An Old Dog Named Sky
An old dog named Sky
white with sandy-brown ears
and patches.
He likes it
when I scratch
his ears and forehead
the snout, sometimes
the best is scratching
underneath, the underside
the chest, the armpits
and groin area.
I always tell him I think he has gonorrhea.
Depending on which side
I scratch
his hind leg would
“do the bicycle” as I call it,
just one hind leg
depending on
which side I scratch.
So far it is, I am certain,
his only sexual activity
and, at the moment, mine.
After one bout
he breathes heavily.
I am a querida giving an orgasm
while his old mistress (my landlady)
is out.
Imagination is Old
I do not look up or around at
the world, pale-grey and lying down
boxed-in
a noisy, crass city.
My pen blots
its words drip down
dirty drops of water from a defective faucet
tapping, scratching on a blank white
basin lined with mould.
I wanted to be heard a lifetime ago
I wanted to sing---
I wanted to breathe
when the carpet in the living room was still green
and the screened sunlit windows kept out the flies
mosquitoes were a wonder
and pavements were oceans I could master
with my bike, my bony feet
running over puddles and potholes
of a gameboard.
My imagination is old
it bitterly repeats itself, mumbling
curses a train of ants on the kitchen wall
I do not ask where they go
but get a rag moist with insecticide
and in one swipe
kill them all.
They are back the next day
and I repeat myself.
Everyday
I kill them all.
The Lochness
In the room where I belong
a familiar scene greets:
a game show host, cheap
tinkling dinnerware, cracked
glass, expired paint.
Here I can drown in the everyday,
the intimate squeaking of old wood.
I grip my pen, let it thrash and pull.
Before it escapes I touch its skin,
white fingers quickly tracing the line
where air and water begin.
© Kris Alingod
Bio: A desk editor in a newspaper, and a writer in a public relations firm, I have published articles and stories in several print publications. As a creative writer, however, I have been somewhat voiceless, having only recently been allowed to speak with some poems in The Philippines Graphic and Irreversiblemagazine.com. When not reading books or watching movies, I am into photography and environmentalism.
startled
from this dream
my lips
with the kiss
that never reaches you
rooftop
down through the walls
a slow drip –
nothing you do
is right anymore
both previously published in Ribbons
diamond earrings
for my unpierced ears
like all things in my life
this gift is perfect
for everyone but me
recording a blizzard
on my mobile phone
the technology
to capture
what I can't control
both previously published in Eucalypt
© 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
Oiling Palms
(after Stevie Smith’s I Remember)
In cahoots with the petrol pump,
Gas-breathing zaps,
Clumping levellers, concussion.
In Lost shepherd darktime
The rubbling of Kandahar.
There’s a stammer in Pashto
Up Long Wool Heath, he’s almost ash.
Scorching thoughts burst
Seams slammed ballistic.
For papa, mama, Gulten and Simar
His heart was quashed tonight.
Old Six Legs, The Giant
He’s the angel of the bottomless pit
Streaking Harleydene, down by lamplight,
Left all his grizzled brothers
With a scream. In his nightshade sands shift.
Orion’s Belt stirs. Shadows grovel.
Star pins drop
They’re shivering obedience.
Old Van Diemen’s Way
When I’m cast off
I’ll slink back to the hullabaloo of trams,
Scatter bistre into a window box
Halfpace away from Browfrsgracht’s
Eye-fetching, most print-shot mists,
Annex Café West Pacific’s yawning kindle,
Its close-fitting ambience on shivery nights.
I’ll weather dodgy foredays,
Trail Noodermarkt Square, dismal mid-week,
Sightsee the effigy to riots,
Mosey by Monday’s multicoloured market
Investigate antiques, hampers of stay-at-home debris.
Saturday s will wreak farming crews,
Stalls, splendiferous ingathering,
Smart-alecky loaves, pestos,
Mustard thickening, olive oils, off the wall fungi,
Avian squawks, rabbits in thirling cages.
And I, the widower, will be confessed
Not utterly out-at-elbows, I’ll draw off
An hour or two at Lunchcafe Winkel’s
Choose coffee, lip-smacking cake
Remembering Marieka’s plaits.
On A Gambler’s Birthday
He slide rules the measure of Nietzsche
In a fixed-rate pad in London,
Can’t touch for the rent but gulps
The last flute of Bolli.
Champagne is for the memo pad: -
Massacred flesh in an Irish butcher’s,
In ostrich feathers as a girl at five,
His grandmother’s deathrattle
Persisting a staging of Aida at the Met
And the morphine to rein his asthma,
The cat’s whiskers.
He remembers the nice distinction of paintings,
Coiled surfaces, speculative brushstrokes,
The clinical A-Z of diseases of the mouth
(in hand coloured plates)
Apprenticeships in false teeth,
The vice-like smile of George,
The loveliness of males grappling.
On A Morning Like This
Silver slaver braces:
Coffee, toast, jam.
The postman treads.
His muleteer-low viewpoints
Mark him out. Oddities
Cap, sack, sensiblist shoes,
Tributaries to a character.
Each step a beat
Under-shading the day’s advance
Fresh sun’s change,
Obol to gold.
The last brown crust
Disintegrates into ardour
Made warm again, sugary dredge
Percolated with a noise
Like the sneezing of mules,
If morning is lost
There’s always the post.
© Christopher Barnes, UK
Walang Puwang
Lumiliit na ang bahay para sa akin
Gayong ako lang naman ang dito’y lumalagi.
Kaninang sinasalubsob ko ang diwa sa tula
Napansin kong naroon ka sa hapagkainan
Nakaupo ka sa plato, naka sandal sa tasa
Pinagmamasdan akong sumulat ng mga letra
“Ito ang minamahal kong mga daliri” – sabi mo sa akin
Tinapik ko ang aking ulo – “antok lang ito”
Sabay pasok sa silid upang magpahinga.
Doon ay napansin kong ikaw rin ay nasa kama
Sa ilalim ng kumot hinaharot ang aking isip.
Marahan mong hinaplos ang aking pisngi
Naging liwanang kang pumuslit sa kislap ng araw
Lumutang ka sa hangin at sumayaw, andon ka sa bintana
Sa mga sulok ng kusina, sa kanto ng banyo
Sa loob ng bahay paikot-ikot, sa sahig,
Sa veranda, sa kotse, sa plorera.
Nabubuhay ako sa iyong bawat gunita
Kahit nandon ka sa malayo
At ako’y hinding-hindi mangungulila
Ngayon lalo't higit suson-suson na ang pag-ibig
Ay di ko malaman kung saan ang paglalagyan
Gayong ikaw'y umaapaw sa sangkabahayan
At wala ni puwang ang iniwan sa kalungkutan.
Paano Kitang Minamahal
Ano’t kailangan ko ng lumisan ay hindi kita maiwan-iwan
Hindi masanay gayong ilang ulit ka na noong namaalam
Hahayo na lamang ang eroplano sa paliparan
Subalit waring mga punong nakaugat
Itong aking mga paa sa pagkakatindig sa hinatayan.
Hindi ko nais matinag o yumukod man lang,
Kahit kumurap at malingat ang tingin sa iyong mukha.
Ganito ang tindig ng isang pararangalan
Kapag tatanggapin ang kanyang parangal, kinakabahan
Subalit nakatango, nakamasid sa kanyang ginto
O ng isang deboto tuwing mamanata sa harap ng altar,
Mataimtim kung magdasal, malalim, katulad ng aking panalanging
Sinasambit parang ritwal, panay na panay kahit hindi
Nakaharap sa mga santo o mga litratong dinadasalan.
Ganyan din ang pag-usal ng dasal ng isang bayaning
Babarilin o lalatayin ang likod para sa kanyang bayan
Hindi mapag-imbot kung mag-isip, buong-buo kung magbigay
Ng sarili. Namamaalam subalit iiwanan ang kanyang aral
Maisusulat sa mga aklat, maikikintal sa mga utak
Ng mga anak, hanggang sa kanilang mga anak-anak
At mistulang isang istoryang hindi nagwawakas
Kung paanong ang pagkabilog ng isang bilog
Ay di nauubos o napuputol katulad ng singising
Kahit san malaglag ay mananatili sa kanyang hugis
Hindi maikakaila ang pagkabilog kahit anong panahon.
Ganyan Dee kung ibigin kita, walang kinikilalang
Taon, lugar, salita. Walang paghihiwalay na susukat
Sa aking di mabibilang na pagmamahal, di mahahati,
Kahit paulit-ulit kang mangibang-bayan, at ako’y maiwanan
Hindi ang minsan mong pamamaalam ang siyang lilimot
Sa di maampat kong damdaming lampas-dibdib
Iniibig kita hanggang sa muling pagkikita,
Hanggang sa muling paglalakbay iniibig kita.
Hanggang sa muling walang hanggan
Sa susunod na pagdating at paglisan
Buong ringal kong sasabihin kung paano kitang minamahal
Minahal at mamahalin, paulit-ulit at malakas na malakas
“Ikaw lang at wala ng iba, Ikaw lang at wala ng iba”.
*Ang lahat ay kay Darwin at sa anghel kong si Miguel
© Ravelth Castro-Belicena
http://www.tabulas.com/~Katha_milagrosa
Naglalakbay ang alipatong pilas nang nagbabagang puso...
TANKA
back and forth
a starred, three-colored flag
is waved
for blood
and for oil
I'M TIRED
I'll do whatever
they want me to do
or go wherever.
I'm tired of life's
roller coaster.
I want to go on
a merry-go-round
without the music.
I'm tired of voices.
I steal her car keys.
I stay out all night
and pick fights with
anyone who will
take the bait. I am
tired of the things
I do. I will come
in voluntarily.
I'm tired of myself.
STRONG AS LIFE
She squeezed my hand
and kissed it,
demonstrating all the life
she had inside.
Unable to walk,
unable to talk,
her eyes said so much.
Her grip, strong as life.
AT SEA
At sea
rocks
skipped in
the waves.
Someone
was
tossing them
from shore.
I dreamt
this
each night,
confused.
IN THE COURTYARD
In the courtyard
I hold a meeting
by the fountain
where my tears overflow.
I can't stop crying
because the crickets
have been so kind
with their company and song.
When you see me
don't offer me a
handkerchief. I'm
actually happy.
Don't call any
ambulance to take
me away because
I mimic the cricket's song.
© Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
West Covina, CA
The Late-Nighter’s Soliloquy
My cold neck lifts
the weary camel's back
after the last straw.
The potatoes are chilling from the silence
we've fueled with paper balls
The old maid crows again, where's
my dinner date? He stood me up.
None of us want to be the first to know
the sad loneliness of last-minute
cancellations, or the tune of a kettle singing
to an empty door.
No, maybe he'll come again later, maybe
his shoes got stuck to the floor. Cold feet,
waiting to find that the lady's not divine
after all.
So, its another late night
huddling together over
reams of dreams
on the drawing board.
Eclipse
(for Kuala Lumpur )
September sun, rises
too early
and forgets to leave. Sleeps
with the flowers
till dusk.
Sprinkling seed
from the arched nipples
of the sky.
An awful reminder
of the nights wasted
with silence.
October comes,
and then the rain
washes away everything. As if
we never
loved.
Ramadan, Kuala Lumpur
So, for a while
the city is lit up with the oil
from cakes, furnishing street lamps
and smiles. Roads combine, trading
festive tapestries. Reciped resolves.
By day, we are conscious not to be
impatient. A scatter of excitement
tickles like a mischievous feather. The real joy
is being together in all this. When it actually comes,
it's all too soon.
First Wife of the Painter, On Her Deathbed
When Claude painted wildflowers
he must've been eclipsed by your presence.
there, within brushstrokes and knife-licks,
lay your face, trembling.
As though you offered news to me
though all I saw was an impression.
Something shaky, like a morning dream
stirring in your eyes even till coffee.
The bitter aftertaste lingered, a waking phantasm.
Teen Queen
For bread and butter, I
play a facsimile of Sylvia Plath
during her internship at Mademoiselle.
But this is no liberation; it is everything but
the prototype of the "perfect girl"
challenging public assumptions.
For one, I do not have the long hair
recognisable as a girl. I do so with disdain.
The bourgeois writer is burning
with adulation. Adultery of the senses.
A tableaux of mockery. I am naked, nothing in the air. Only fame shields me.
Because of me, budding young dolls will wander
through a confused maze, heads shivering
at every turn. You will never be as good as your idols.
So die, old self, die.
© Rachel Chan Suet Kay
Rachel Chan Suet Kay likes art, drawing comics, travel, photography, writing, and poetry. Visit her site here: http://thusspakethethorn.blogspot.com
Brave
I am
At this hour
when things are clothed
in a lifelike almostness-
and pieces moistured by
sheets of afternoon rain
turn amorphous and wary
of the contumacious sun
I am brave, now
just as I
pour the contents of my
afternoon into
my stygian caffeine fix…
Pelted
As fat drops of rain jiggle- pelt
Metro Manila's blackened snakelike
spit-ridden streets and
puddles gurgle like infants
into gratified sewers-
I ask myself why am I
saving you from the lover
who brands you like an animal;
Why do i stand on streets
warm with people and their juices;
Why do i wait for you
in a makeshift market
frothing with vicious sellers
and strays begging for scraps
Disjointed- i feel lost here at the corner
where cheap bread renews itself
inside glass cases.
I need need to- need to run.
But then I saw you- walking towards me
in a tormented fashion...
It is too late now.
Shakti
When i cross my legs and banter flirt,
signal lust to men & women excited
by my perfected ambiguity- I feel a
tinge of thrill at the 'swell'
of things to come: a new lover- soft limbs and
skins and generous hands smelling of unknowable sins-
novel tastes to consume and secrets of strangers-
Now...at this burgeoning hour- I am awed by the
deviousness of a million possibilities...
Pieces
With jaw-dangling stupidity and
a pride purloined toomanytimes
I watch tears leave a track down my face
And as time sticks out a green tongue
at another contrived moment-
I break into insignificant lil pieces
bleed from pores bored into
by the passing of days...
Happiness has become fugitive and
life is just another unpalatable thought.
© Junelyn Delarosa
Ngayong Batid ko na Kung Ano ang Hiwaga ng Bawat Soneto ni Shakespeare
Pula ang tinta ng bawat titik at talinghaga ng makata
Animo’y bungkos ng rosas, nakahahalina
Ramdam ang pagsuyong nakaguhit sa bawat talutot
At ang sa tuwina’y nag-iisang dahon sa luntiang tangkay
Sa aki’y tila ba nangungulila, naghihintay sa pagyuko
At masulyapan ang ngiti ng prinsesang yakap ng petalo
Iniisip na sa huli’y babaluktot din ang dulo ng puluhan, at
Yaong nangungusap na mata ng sinta’y matuon sa abang tingalahan
O, anong sarap pakinggan, hele ng sonetong hirang
Sa angking himig, napapatalon yaong abang nagkukubli
At nananahimik na pintig, wari’y nilikha ang dibdib bilang baluti
Na kumakanlong sa di mapigilang paghanga sa bulaklak
Di man alintana na sinamantala ng mapanglaw na makata
Yaong kapulahan ng rosas bago ikubli sa pahina ng aklat, at malanta.
© Zig Madamba Dulay
Soulmate encounter
words cannot
describe
the feeling
how it
confirmed
similar experience
how there's
telepathy
despite
captivity
no if's or but's
no exhaustion
or depletion of energy
again and again
a reprise of buried memory
persecution caused separation
life on the other side is even better
is the uttered
farewell
love that remain true
is the promise
on a free world
© Dennis Espada
6:30 A.M.
The workday has begun once again
on the seven-unit row house;
fake brick siding going on to cover
the particleboard walls.
The trees, the grass, the weeds
still wet with the thunderstorm now passed.
Across the street,
there remains
a copse of trees on the low hill;
sumac running down near the road.
I notice a deer,
looks to be a doe,
on the edge of the copse watching
the starting-at-$400k-townhomes.
I notice too
the “For Sale” sign
on the edge of the wooded lot.
Till Death Do Us Part
In those drear dawning days of November, when gloom
descends upon the land and harvest has done
and snow begins to sprinkle all with white,
‘tis then I’ll stand outside your stony tomb,
a red rose (to mock the sunless sun)
will be in hand to mark your death in private rite.
A lifetime lies behind that cold stone wall,
and for the one before it the death-knell has begun;
and yet, and yet as long as my eyes have light
and your name, your name I can softly, softly call --
I’ll still say goodnight.
(first published in Poetic Voices, November 2004)
The Beautiful People
Night after night,
he sits before the TV
watching shows
where all the men
are young, handsome, virile
and all the women
are young, beautiful, sensual.
Night after long night,
he sits alone,
middle-aged, obese,
adoring
the beautiful people.
But To Behold
The roses riot beauty along the street,
drab and dirty, where tenement yards
sport broken toys, where the young are old.
On the sidewalk pass the shuffling feet
of mothers, too young, yelling at kids; bards
of the city singing anger uncontrolled.
Through this sullen sea I pass, where Fate
has played with heavy hand and all eyes
see the bleak despair of promised lies.
And I see roses who patiently wait
for one to behold.
(first published in Above Ground Testing, April 2004)
Lessons
Black-and-white standing next to
shades-of-grey
dark grey and light grey
and all the hues of grey in between
Black-and-white standing in stark
contrast to each other
diametrical opposites
painting the world
into oppositions into judgments
Black-and-white standing mixed
on the palette
shades-of-grey
© 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.
Kung Bakit Hanggang Ganito Lang
kaya naman ako’y nagkakaganito,
ay dahil nga ganito, kasi nga ay ganito,
ganito, ganito, ganito, at hindi ganire’t
hindi rin ganoon, ganito, ganito, ganito.
kaya naman ako’y nagkakaganito,
hindi ko na alam ang hindi ganito,
ganito, ganito, hanggang ganito lang,
ang nalalaman ko’y ganito lang.
Taranta-rarara
Sisimula na sa tarara
Ang tarantang tararara,
Magpaparara ang tarara
Tarara taranta, alis na
Si Tararara, uuna na,
Si Taranta, Tarara,
Aligagga na si Tarara
Tarantang aalis, uuna na,
Si Tarara, mauuna na,
Si Tarara, sisimula na,
Si Tarara, taranta na,
Si Tarara, uuna na,
Si Taranta, Tarara, tarara,
Tara na, sabi ni Taranta.
Tulala
Tulala na ang tumutula,
wala nang tinutula, ang
tumutulalang tagatula,
tulalang nagtutula, ng
walang katuturang-tula,
tulang walang simula,
mga talatang napuputol-
wala, tulalang tumutula,
napuputol ang tula, wala,
na ang tula, naputol na
tulang walang simula, ng
tagatulang tulala, wala
na ang tula, wala na rin,
ang tulalang kanina pang,
tulalang di makasimula.
© Noahlyn Maranan
Si Noahlyn Maranan ay kasalukuyang estudyante sa gradwadong antas sa UP Diliman.
Blog: noahlynmaranan.blogspot.com
URL: http://mulanmatu.multiply.com
committed
oh you have to be there
but it doesn't help
long corridors
well not very
nothing too
laughing faces
crying ones
too
the notes they write
fulgurance
you scour on your kneepads
for the sour day you rise
and climb the rope to your cave
hoist yourself in it's not luxury
but throwing the bones outside
it's a real winner
long drink of water
Nirvana came to him
of a dream
self-extinguishing
I've read his verse
it couldn't happen
to a nicer guy
to the right about
ninny-nanny right about
to the clearly evident perspective
wrapped in tin foil
against one's better judgement
oh I tell you
never teller told tale
as this
© Christopher Mulrooney
Christopher Mulrooney has written poems in Gangway, Crossing Rivers Into Twilight, City Works, echolocation and The Delinquent.
Pagtahan
Bumubulong ang ungol
sa tabing ng dilim-
kasabay ng mga sibat
ng kawal ng Bathala;
mayamaya pa't
ang langit ay tumangis:
luha ay dumaloy
sa bawat sulok ng dagat.
Sumasampal sa pampang
ang bawat agos ng alat:
tangan ang lumbay
ng sangkalupaan;
samusamo ang pighati
ng mga ulap at gabok,
sampu ng iba pang
sumusukob sa mundo.
Ang lambak, ngayo'y lunas...
sa dalisdis, may talon;
Sa hagupit ng daluyong:
mga yungib ay sumuko.
Datirati'y uhaw,
lupalop ng silangan,
subali't ngayong umaga,
kapataga'y mga pinak.
Hindi naman naglaon,
galit ay natinag
ng buhawing kumitil
sa libong hininga.
Ang mga ulila't balo,
bumangon sa unos:
kahapon may lunod,
pumipintig ang bukas...
mga sinag ay tumagos
sa kumot ng dagim,
bawat hibla ng bahaghari
sa higanto'y sumilip.
The Four Brothers of Equus
Gallops in the shadows,
feared by mortals:
bearing on their collars
the stewards of blitz.
Like thunder from beneath,
their presence, been sensed:
beware, I daresay
before facing the eve.
The White Brother comes
with the archer, crowned:
the arrows have dogma,
unfortunately, malign.
Claiming the head
although contrived,
this rider leads
by construing minds.
Still fresh, the stains
on the Red One's skin;
as his rider murders
random martyrs.
A lake of blood
has now consumed-
the soil that's stabbed
by slaughter and war.
The rider with scales
is on the shoulders of Black:
ignoring the famished
and preferring the heeled.
Discarding the purpose
of balance and just,
vultures feast
on empty stomachs.
The last to arrive
is the Sickly Kin:
senile and pallor,
barely could he tread.
His rider: a frame
of calcium, decayed;
they're followed by the lord
of lightless abyss.
Brothers of Equus:
on their shoulders, rest:
the four beasts revealed
from the final testament.
The prophecy may have failed
to disclose when will be;
we can still, nonetheless,
give light to each morning.
Apocalypse is feared
by those unprepared;
the others however,
anticipate its advent.
The Firedancer
The twilight veils
the summer sky,
as waves begin
terrestial flight.
In crescendo, the conga
chants a march-
luring my feet
to join the dance.
Being blinded by darkness
of almost night;
for a minute, my ears,
have been my guide.
Though, soon enough,
I saw this man;
who is bestowed
with ember palms.
Donning white,
his soles are bare;
while his curls are coiled
in his scalp and nape.
Alas, his face
is quite concealed,
behind the streaks
and trails of light.
He fills the blackness
with neon lines:
swirling them
around my sight.
With this apparition,
I have been enthralled;
allowing myself
to succumb in hypnos.
Gradually, the pace
has began to subside;
The dancer bows
in our applause.
All of a sudden,
his eyes meet mine:
igniting the flame
inside my heart.
Hydrophilia
Shores caress
through weathered reefs,
as foams embrace
the soles of dwellers;
Rays may pierce, though balanced by breeze;
Now, I know
why souls loathe leaving.
Nothingness seen
through murmurs in the air;
Fowls chant caws
before kissing the waves;
Pick the carapace
that hermits left,
and listen to the carols
of alto waves.
The subtle bite of brine on lips
invites one to perform
a solo French kiss.
The balm of the palms and coconut leaves
enchants beings to succumb
in hypnosis.
As the floor stoops nearer
the heart of the earth,
blue transitions from cerulean to cobalt.
Through gossamer film, a menagerie performs
enthralling victims
to plunge the deep.
© Frances Angela C. Torrelavega
Bio Note:
May ningning sa mga mata ng lakambining yumi:
habang inaawit ang dalangin ng puso.
Batid ng dalaga ang liwanag ng bukas
sa likod ng tabing nitong aninong daluyong.
Frances Angela is better known as Frankie to her peers. She loves composing poems, which she compiles in her online blog, http://espritverses.blogspot.com. She has been a Filipino Editor, a Features Editor, and an Associate Editor during her college years. She is currently a regular contributor to the online journal of her company. This is her second time to contribute. Some of her poems have also been featured in Poetry Soup and Autumn Leaves.
Aside from poetry, she also loves digital photography. Her favorite subjects are her children and herself.
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