I’m the strong man now home alone
Just me and my shadow, oh,
And our tuxedo cat Neco
And frisky beagle Echo.
The kitchen table stares at me
Asks, “What’re you gonna do?”
My lunch! On to my wok:
Three stalks of green onions
Never mind if they cost P5 each
Their value does teach
Me to look more fondly
At farmlands green and lovely.
Sliced into two-inch lengths
The onions dive into hissing palm oil
Soy sauce for flavor, sugar to accent
Powdered chili for exclamation point.
Newly harvested rice at P50 per kilo
When cooked, glutinous and perfect
Even without meat or veggie to pair
But with green onions,
Oh, what a culinary fair.
Tonight I will saute one bitter melon
Thinly sliced to quickly cook,
With native garlic and ripe tomatoes.
My veggie will have a duet
With my cold white rice
Newly harvested
From a farmer’s
Green rice field
Fed with hope
Mixed with tears.