I KILLED MY SON
Hurriedly driving going far,
I passed by the nearby coffee shop,
Searching and rushing to where you are,
I saw a rose and it made me stop,
Roses and coffee reminds me of your sweet nothings,
Esteemed on your paintings,
Your death got me insane,
Got this thing a growing pain,
I often sniff your shirt,
I stare at your favorite tennis shoes,
I’m folding now my purple skirt,
It reminds me of our Asian cruise,
All things remain fresh,
Where are you underneath the sheets?
Oh dear come back into flesh,
So crippled and can’t walk through my feet,
You’re little angel won’t see you anymore,
It’s his first birthday today,
I bought him something from your favorite store,
I baked his much loved chocolate cake,
Our son gripped my hand,
He muttered that you’re somewhere in the light,
I looked around and wondered where you stand,
We found you when I turned my back right,
Losing you again is no longer permissible!
We took the killer pills,
An impulsive decision that’s so horrible,
We ran out to the nearby hills,
We will die where you met the accident,
I saw a river meters away,
With this thing I’m so confident,
We’ll drop ourselves there and be gone forever.
(This is a story about a mother who committed extended suicide. The loss of partner got her crazy and mismanaged her personal issues towards the death of his husband. She took her son’s life for she believed that when she’s gone, no one can take care of his son the way she does.)
© Maria Criselda Bisda
One Mankukulam, Voodoo man.
One Healer, Albulario.
For Art Patron.
One healer was seeing wisdom, in praxis, and an Initiate had to, stand at its feet.
The living word had power.
Symbolic of the countless, wise men,
in the Philippines Islands, they are known as “Lolos,”
in gracing the pen’s canvas with,
titles,
such as,
“Sa karamihan Panahon,”
her name had been written on the sands of Talisay Beach.
“Tunay Kayumangging Kaligatan,”
whose beauty was a “prix,” to the “Pearls of the Orient.”
Her present leader,
would be astonished at the lessons to be gleaned from these unknown stars,
at home and abroad.
This light shone clearly some time ago,
when in exchange for military troops withdrawal,
a citizen hostage on foreign land was released.
It was an executive decision, misunderstood by the western mind set.
Now,
a healer arrives to the Mountains of Mindanao,
in the face of wonderful “Lolas,”
proffering their love in the guise of concern for an Initiate sanctuary.
Had the world’s best internist and skilled physician,
been there,
he would have been attending,
at their beckon.
In the very thought,
simultaneous healing had occurred.
These mountains, had witnessed the silence of the stars, in their eyes.
From the blade of a grass to the towering trees,
proffering oxygen,
in exchange for the carbon monoxide,
nature was in harmony with their practice.
Sharing the many inflections of Mankukulam,
a celestial awning protected and covered both,
the healer as well as the healed.
© Eduardo A. Cong
Supplanting
Close your eyes...Relax.
A yummy mantra will come
to spell “stressed” backward.
(Tejeros, Makati City, March 2007)
Offshore
It is not as good
as plunging down the ocean
of bottomless dream.
(Port of Batangas, Santa Clara, Batangas City, 25 February 2007)
© Dennis Espada
DEAR CARILLON
Minsan-minsan
kapag nababasa ka,
gusto kong mapunta
sa 'yong mga pahina.
Pero 'di ko alam
kung ito'y paano,
kung kailan sisikat
o sisikat nga ba ako.
Hindi ako mayaman.
Hindi ako doktor.
Hindi ako abogado
o senador.
Hindi propesor
o kaya'y title-holder,
ni walang awards,
'di rin board topnotcher.
Wala akong pera
na pang-ambag sa 'yo.
Sa sikat na grupo,
'di rin miyembro.
Ayokong mag-abroad at
dumagdag sa brain drain.
Dito pa lang,
brain ko na'y drained.
Wala namang dahilang
i-update ang records.
Wala pang bago
kasi single pa 'ko.
At marami pang bagay
na dapat unahin
gaya ng damit, bahay
gamot at pagkain.
Haay, Carillon,
my dear Carillon!
Kailan ba ako
masusulat sa 'yo?
Tanging isa lang
dahilan ang alam ko:
ang mabanggit ang pangalan
sa obituario...
WOUNDED
Words fall on deaf ears,
lost in translation
where arrogance kills humility.
In this vicious cycle,
we learn only to unlearn
giving power to jealous gods.
We fan the fire
with senseless tears
and we feed the pain
with self-inflicted pity.
What evil there must be
that resides in broken hearts?
No hope. No pride.
No power over which
that engulfs us.
Only a hatred
kept with a force
that kills wounded souls.
© J.Gi Federizo
J.Gi Federizo has found a worthy advocacy, working for SOS Children's Villages Philippines, an NGO that provides long-term family-based care for orphaned, abandoned and neglected children and children of extreme difficult circumstances. Despite this, she will always be a writer at heart.
the party of the first part
the candle of the oil of whalebones
drying on the beach at Waikiki
see you enter them like a tabernacle
or great basilica
the light shivers for a moment
then goes down and out
it has come to this
the sworn testament that grieves me to say this
any hand attests
coral and kelp
the great man came to town
I needed a patent for the ostrich races on Sunday
condominium rights the whole shmeer
had to be on my doorstep by eleven
the whole conversion thing before the clock struck noon
and it was last desperate gamble thing time
or it had planned already been
and the sort of critics I get you get back on my pocket
out of
here anyway
what was I saying oh yes
Mir the Soviet space ship
had come in for a landing
with sheepdogs on my front lawn
the doors opened
it was Lana Turner in a Turkish towel
and her other friend Betty Grable
dancing in knickknacks from the PX
the two come waltzing anyway
down my street
what can I do they know already
the great man came to town
didn't stay his welcome over
flapdoodle
the pungent rats at our midriffs sniped
it is a grand glorious noise
as the song says
hear ye by all these presents
Santa Claus
the miracle of the bells is booked for the afternoon of the twelfth
and so forth
the cigar box banjos
and fiddle fifers
in any minor key
the boating officer
string me up oh a few dozen boys
I've a long-tailed law monkey to scrape off my boots
they come around with a whiff of the smelling salts
and kick me a few shins while we're at it
the scope of the enterprise cannot be adjusted now
it's sink or swim the islands now and then for landfall
and the great order in this wildness practicing
its rowboat skills intermittently come and go
off these islands
of course
plainly the merit if any consists in
the countenance that doesn't flinch
in the agonies of any thought
let the buyer beware of the window
the empty skies may serve for a looking-glass
and be meadows under the green fields
of turned-up furrows
© Christopher Mulrooney
Christopher Mulrooney has written poems in fourW, echolocation, Beeswax, Vanitas, Guernica, and The Delinquent.
Jogging in the Dark
There is something about jogging in the dark, before dawn;
everything pleasing to the senses as you run is turned on;
is that Mars to the east, hovering as a balloon on fire?
Cold air from snowy China fills my lungs so I will not tire;
Liz, Jock and I running side by side, ten feet in all—on wings!
My spirit rises like an eagle, my soul to the Lord it sings;
neither noxious fumes nor screaming motors jar my Rosary;
it is as if for the Holy Grail I have found the key.
" 'Morning!" I say to a woman on her way to 6 o'clock Mass;
the lady's love for the Eucharist blesses me as I pass.
From yonder east, Mary's mantle appears to clothe the black sky;
bright stars turn pale as they curtsy at the sun—night's gone awry!
As I breathe polar air, as I spy watchmen pack up their gear,
I face the day with faith, hope and love, saying to God, "I'm here!"
© Wilfredo G. Villanueva
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