ABC STARS Inspires

MARY, there is blood upon the hills. Your sons have etched upon their guns---their kills. There's an evil wind that's blowing badness Among the winds of change. And sowing sadness In the hamlets of your land of peace. Ah, when will this wind of madness cease? For fleeting moments till these rites are done Bicolanos once again are one Gathered at the crossroad of Bicolandia On this, your annual feast of Peñafrancia. Yes, this is what we always remember This turbulent, passionate pilgrimage of September. But Mary, many are our crying ills Today, there is blood upon the hills. Many of our brothers have their tables bare There's so much greed; deceit is everywhere. Justice is a phantom in the night Banished by goons and gold and armalite. Our leader has reneged upon his word No voice but that of his mighty can be heard. No wonder there's that nagging thought that fills A growing many---blood upon the hills. O Mary dearest, of Peñafrancia Shri

-I- The Charge: "It's the Light Brigade!" "Cannon to the right of them Cannon to the left of them Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered." Students to the left of M Strikers to the right of M Pressmen in front of M Volleyed and thundered, That Marcos had blundered And pressure groups plundered On contraband cargoes Despite the embargoes Of President Marcos. Manglapus to the left of M Ninoy to the right of M LPs in front of M Volleyed and thundered Of M's "hocus pocus" Of Officer Corpus Of notorious Jabidah And "the plans of Imelda"; And beleaguered was Marcos. But, exposing Meralco's Exemptions, he vowed He'll no longer be cowed By these titans who plundered And the country pondered As the Lopezes thundered And the NPs were sundered. "Savior of womanhood", Fernandez, then stood--- "FM's but one And much must be done We

I rise, repent, till death. desire enflames the will and, reason blinded, covet and fall! 29feb60  photo credit: Roman Soldier via photopin (license) License: (license)

Madonna of Bikol! Queen of God's People! O Lady, of  Peñafrancia shrine, We come to you, to sing anew Of your constant care! Of your love divine! In joy and in sorrow, today and tomorrow, From East to West, where ever we roam From far or near, Ina most dear, What matters only is we are home! In this trysting place of God's embrace A love we say not in solitude, In whispered sighs, from only the wise, But is sung and shouted by a multitude! One are the Bikols! One with all peoples! With God and His angels and saints above! Banishing sadness, bursting with gladness Proclaiming the wonder of our Mother's love! *Oragon, Sept., 1992; Handiong, Sept., 9, 92  photo credit: The Basilica of Our Lady of Peñafrancia via photopin (license) License: (license)

Mother, why must they be so unruly? Why the pagan revelry? Truly, This traslacion from your Basilica Is no procession! 'Tis a Mardi Gras! With this irreverence, how can one pray? For years, they have been doing it this way--- A swaying, dancing, drunken parody Of what a real procession ought to be! "Have you forgotten, son, that pagans, too, Are Christ's own brethren? Beloved, just like you? Wasn't my Peñafrancia chapel built Nor guile, who dwelt beyond the sound of bells Yet yearned for all God's Holy Word foretells! And why be grim and gloomy all the while? Is there no room for laughter or a smile?" "They, too, do pray. Oftentimes unseen By mortal eyes. And how they love their Queen! So overwhelmed by gratitude are they, They shout their hearts out! It's their Mother's day! Why can't they have the Mardi Gras they want? Should processions be so sacrosanct? Why not---for pagan, devotee, or p

There is a mystic tale that's always told By all the Bicolanos young or old 'Tis felt and seen by pilgrim, foe or friend Why is it so, one cannot comprehend. They swear that when the Lady journeys home On her pagoda lined with gilt and chrome No other woman, must be beside her throne The barge will sink, if she is not alone! Her motley court of cheering, singing men Has always left me with a wistful yen But others with their condescending look Who think that life's an artificial book, Keep saying, "it's a swaying parody Of what a real procession ought to be A Christian trimming on a pagan mood--- The adoration of a piece of wood!" Let me tell you just a thing or two About this "drunken" candle-lighted queue. We know we are not much, mere publicans, Bare-footed ones of humble circumstance. Impulsive ones whose common bond is love For our Madonna of Bikol Up above. Ah, countless times we sighed, she always heard! And God could not deny His mothe

-I- Did My Captain Pass This Way? I seek no other captain; only he Who holds the highest rank all captains hail--- Five crimsoned battle stars. He is the tale Of peerless leadership and gallantry. He led our advance and ordered "Follow me!" "I am the way!" throughout this treacherous trail Of moment to moment in-fighting. Our foes bewail How he, though singlehanded, set us free. For we were then entrapped on Calvary Hill But he arose! and broke their age-old siege. He earned the highest combat badge that day--- The Cross on a Bleeding Heart. He wears it still! I should not, would not, but I lost my Liege. Did my Captain of captains pass this way? -II- The Broken Chords I've seen all singers stumble down ere half The melody. Their images lie strung In shame; the broken chords, their epitaph. Shall we then leave the song of life unsung Or compromise its accent, time and pitch? Renounce the highest perfection