Star Gazing
with only the stars
to light our path
the air heavy laden with the scent
of crushed strawberries
we'd make our way
down the gnarled trail
our sneaker clad feet
crunching gravel
our ankles
mosquito-bitten
down the wooden staircase
over the wall
we'd land on the beach
settle ourselves around the fire
toast marshmallows
and watch the stars mysteriously
float across the sky
telling us stories
the next morning, we'd awake
the residue of smoke
hanging in our hair
our mouths still full
of sticky goodness
and memories
of the cosmic wonder
that lit our way
for years to come
Inheritance
family friends
I've not seen since
I was five
debate which long-deceased
parent I resemble more
while they argue about
eye shape
hair colour
jaw lines
and cheekbones
I'd rather they tell me
I have his integrity
her gentle spirit
Boomerang
one hangs unexpectedly
in a new neighbour's home
the spidery signature
and date stamped with a decided period
on the bottom right-hand corner, as usual
another found in an apartment lobby
while running from a rain storm
still another in a restaurant
to the right of a dinner companion
the image I made smiling back at me eerily
this is how it is, when you're an artist:
you never know where you will be
how it will be presented
when your own mortality reaches out
and you see your own reflection
rather puzzled
half smiling
recognition sure
in the glass of your once-favourite
painting
© 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
OVERBOARD
Hands like a fist
Overboard I see a man
Throw a stone
Drown a fish
Far from this dream
Sails another man
Water splashing into his boat
Hands like a hook
Down
At an angle
Waves of tears drop from
The man's too blue eyes
HOMELESS FIGURES
The cold streets,
Burning streets
The warm streets, they
Cowered
Horizons blanked them
Low as they feel
MURAL
His brush captured
The ancient ones
A commentary, a social
Science book of vision,
The teenaged emperor,
Alive and strong,
Not emaciated,
Before the conquest,
Before the hanging,
And the burning torture;
Long before the zoo
And near extinction
Of all species, walking
On two and four legs
HOUSES
Under the bridge
At Hill Street
I could see them,
Those without houses,
Huddled together
In the dark shadows
One of them smiles
And is there,
Laughing at some
Funny thing said by
The man he is
Speaking to: he smiles
The two of them smile,
Those without houses,
Their sense of humor
Is still intact
I see one is young
And the other is old,
Homeless and smiling
© Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
West Covina, CA
TO ONCE MORE
To once more write your words
with fire in my hands, sin and eagerness
I will not stickle to surrender
To once more hold disillusionment
like blue stones, and blue rocks,
blue pearls, and blue tongues
as your faint euphemisms
drown in my transcendent sighs, taken in wings
To once more sway with you, note you, cite you,
at the side of your skins
on half-moon, half-sun images, the last of ethereal sunsets
To once more pore over you
as you open your eyes
Round, they are the shape of the moon,
dancing with the moon
and the stars, touch those lavish drops
they are you
falling from the stars.
I WATCH CLOSELY A BURNING TREE
vividly the ashes flood my eyes
it burns with the frail
branches that evaporate slices
of age.
the sort of yellow-dimming
air tastes if shards of glass, thinly
cutting the edges of
life. So it can sleep and wither
in an evanescent shade of smoke.
so foaming the velocity of a lie
it too goes to heaven
and I see vividly rte ashes flood my eyes
soon my eyes
are thin as slices.
POST
a post manuscript of the sky surround
the stern pale authority of rosy-fingered days
an only exit to perdition, seeking
to rebuild a dress of white feathers
along an aisle's carpet of feathers
to remember you (forgot my dulcet
song of time the symphony of a melancholic
guitar of matches.
The corridor of broken stares where
you cannot return. why
does it seem I am
left below
The roads a view of
five arrows
in all directions.
(devour your hands in spaceless
Thus to resurrect
early
death)
a eulogy, an ephemeral tile
a deathbed of flowers
© Kristina V. Cajipe
Kristina V. Cajipe graduated with a Bachelor's from De la Salle University - College of Saint Benilde. Currently, she is pursuing her Master's Degree in Eurpoean Studies. She had always possessed an immense passion for the arts as she is active in organizations and has received recognition in the field of arts and sciences in such. Kristina V. Cajipe has been published in several print and online journals.
Tagu-taguan sa Bahay-bahayan
Anino'y namumula sa kawalan
Hindi maaninag sa harap,
Hindi makapa sa likod.
Yaong walang salang mga kamay
Pinilipit palikod,
Pinantakip sa mga matang namimilog.
Tagu-taguan?
Hanggang kailan tayo magbibilang
ng mga nilalamon ng hangin,
At ibinabaon sa mansyong mabuhangin?
Kung yaon ma'y bahay-bahayan,
Kasumpa-sumpa pala ang maging anak ng bayan.
Ikaw na Sumakop sa Aking Kaharian
Abala noon ang araw sa pagsisid sa dagat,
Naalala ko, magiliw ang iyong pagsalakay
Hinarana mo ang aking mga tula
Habang kaakap ang aking pagpapahalaga.
Nanatiling nakatikom ang aklat
ng aking maluha-luhang kasaysayan,
sumugal ako para sa aking nararamdaman.
Hindi ikaw ang unang nanghimasok sa aking kaharian,
Na pinag-alayan ng panahon, pagpapahalaga at pagkakaibigan.
Minahal kita, kahit sarili ko ay nawala.
Di ko namalayan, ikaw pala ay dumalaw lang.
© Zig Madamba Dulay
http://zigcarlo.blogdrive.com
May saysay ang lamay
Sa dakong liblib
may naglalamay sa gabi,
kaisa sa pagsipat ng liwayway
sa lagay na imbi.
Sa mahabang himutok may dulo
ang hikbing lumawig.
Pagbabalikwas
ay bisperas
ng layang
kapanapanabik!
Dalit sa mandaraya
Umalingasaw ang baho
na nahalukay sa trono:
ay! isang pekeng pangulo
at pamilyang manggogoyo!
Taumbaya'y nagrarali
bistado nila sa CD,
kasabwat sa panlalansi
ang ka-phone pal na si Garci.
Nabitag ang mandaraya,
boses di maikaila
gaya ng isdang malansa
huli sa bibig si Glorya.
Mapaparam din ito
I. Pagtanggi
Namumugto ang mata.
Lupit ang hatid
ng masamang balita.
Galit at aburido.
Wala ng gana
na makihalubilo.
Mukmok, dabog at luha
ay kaulayaw
sa laksang pag-iisa.
II. Pagtanggap
Gagap ng kaluluwa
magpakailanman
ang mahal na lumisan.
Di ako maghihintay
ng pagbabalik
o muling pagkabuhay.
Kahit naging ganito,
salamat sa 'yo
dalamhating may aral.
III. Paghilom
Luksa mo'y umuulog.
Ngayo'y sasabog
ang lahat ng kinimkim.
Nalagas man ang dahon,
ito'y uusbong
pagdating ng panahon.
Naririyan pa sila.
Hinihintay ka,
ang iyong pagmamahal.
© Dennis Espada
URL: http://iyolo.blogspot.com
Short Bio: Brought up and educated in Laguna, Philippines, Dennis has written articles for various print and online publications. He has also received honors in campus journalism while in college.
To the mountain I have come and once again this shack is home.
Every few years I make the trip, to listen to the silence.
High above I see the contrail, then hear the jet's dull roar.
(first appeared in Lynx, February 2006)
MAIN STREET
Once,
in our town,
Main Street was the place
you could find
drug stores and hardware stores,
men's and women's clothing retailers,
restaurants and a bookstore,
a craft and toy store,
and a variety of other shops;
Main Street was the place.
But now,
in our town,
all along Main Street
you can see
vacant storefronts and a
selection of antique shops
because Wal-Mart
doesn't sell antiques,
yet.
PAS DE DEUX
In an elegant
pas de deux,
the yellow-winged butterfly and
the bumblebee
swirl and twirl
through the garden
in a ballet
older than man
and perhaps far more enduring
than anything
he can conceive.
(first appeared in Ancient Heart, July 2006)
Two Tanka
this morning
I opened the door
and saw the path
to the garden I walk
there's no road beyond
behemoths
of steel, colored glass
towering
all the puny gods
dwarfed by their own hands
© 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.
He'd Promised
As realization dawned
in the flicker of a dying sky
of silken sharp edged truths
passions denied
yet dying of passion
her emotional treasury
drained...
left with nothing
but a fingerfull of expectancy
in swirls she'd lapped up
every last thread
of silver tongued charm.
under a tree so verdant
a soft breeze rocked the nest
that held her worn out dreams
and as it fell she failed to see
the shadows before her
for he had promised her
a sunrise....
Wasteland
Is there anything less than scratching
in a farmyard of words..
a landfill topped with lame attempts
........maybe..........
over the bridge at the brickworks
machines crunch their way through
a red dust settles all around..
Mr G. closes the window,
the sound muted, falls into rhythm
with his oxygenater..
the train flashes by growls
at the local lads
who growl and spit back
from amongst their Carling,
the girls who would be women
smile acceptance.
later geese V to their lake,
a common carp leaps
where the midges fly,
a sort of peace visits
until the crack and pop
of the stolen car
lights up the evening sky...
Father Dear Father
in the city
of the vulgar living
the drab dead
white clouds drift
listlessly...
under a grey blue sky
man walks with his religion
refreshed..consoled
I've seen behind his door
no hope..belief
no one loves
nothing beautiful stirs
there's no art no spirit
mud after diamonds
doors like prison cells
reflected in grim mirrors..
better one poem
than ten thousand
of his sermons.....
Battered Head
So you do what you believe
is honest..
clogged ears..clouded vision
the deception of common good
quiets your battered head
yes..you've done what's right
what's expected..
why then
each day
does a little part of you die
gone before
you can snatch yourself back
start over..
you say
I want to start over
with all that you now know
foolish naive thoughts
imperfect in the silliness
contradictory to your needs
and you don't know where to turn
except inwards..
each day the baggage
weighs a little heavier
and you piss yourself off
with your inability to act
go on..deceive yourself
with old photographs
and fancied love
invent your picture
unsullied by time
your impersonation is deep seated
you fool yourself
with you unhealthy cowardliness
.......and smile........
© Stella Jones, UK
Tea Leaves
Now we stare
at our un-drunk tea
whispering into the leaves
tales of precious aspirations
recording, in its fleeting scent
youthful idealisms, one-night declarations
dusty as tea dust, these will fade into air
and vanish within the thick coat of obligation
we will trade fatigues and ideologies
for pin-stripes and material comforts
in mid-age, we will remember a time when
all these seemed unreal, our dreams were
more solid than the product of life's work
suddenly, drinking in cafes will change
to facilitate evil businessmen guffaws
or to be surrounded by nubile young things
once, young as we were, seeking to recapture
a part of ourselves that was lost through the years
fifty years from now
can you stare back into a cup of tea
and see the leaves spool around in the same way?
or will you only see them wiltering
as your now facile, corpulent self?
© Rachel Chan Suet Kay
Bio: Final year Sociology major who likes singing, ballroom dancing, travelling, and reading and writing poetry.
Soul Mate
There is a silence that I hear
Speaking my language
sad, lonely, hesitant
unwilling to share.
I will stay.
It reverberates, a banging sound
repeating in a loop,
like a bad song stuck in my head.
I will keep you company.
It embraces me
Like the tree embracing the ground
As a cyclone hurls its fury.
Tight, determined, with conviction.
I am your destiny.
Nobody understands me like it did.
Like a soul mate waiting to be understood,
this silence that I hear, I know, I understand.
© Maricar Reynaldo
SELF-INFLICTED FANCIES
Each night of solace,
I close my eyes;
and imagine that space
is the man in my mind.
Trying to picture
the plot of my dream,
I visualize the scenes
as I embrace the wind.
Pretending that I
am wrapped in his arms,
I succumb to the thrill
of artificial warmth.
For a second, I thought
the murmur of the breeze
is actually his voice
requesting for a kiss.
Sporadic pecks
have waltzed their way:
goosebumps cuddled
my tender nape.
A hint of moisture
has brushed my neck
as my bosom reveals
tears of sweat.
My fingers soared
each curve and cave;
a silent moan
escapes from my lips.
Alas, a thrust from within
has warped me back
in my chamber: alone.
Once again
loneliness has reigned;
his silhouette has vanished
together with the wind.
MINSAN, ISANG KUWARESMA
Apatnapung araw ba
ang nilaan sa ayuno;
'singtulad ng gunita
ng tagatubos na Kristo?
Mata ba'y mapupuwing
sa kapirasong gabok;
Miyerkules ng pangilin,
bakit pawang nilimot?
Magkano ang kinita
sa bawat palaspas,
upang ipagkait sa dukha
isang takal na bigas?
Sa pag-awit ng Pasyon,
ano ang inatupag?
Sa halip na sa poon,
lumuhod sa dilag.
Noong Biernes nilapa
ulam na mechado:
kalam ba ng sikmura
di kaya ng arroz caldo?
Oo nga't selebrasyon
Pasko ng Pagkabuhay,
Ngunit bakit atensyon:
sa itlog na may kulay?
Minsan, isang kuwaresma
ako ay napaisip:
sa ating paggunita,
Kristiyano ba'y pilit?
PENDING VOW
I can't help not to cherish
the memories of our past
when every minute there's bliss
and joy in our hearts.
I can't help not to wish
that I can turn back time
on that very moment
when you told me you're mine.
What happened to your promise
that you sealed with a kiss
when you said that you won't leave me
no matter what will be?
I'm all yours, but are you still mine?
Are your promises mere words
or will you fulfill them in time?
And if (oh please, I hope not)
you're not the same man,
please tell my love to come back
so we can go on with our plan.
ODE TO MY PHOENIX
For days, for nights
you moaned in pain.
For weeks, for months
you cried in vain.
For days, for nights
you wept in silence.
For weeks, for months
you anguished with prudence.
For days, for nights
I leeched on your strength.
For weeks, for months
I feasted on your health.
For days, for nights
I gripped my claws in your veins.
For weeks, for months
You held on and soon, reigned.
On the night of that day
you screamed.
On the week of that month
I wailed.
At last, it was over.
Finally, Im here on this earth.
You were sober,
But you said, it has all its worth.
Fly, my mother!
Soar high!
Spread your wings!
Enjoy the sky!
Let us share this joy,
this bliss, this mirth!
For my birth
is your rebirth!
IMPOVERISHED FATE
She drooled over
the soggy fries
discarded in
the foul rust bin.
She feasted with
the famished flie s
and cockroaches.
She bathed her throat
with the drink tagged
imitation ---
quenching the thirst
of her dried hoarse
esophagus.
In occasion,
she would look
at the portraits
of the people
inside and wished
for the same fate.
As they leave the frames,
she begged for
old alchemist mints
and cherished them
like fine aurum
that can be pawned
for a treasure
more valuable.
© Frances Angela C. Torrelavega
URL: http://espritverses.blogspot.com
Bionote: I attended my grade school and high school years in St. Theresa's College, QC. I graduated with a degree in AB International Studies in Miriam College, Quezon City. I was the Features Editor of ISsues, the official newsletter of International Studies. I was also the Associate Editor of ChiRho, our college yearbook.
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