He says that after growing tired of being just one of the "flaming mindless writers in chat rooms and newsgroups,"  he decided to take his writing more seriously.  Two years ago, a friend dared him to start a collection of his works, and it was also about that same time where he started to attend creative writing classes headed by a former officemate. The poems Brushstroke and My Orange Moon are some of the poems he offered as "payments" for these classes.

Merino has written several other poems, but they are mostly available only as e-mails which he sends out to his friends. Readers, however, may take a look at some of them by visiting his personal website: http://www.angelfire.com/de/DIMerino.

I had the strangest dream last night. 
I dreamt that I could not remember the color of your face. 
It was a blank canvass without eyes, 
without your perfectly curved nose, 
without even a color. 
It wasn't black, it wasn't blue. 
It was just nothing. 
Just an empty space needing to be filled
with anything, anything,
and I got afraid to touch it. 
I was afraid that I was not good enough 
to paint back your face and your perfectly curved nose.
My eyes could not even bear to look at the wailing brush, 
even as it begs for me to be simply near it. 
My feet would not move 
as my body drags both of my feet 
inch by painful inch closer...

to you.  And that's when I remembered
the red cheeks when you get teased,
the asphalt gray mole that you keep trying to hide,
the short curly hair dark as the night in La Carlota,
the midnight siesta
the long telephone conversations about nothing,
but meant everything
the search for the best fitting jeans 
somewhere in Makati, or was it in Edsa.
I did remember the face that once was angelic
but somehow changed.  Was it magic, maybe even tragic?
Was it something that I refused to do,
or was it something that you've always wanted to have done,
or maybe, it was just the tenderness of the moment,
and then again, maybe it was simply nothing.

For now I do remember you.
I now do want to again touch you.
And I will now color the face
that once I remember, shared my fears and tears
when I suffered the consequences
of my foolish actions, my beaten emotions
and my dying intentions.
The smile that longed for nothing more
than my fickle attention
and singular linear motion.

My Playful Moon

Last night, while taking small steps slowly
I saw the orange moon gazing at me
There were no clouds, the earth was free
From the cold kisses of the night wind

I was becoming increasingly aware
Of the moon's obsessive glances
That truth be told
Gave a pinch of a smile on my face

And so I voluntarily stopped walking
And stared at the tall pine tree
That was blocking my view
To the playful orange moon

And what a sight it was
Under the Louisiana night
Before the stars came out
And just after the sun had said its farewell

I bathed in the shadow of the tall pine
As if to hide away from the moon
That was increasingly becoming brighter
As if to shower my world with hues and colors

And I was quite flattered
That the bermuda grass was also glowing
Although several trees have had their leaves fallen
And the night wind had arrived and was howling

My broken heart that a while ago was crying
Seemed to have healed 
And once more was beating
Wanting to take a glimpse of the orange moon

But I may have waited a little too late
I should have acted a little bit sooner
I should have avoided the kisses of the night wind
And I should not have enjoyed the glow of the bermuda

For the moon was already shining her brightest
But the clouds have also started to cover
The Louisiana night I wanted to remember
When I finally saw
My beautiful orange moon
Changed its color to yellow.
 

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