third snowy day --
lumps in the
Cream of Wheat
previously published in bottle rockets
snow moon
the hunter's
empty trap
spring rain
the crumpled obituary
by my bed
previously published in The Heron's Nest
winter rain –
I hate the way
he says my name
truce --
the mingled steam
from our tea cups
rose leaf
her wrinkled hands
cupping my face
previously published in White Lotus
© Aurora Antonovic
Aurora Antonovic is a Canadian editor, writer, and visual artist whose work has appeared over four thousand times in publications spanning twelve countries and five continents. She is a recent Pushcart Prize nominee, and haiga editor of Simply Haiku. She is also editor of A Little Archive of Poetry, a publication that seeks to promote the love of verse in all forms. Aurora recently illustrated Marie Lecrivain's chapbook, The Painter, available through Lummox Press -- http://www.lummoxpress.com/newlp.htm
DAY PERSON
Late at night
I miss the sun.
I raise a
fist to the night
because I
would like to make
the daylight
linger awhile.
In my sleep
I dream of a
day without
night, moon, or stars.
IDENTITY THEFT
Shadows mimic
my words
and swallow my
joy whole.
The leave my face
like a
mad clown's face, but
without
white make-up or
red nose.
Shadows devour
my tears.
Shadows want to
be me
and assume my
identity.
THE PASSING TRAVELER
To be a passing traveler
without a home
journeying to patches
of heaven and
hellish cities
would require a fair deal
of medicine and cash,
dumb luck, and kindly
strangers for advice
and conversation.
I would break bread with a
bevy of birds
in exchange for their
boisterous songs
to the pass the time.
I would respect their customs
and leave my sword
behind, not bring
attention to myself,
and refrain from boasting.
© Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
West Covina, CA (USA)
Padigo
Nakangiti ang mga ulap
sa bughaw na kalawakan,
nakatitig sa mga dampa
na pinapayungan ng punong mangga.
Saksi ito sa paglipat
ni Aleng Nena
sa bahay na mayroong dala-dala,
nagtaka ang ulap
ano ang kaniyang dala?
Ngumiti siya,
ay, ulam pala.
Nasambit ng ulap,
ay, Ilokano ka nga
ano pa man ang dala-dala
masarap man o kahit matabang pa,
basta't ang mahalaga
naibahagi mo
kung ano ang mayroon ka.
Nag-abutan ng dala
sina Aleng Nena at Aleng Juana,
nakangiti't nagkasabay pa,
"Mare, tikman mo na?"
napahalakhak ang ulap sa nakita,
nang binuksan
parehong Pinakbet pala.
Ay, Ilokano kunamman
natangkin man ti kakuriputan
agpadigo madi malipatan.
Ms. Olay
Ang aking pinakaunang guro,
pinakamabait, pinakamakulit
at ni minsan hindi nagagalit.
sa kaniya ko natutunan,
isulat ang aking pangalan,
kahalili ni inang
sa tuwing siya'y nasa kabukiran.
Pagod man sa pagtuturo
ng A, E, I , O, U
mga hugis man o numero,
may oras pa din siyang magturo
sa mga anak
na naghihintay sa munting kubo.
Sabi ni inang,
sa lahat ng kapatid ko
siya ang pinakaunang guro,
mula sa una hanggang sa ika-sampu,
kaya't ipinagpapasalamat nila
si Ms. Olay naging katuwang na
sa paghubog sa mga bata,
di lamang para matutong
magsulat at magbasa
kundi maging kapaki-pakinabang sa bansa.
Kring! Kring! Kring!
Ang Tawag ng Panahon
Sa Bawat sampung nagtatapos
tatlo ang natutulog sa bahay,
apat ang sumasabit sa jeep
at tatlo ang suwerte,
di malaman kung nasaan.
Sa aming magkakaibigan,
sa mabuting kamay
ang kinabagsakan.
Si David na sociologist.
Magaling makibagay
sa bawat kliyente nito,
si Newton na bio-physicist
kaklkulado niya,
kung ilang calories,
ilang energy ang nababawas
at kabisado niyang gamitin
ang projectile motion
sa tuwing bigla siyang natutumba
dahil inaabot siya ng umaga
samala-North Pole na opisina.
Ayun si Santiago,
ang dakilang political-scientist,
balak kumuha ng abogasya
magaling siyang mag-persuade
sa mga tumatawag sa kaniya.
Mula sa PDA si Thomas,
Pinoy Discipline Academy
alam niya kung paano igalang
at sagutin ng tama
ang mga tao.
At ako si Jose,
ang pinakadakila,
iginapang ng ina
ang apat na taon
na pagkuha ng edukasyon,
sa Unibersidad ng Pilipinas!
Magaling akong magturo,
biruin mo,
tagasagot ako ng tanong
ng mga nagmamagaling
na Amerikano.
Lima kaming magkakaibigan
kilabot ng mga kustomer
at konsistent dean's lister
ng pinakasikat na call center.
© Zig Carlo M. Dulay
http://zigcarlo.blogdrive.com
I ebb and flow across blue waters
Wash me, ripples;
turn me an oyster.
My tanned shawl
wandered alone,
so I ebb and flow
across blue waters.
Later I saw Sarah
gazing northward;
together we wade
the grits of Samal
as I ebb and flow
across blue waters.
Hush-hush
I.
Recall summer amusements
we lived through yesterday,
akin to portals of the senses,
a unique discerning process
repressed by old prejudices.
No. I was not hard to please.
II.
Scenes turned hideous and
unbearable for us to watch,
"Hey, there's no one around,"
I murmured as your hands
groped and took something:
a tender, juicy hotdog.
III.
I smiled, reminded you that
we're in a movie theater. You
knew I liked it anyway so
you sustained the deed. But
you must trace deep within,
I am not my flawed body.
IV.
I never thought we would
go this far; stroking further
ensued pink tinges on your
face. In new haven, we came
to fill up your sacred vessel
through my pipeline of bliss.
V.
Across highlands of Tagaytay
hand in hand, we strolled, talked
on anything. You said my name;
it never sounded so good before.
A smile confirmed how happy
I was, ruminating on memory.
© Dennis Espada
http://iyolo.blogspot.com
Dennis was brought up and educated in Laguna, Philippines where he consume at least one ballpen per month. For him, literary writing is a chance to speak openly and uninhibitedly. He is a freelance writer and journalist.
DAYDREAM
...first thunderstorm of the spring
and the rain cascading
down my window
and the picture in my mind
of your silhouete
and the water cascading
down the shower door...
THE WISH
O moon,
drifting amongst
the clouds, do you see her?
Will you tell me, is she dreaming
of me?
(First appeared in Autumn Leaves, May 2006)
COURAGE
The pain...
Each morning it
rises with me and stares
back at me and still I open
the door.
(First appeared in Poetic Voices, May 2004)
LAMENT
The tears
streaming down
my cheeks, wetting my hands,
and the fading memories -- these alone remain
of my friend.
WHO IS ONE
In your eyes I see
the billion suns swirling through space.
The taste of your mouth is sweeter
than a thousand and one glasses of wine.
The feel of your skin is softer
than the gentlest breeze on a warm spring night.
The touch of your hands
guides me to the seventh Paradise.
The words which drip silently
from your lips and touch my ears
seduce my willing mind
and create me a love-slave.
The most exquisite of lovers, Who is One
and the Pearl without price, my Beloved
blind me with the billion suns of your eyes;
then take my hand and guide me gentle.
© C. W. Hawes
C W Hawes is a human services worker who divides his time between Minneapolis, Minnesota and rural northeast Iowa. His muses are Whitman, Millay, Basho, Issa, the Imagists, Takuboku, and Rumi. He holds a bachelor’s degree in history and political science and a Masters of Divinity degree. His work has appeared in Carnelian, Lynx, Simply Haiku, Lilliput Review, Amaze, Makata, and The Ghazal Page, among others.
I am lying in the
grass taller now
from an old tree
in the morning I saw
that the web on the moon
was a wild hazelbush
how many birds
in the winter sky
and all of them ravens
an icicle
watching the window
inside out
an airy woman
walking through herself -
shadow on the road
© Iliana Ilieva
Iliana Ilieva was born in 1969 in Vratsa, Bulgaria. For the last 20 years she has lived in Sofia. She graduated from the National school for ancient languages and Sofia University. She is a writer of poems and haiku. Her works have been published in various Bulgarian newspapers and magazines; in the Russian internet magazine Lyagushatnik; in the almanac Haikumena-2; in the anthology Haiku So Vsedo Mira PUT; on the World Haiku Association website; and in the haiku review Simply Haiku. Her first book of haiku and tanka, Zhabeshki skok (A Frog's Jump, 2004) was illustrated by the Moscow artist Valery Dunaev. Since 2005 she has worked as an editor of the poetical miniature section of the internet magazine Liternet.bg.
Truck Ride in Mae Hong Son
The motley freedom fighters
come from ten different countries
today in the cool mountain air
they are washing their hair
with the dew of the hills
One of them has hair
like Ernesto El Che, he spreads
it out so that others can cling to
the shaky boat, the wild moat
and in the sea of leaves
they are the forbidden army
Somewhere along the windy roads
a tribe is building a house
the motley crew are visitors
who have come to seek alms
in the shape of dreams
They are climbing uphill
and the journey never ends
they grab the low branches
and swing forth with their hands.
One Night
I can nestle in the warmth of your shadow
the impression of heat you left
burnt a nook where I lie
feeling the skin of your cheek
the snug of your bones
your candle of hair
you, like a sage
seated in a corner
green and gloomy
a forest in a cage
Don't wake before me
I don't want to feel the lightness
of your absence
let the shiver of your sound
seal the chasm you built
of this space
© Rachel Chan Suet Kay
Final year Sociology major who likes singing, ballroom dancing, travelling, and reading and writing poetry.
barya
habulin,
habulin!
ang baryang gumugulong
patungo sa kanal
na kanina'y nadulas
mula sa munting palad,
ang baryang limos
ng mga nagdaraang tao
na sana'y iaabot
sa mamang fishball sa kanto.
kalam ng sikmura'y
sasagutin ng gumugulong na barya,
habulin...
at panooring mahulog sa estero.
The Little Park in the Notebook
Hemmed in on all sides, unrepentant
to the choking layers of Smugness
in the Notebook suffused with thick black
ink, defiant
to the endless trails of obsidian
snaking through, paving
the Builder's progress
sat a park.
Humble at sixty letters across, fourteen lines
from north to south, immaculate
with nary a smudge nor mote
of ambition.
Unclaimed by the Builder's pen, a virgin land.
Who had been there? No one,
not even the VIPs of the Builder's towers
nor the littlest fly
of imagination.
But at 16th Page, it was prime
property.
A day after Valentine's, the Builder
came, set up a discreet motel, a late
investment called
The Little Park in the Notebook
and the erstwhile haven
vanished.
(Previously featured in Moleskinerie.com.)
© Phillip Kimpo Jr.
Website: http://corsarius.net
Phillip Kimpo Jr., 21, is a writer by art and profession. For some baffling reason, he ended up a Computer Science graduate of UP Diliman. When his muse is on hiatus, he works as a freelance writer, web project manager, and semi-prolific webmaster.
Kuwentong 70’s bistro
Kay sarap muling pakinggan
Mga musikang kinagisnan
Sa bandang Anonas matatagpuan
Sa 70’s bistro lamang matutunghayan
Nagsimula noong dekada ’90
Magbigay sigla sa larangan ng musika
Masaksihang magtanghal mga makabagong banda
At mapagbuklod muli mga musikero ng dekada ‘70
Ano mang klase at tugtog ang musika
Bago man o luma basta may kiliti sa masa
Musikang Pilipino sa mga titik at pagkalikha
At sariwaing muli mga musika ng nagdaang dekada
Isang lugar na may kalayaan
Karaniwang tao dito ang tambayan
Madama ang tunay na kapayapaan
Musikang gamot sa magulong lipunan
Bahagi ang bistro sa ating kasaysayan
Saksi sa pagbabago at kaganapan sa ating bayan
Musika ang paraan maiparating ang katotohanan
Maiwasan ang maling pakikibaka sa maling paraan
Dito rin halos ang madalas na tagpuan
Mga taong may hinanakit at hinaing sa bayan
Nagkakaisa sa mapayapang usapan
Musika ang tinig para ipadama ang karaingan.
Naging bahagi upang imulat ang kabataan
Tangkilikin ang musikang pinoy ang pinagmulan
At naganap ang konsiyerto ng bayan
Bistro sa Amoranto hanggang pamorningan
Isang panawagan sa darating na halalan
Malayo man ako sa ating bayan
Gusto ko lang ibahagi ang nararamdaman
Pagmamalasakit sa patuloy na kahirapan
Umaasang may pagbabago sa darating na halalan.
Malapit na naman ang pambansang halalan
At halos wala pa ring pagbabago sa ating bayan
Walang katuparan mga pangako sa mamamayan
Kung sino nakapuwesto sila lang ang nakikinabang.
Walang pinagbago ang mga politiko sa ating bayan
Trapo pa rin at walang pakinabang
Sa maling sistema at huwad na katauhan
Kaya ang bayan patuloy ang kahirapan.
Gamit ang masa sa panlilinlang
Magmumukhang santo nandamay pa ng simbahan
Takutin ang mamamayan sa pamamagitan ng karahasan
Mas masahol pa kapag nanalo sa halalan.
Paulit-ulit na lang ang ganitong kaganapan
Sa tuwing sasapit ang pambansang halalan
Hahamakin ang lahat sa maling paraan
Upang mapanatili sa mga gawaing puno ng katiwalian.
Nakakasawa na ang mga politikong namamahala
Kung hindi kapamilya isa itong laos na artista
Paikot-ikot lang at walang plataporma
Inabutan na ng halalan wala pa ring nagawa.
Batu-bato sa langit
Ang tamaan huwag magalit
Sa mga politikong hatid lang ay pasakit
Sa bansang wala nang narinig kundi panlalait
Sana suriing mabuti ang mga kandidato
Kung siya ba’y karapat-dapat na mamumuno
Tapat sa pangako at handang magsakripisyo
Para sa kapayapaan at tunay na pagbabago
Paalala lang sa darating na halalan
Maging matino sa araw ng botohan
Iboto ang kandidatong tapat manungkulan
May takot sa Diyos at pagmamahal sa bayan.
© Noel Malicdem
Dubai, UAE
Mang Juan
Abala si Mang Juan
Sa pagtakbo sa halalan
Ibig umupo sa puting
Silya ng yari sa kababalaghan
Sigaw ng tao
Wala kangt karapatan!
Dahil ikaw ay mangmang
Wala kang magagawa sa lipunan
Wika naman ni Juan
Bilang isang Pilipino
Maykarapatan akong tumakbo
Pasado naman ako sa pagtakbo
Sa darating na halalan
Totoo nga naman na siya
Ay maykarapatan
At tayo ang wlang karapatang
Humusga sa kakayahan ng iba
Kung sakaling naranasan natin
Ang kahirapan at katiwalian
Ditto sa ating lipunan
Walang ibang unang sisihin
Kundi ang mga taong naghalal
At pumili dahil hindi
Ito pinag-isipan ng mabuti.
Kaya tanong ni Mang Juan
Ngayon napag-isipan mo na ba
Kong sino ang iyong iboboto?
© Anthony Pabon
Haiku on the Babeth’s* photos
impregnated with intimate
murmurs the market’s
turning in its dream
grains of the pleasure
nevertheless realizing
that all this is needless
autumn selling off,
i’m choosing a sweater for
the scarecrow’s birthday
* Babeth Rambault is a French photographer. She is a member of the art collective“Vous êtes ici”, Bordeau, France
when you reach the white path of
my castle step twice and cry
will open a door of a little terrace
a grass or a bird that unknown flower
won’t be more dispiriting
than the pursuit with the long folded
interiors, you say the silvias don’t
water their gardens, i don’t
remember to have carried such
a name to have carried two or
more names but never that plane
of i would come back home i would
come back because of the beetle
the cricket and the lady-birds, no,
i wouldn’t at all i’m not from the
tales i haven’t got a little house
my left knee isn’t you and the right
your sister you repeated look the
knees are by two the ducks are by
two more of us are by two
but you did back a step and
everything whitened
whenyoureachthewhitepathof
mycastlesteptwiceandcryado
orofalittleterracewillopen
Rhapsody In Lady-bird’s Red
where do the lady-birds
spend the winter
in variegated sarcophagi
populated with fine resinous drops
some rills
from nowhere to nowhere
like the big continental rivers in America
from one inside to another
from one and the same dry land
without manifested outside signs
how many legs wings and points
have the lady-birds got in the
winter
who can tell you
when they let down the shoot of your ear
morning evening
they don’t ask you at all
where to be off
do they come back sometimes
don’t ask me more
they are like the big muddy rivers in America
slothful in their beginnings illusory
how long do the lady-birds live in
the winter
this is too irrelevant question
too irrelevant time
i only know
that lady-birds spend the winter in my home
and love peanut aromas
© Rositza Pironska
A COLOSSAL ABERRATION MADE NORMAL
(For the "Tagaytay 5" -- Axel Pinpin, Riel Custodio, Aristedes Sarmiento, EnricoYbañez, and Michael Masayes)
The sole space for visitors
in the temporary holding center where you've been detained
for a prolonged period
is a center of gravity.
Here complete strangers converge to find their lives and work
intertwined, like threads in a single cloth.
By this we are all reminded
that what we are fighting for, a world that lives as one,
is the natural order of things --
that what we resist, in essence,
is a colossal aberration made normal
by a few who live for only themselves.
© Alexander Martin Remollino
CATCH THE MORNING SUN
Catch the morning sun,
Catch it if you can;
And bottle it sweet
with thy working hands.
To see it glow when hope is none,
Or when faith slips from some ¾
Share it drop by drop
to everyone.
That it may be your guide
When chasing after right ¾
When bad does the chasing
And you have to take flight.
Sprinkle it over your all
like the kiss of God on your soul.
That no matter what the day may be,
God’s loving hands are in control.
So catch the morning sun,
catch it if you can.
And carry it like a joyful chorus
Of hundred psalms.
© Maricar Reynaldo
Ang Pakikipagpunyagi
Bagama’t malaya bilanggo ang isip
Sa bangis ng takot na mula sa hukay;
Ang hapong katawan ngayo’y ginigipit.
O’ kasalanan ba maging taga-akay?
Ng tunay na batas pilit pinapatay;
Bagama’t malaya bilanggo ang isip.
Sa minsang pagsigaw, paghingi ng gabay
Ang naging kapalit hapdi n’yaring latay;
Ang hapong katawan ngayo’y ginigipit.
Mata’y piniringan ng pighati’t lumbay
Bibig binusalan tinunggab ang tibay;
Bagama’t malaya bilanggo ang isip.
Tinanikalaan ang paang pangsuhay
Ginapos ng luha itong mga kamay;
Ang hapong katawan ngayo’y ginigipit.
Pano pa aalpas hustisyang mahalay?
Kung ang nag-aabang ay banta ng lamay.
Bagama’t malaya bilanggo ang isip,
Ang hapong katawan ngayo’y ginigipit.
© Rey Tamayo, Jr.
this tea,
like the wind around
me, stirring
the latter half of
a bad dream
the rice field . . .
an egret flying
through me
why did you
follow me, dragon?
you visit me
at night when I'm
most vulnerable!
cherry blossoms . . .
the smile on your breath
begs to be
understood, and spring
to near, too near
summer coolness. . .
the dance of a sandpiper
tracing sunset
what you say
to me in the darkness,
parting dawn,
and spring, waiting
her turn to dance
the dance of light
in a bed moistened
with winter
bath me,
darkness, in the quiet
of stars, waiting,
with brother egret
for an errant moon
so much like
winter, the stars with
their cold stare
i created
my own hell, paying
for the sins
i planted in your head
on a starless night
a full moon
painting dreams
under the foot bridge
how long can we
pretend to be each
other's shadow
when the bridge below
us has no water?
a samurai
the sun, battling
dark clouds
were it not
for dreams, i would
be a wasteland
gathering weeds
after sundown
this bridge . . .
waiting for the
silt to settle
maybe it's
the absence of sunlight
or an egret's
smile; a dark cloud
playing with riddles
© Robert D. Wilson
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