Christmas present
from my friend
far away
swathed in a scarf
that smells like him
previously published in Eucalypt
winter's beach
the waves capped
with ice
underneath your grasp
I resisted stagnancy too
previously published in MET
photo
of my friend playing
Frisbee
his arms extended as though
waiting for a hug
storm winds blow
but there is warmth by the
hearth –
years since her death
I remember my mother
© 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
NO SECRETS
You're deceitful
as a beautiful sunset
background from
a film picture.
You're playing with a
heart made of muscle, not steel, and
it will break
like glass one day.
There are no secrets
in this world, when there are many
eyes watching
and ears hearing.
It is not too late.
But perhaps it is, and you must
turn the leaf,
and be good to yourself.
THE EAST ROOM
In a filthy room
swarming flies
concentrate around
the rotten apple.
Human teeth marks as
old as time
left their mark: the core
infested with worms,
yellowish and pale.
The windows
closed and drapes torn,
facing the garden.
WANDERED OFF
I wandered
off.
My skull was
empty
of
feelings.
I wandered
off
like a cloud
that
parted.
Love, desire,
and
everything
that
matters
disappeared
like
some magic
trick and
I
just sighed.
I wandered
off
like a lone
wolf
howling.
I wandered
off
into a
vast
desert.
© Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
West Covina, CA
Nesimi, Breath of the Wind
Breath of the wind, keen-tongued
ramrod robed steel eyed
gait of gazelle, sliver of hope
moving with the swift
foot of a hunter.
Over and back again it echoed
the ruminations of a sudden deep storm
lolling back and forth, unknottable
fear in the hearts of tyrants.
Clambering from the mud-dried cakes
a solitary figure, recasting life
into deadened lava, regained fire
searing the spirits awake once more.
And in the land of fire, your voice
was a blaze, remolding slain wills
into iron.
Though you were hung to dry
The wind shall carry you
in the river of your name.
Greed
Clarsah, the harp, she sang for
Amergin and me
As I deftly turned the pages of our guarded history
Pagan days gone by, clouded in obscure ritual, the technocrats
Have rendered us sterile.
Dried as saltfish, we contain
Ages’ wisdom in our beings
Dying to be let out, crying to be heard
But crushed by the swamp of the right way, the one way and al-
ternatives are strewn under the carpet.
This dust coats our eyes, making us blind
to the voices around our bodies, mere vessels.
Spirits seeking a home, look past us and see nothing. Emptier
Caverns are we than they.
They chuckle and leave us
alone. For we reject that is
unseen. Everything needs to be touched or heard. If a tree
falls we hear nothing. In the jungle bulldozers are breathing.
Violent virulent curses.
The oak falls unheeded.
Someone’s house dies. It is not
The right way. The right way is cement and iron and
granite will. Cement, iron, and granite
still. Unmoving, unbendable. The earth thirsts.
We, the dwellers, fill an unquenchable thirst.
The end of history, they say. The end of struggle,
of level distinctions. Soon enough,
we will have no need for history anymore.
assembly line
i'm glad I stood, even for a short while
by the fountain where my words did not stop
I shivered in warmth, and looking back
at snatches of time. my life was a clock.
between interstices I had better debtors and doubter
betters.
a lifetime's slaving, of saving soul-marrow
could not give me tomorrow.
vassal's prudence, I stood in
my starched garment
and waited.
© Rachel Chan Suet Kay
Rachel Chan is writing a novel on 14th century Azeri poet Nesimi. Visit her site here: http://thusspakethethorn.blogspot.com
Missing link
We will certainly meet
in this space and era.
It was indelibly marked
in our soul's itinerary --
to patch up a discord,
restore the sparkles that
paint life to gray areas.
Could I bear to ask what
I had come here to ask?
And if I didn't, how
would I ever know?
Could we still live on
with not knowing and
not caring? I doubt it.
But the truth lies not
in narrow perceptions
or stereotyped roles.
I just knew that love is
timeless, life is short
and I don't want to
miss out on anything.
© Dennis Espada
Mam E
(pakanonotan kinen Prop. Nieves Benito Epistola)
Inatey kayon agtakayo amaestraan,
Diad UP inaron escuelaan;
Mam E so inngaran day escuelayo,
Polyan yo ak ’katoy itawag kod sikayo
Mam E nen akasawa kilay Epistola,
Panón nen marikit kayo, Mam B, awa?
Akin ta aga Mam N
masanting met ya ngaran?
Sakey ya ngarem agko nalinguanan so pan-imes yod siak,
Ed Recto Hall nen asumpal so tepetko, pansalitak;
Pati say matayo angankoy makabirbir ya kabaleyan
Matan unan timanguad banwa ed Caboloan
Anggano inaral yoy arom ya dila,
Inaro yo met so salita nen Urduja;
Say binetla nen melag ya ugaw kini,
Atan met so, on atan!, salitan bekásen yod si Apolaki.
Say Ágila
Diad toktok na kiew ed palandey
singan arin akalagey
onbántag ed leksab ya makaoley
makdem so mata to’d atatagey ya pasén
ikampayto saray pakpak ya matakken
ontikiab mansingkat na kanen.
Quo Vadis, Baley ko?
Natan inerso laen mo, baley ko?
Kasumpal na duaran bagio;
Nantilak ya dilap tan gawat,
ed dakel ya lúyag
Saray anak mo’d biektaew
naisalét ed duaran bánsan mibabakál;
Ed Bikol say Mayon ngalngalin onterak,
No natuloy et dakel so manirap
Ontagey langula say bili na tariwa,
Gasolina tan plete ontombok metla;
Balet anápan na dumaralos, maestra
Onsingger la’d pambilay na alila
Politikon tilaan sikara labat so naksel,
Say táwag na baley agda naderengel;
Saray totoon makaantad pamaábig mo, Baley ko,
Bulág, emél, télek ed panmaongan mo!
Baley kon Filipinas, kapigan so kawayangan mo?
Pián ondayew ed Pilipino say mundo,
Pián patit na revolución o junta militar nayarawi ka
O ed masamit ya invitación na diktadura!
Iná
(dedikadod si Florida S. Fernandez ya inianak nen unan agew na Agosto)
Pimmaway ed bao
anagasang, maplés, agangano
sakey, duara, taluran segundo
naiyanak
irapton inawit diad eges
siam ya bulán
manlapud bini
nanmalew ya ugaw
agni asumpal say panangaro
bimmaleg, nambalolaki
nanaral, nanasawa
wadtan nin mantagibi
manpasalamat ka anak
sakey labat so inam
manpasalamat ka met ed amam
antam la no akin.
Say pinalsa ed dalem na dayat
Onsipáksipák so daluyong ed pangpang na dayat
walay ugaw batik batik, mannaay-ayam
diad beneg na ermen ya malorem ya kabuasan
onoogip say pinalsa ed kaaralem na taew
mapalnan ontitikiab saray manok ed tapew
senga alinguanan ya panaon
ta abayag ya akadokol
mankugkugip ya buagen
mansasamit ed ambilonget ya papasén
bangta onbalikuat, abangon, mantayegteg so dalin!
Say Inarok
(parad si M.P.)
Andukey so andikit ya buik ton anggan abalá
say mataton masanting ya makabaláni
bibil ton gabay ton paanguban
lupa ton maganan agko nalinguanan
eléng ton maotok ya balibalin nengnengen
laman ton argolyotoy botelya na cola
say baog to'd bikking walay sansakey ya piglat
tan say beneg ya ataratar na balyanget
mansalita, manelek, onemes – makaiter ya kasil
maaro, maanus sikaton inar-arok
balet natan manaakis so asugat ya posok.
Abalang ya piráwat na panangaro
(parad si M.P.)
Nonot mo bii
Panonton abalang so piráwat tan dua
Ta agkamet makadandán ed razón tan alilingko
No agmo met tuan penerdona saray kasalananko
No agmomet gabay ya impawil ed siak.
Nonoten ko met
Panonton abalang so piráwat tan dua
Ta agtaka aboloyan ed nilooban mon moyong
Balet kimmerewak ed sika lay perdona
Ta gabay ko ni so impawil ed sika
Nonoten tan dua sirin
No walani so gunaét na panangaro tan dua
No kapigan tan manpawilan agko balet anta.
© Erwin S. Fernandez
http://theotherdissent.blogspot.com
Maputlang Parol ng Nobyembre
Tiyak ako, napanood mo sa isang teleserye
sa Channel 2 ang pagtalon ni Jodie Santamaria
mula sa ikawalo o ikasampung palapag (hindi
ko na matandaan) ng ospital. At bagaman hindi
ipinakita ang paglagapak at pagsabog ng bungo
ng magandang aktres, tumanim sa isip mong
hindi mali ang mamatay; ang mali ay ang mabuhay
nang walang katiyakan at walang karangalan.
Ayaw kitang sisihin. Sadyang maraming maling aral
ang media, kahit pa nga ang mga balita at ang mga tula.
Maraming isinusubo ang kahirapan, maraming iginugupo
ang kapalaran. Napanood mo rin malamang sa Saksi
ang batang pumanhik sa tore ng Meralco at ang mamang
naglambitin sa billboard ni Dennis Trillo, para lamang ipahayag
ang kanilang pagtutol na magpatuloy pa sa buhay
na tigib ng lungkot. Palibhasa’y hindi mo pa abot
ang tuktok ng bundok, o ang billboard, sabihin na nating
ang sariling bubong, kaya sa lamesita ka na lang tumuntong
upang isinampay ang sarili sa lubid. Mas maganda sanang
pagmasdan ang mga medalya kaysa lubid sa iyong leeg.
Mapalad ka pa nga at mayroon kang mga mata,
nga kamay, mga paa. Napanood mo ba ang istorya
ng batang palaka na pahimbak-himbak sa bundok
maihatid lang ang sarili sa iskuwela? Napakaraming
mga batang nakikipagsagupa sa bangis ng kahirapan.
Ang mga batang pusit na idinokumento ni Kara David
halimbawa, na patuloy lang sa pagsisid sa mga biyaya
at kabuluhan ng buhay. Kung katulad nila’y nakipaglaban ka,
balang araw ay maisusulat mo rin sana sa iyong munting
talaarawan ang mga aanihing pagtatagumpay.
Sabi nila, dakila kang bata ka. Kinalampag mo
ang sambayanan. Isinakdal mo ang mga magnanakaw.
Sabi nila, kahawig ng maiksi mong buhay ang kay Anne Frank.
Pero hindi ikaw ang dapat na naduwag.
Hindi ikaw ang dapat na nabuwag.
© Lolito Go
Lolito Go, 22, is a sexually insecured artist/bum in Olongapo City. He ran for barangay councilor and lost because he refused to cut his 3-foot long hair. He will leave his office in Sangguniang Kabataan this December. He has no plans of returning to college.
the joy
of two weeks vacation
at Christmas
why is it I feel
this twinge of sadness
playing endless
games of solitaire
on Christmas Eve
I wonder how you
are passing the time
(previously published in Simply Haiku, Winter 2006)
this mug
of Earl Grey tea
hot fragrant
tasting your gift
eases the longing
suddenly
these clothes too heavy
tea too hot
these obligations
suffocating
(previously published in Simply Haiku, November 2005)
the drizzle
slowly soaks my coat
as I walk
looking for the house
where I first met love
(Modern English Tanka, Autumn 2006)
© 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.
Calendar
the calendar looks emaciated
like the waning of the moon
days drop one by one
before my eyes
covering my path
like fallen leaves
in the winter of life.
pop-up pages on the wall
swaying before my eyes
forming ghosts on the screen
to deflate my balloons
of indelible memory.
the days rise from the block
like a smoke sign of numbers
airborne on swift wings
to deliver an urgent message
like some distress call
from some sinking ship.
Hard Sun
a clear aversion for the center
a clear hostility for all shortcuts
the tortuous path winds through
some most difficult mountains
towards some uncertain periphery
picturesque on the empty eye
almost too good to believe
the hard sun digs up the flesh
from the skin to the bone
everything seems to go up
in a veil of smoke of dust
digging up the iron ground
of feudal justice
a frail insect on frail wings
fly over the mountains
to catch the clouds.
Premonition
strange lights
a meteor flashes
across the sky
a comet shoots
like a cosmic broom
gathering seeds
from the dark corners
of unknown galaxies
secret places
breeding ground
of alien hatchlings
incessant rain
in windy nights
cold, darkened
molten earth
sad eyes
and sarcasm
the bolted doors
plugged holes and
reverting to the basics
of raw survival.
Free Spirit
there is no calamity
bigger than the
romantic mind
in the bondage of
crass materialism
the atom bomb
is not a calamity
compared to the moon
bought at sixpence
social awareness
man is born free
but everywhere
he is in chains
self awareness
the eternal spirit
of the chainless mind
there is no bigger sin
than to maul
the free spirit
there is no bigger virtue
than the independent mind
that knows the true
meaning of responsibility.
© Bishnupada Ray
Bishnupada Ray is a reader in English in North Bengal University. His poems have appeared in INDIAN LITERATURE,NEW QUEST and MAKATA. He is the author of one collection of poems titled POSSIBILITIES.
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