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Poetry

Santan

In the middle of the park,I am a pink and smooth baby – my mother manages to put santanin my fists, the grass makes me rash like hell and I scratch it out --nails like needles, my skin turns the same shade as the flowersI’m molding...

Inner Angels

To You, All Those Years Ago Little oneDo the yelling voices paralyze you?Just a while ago, she was singing you a gentle lullabyAs she cradled you in her armsHe was imitating a steam train from your favorite cartoonAs he brought to your lips a...

I WRITE AND MAKE NO SOUND

Ants in My Grandfather’s Pants When I was six, my grandfather recounted a storyabout ants and bayonets that my father never told me.During the Japanese Occupation in the 1940s,a rifle-wielding soldier chased him and my would-be fatheracross a field of tall blades of grass...

Stella Loves Saluyot

Stella relished each spoonful.Adobong saluyot and rice.First taste of it in five years.First time to clear her plate all clean. Between smiles and dancing eyes,“Asim! Sarap! Gusto ko pa!”A bit of Ilocana,Sighed certified genuine Ilocana lola. “I like carrots, broccoli,tomatoes, potatoes, kangkong,and I like saluyot,...

A Flower for Freedom

What do you do with fallen flowers on the ground       Dead brown leavesNo one ever dare look atShould I put them on the tombs of soldiers where the tears of their mothers have driedor their wives have diedNo more wars, my dearest.I refuse to...

Bohemian Rhapsody

“In the domain of music, birds have discovered everything.” —Olivier Messiaen who frequently used birdsong in his compositions. ~ Tweet from Berliner Philharmoniker there is no such thing as total silencein the place where i live.even if human tongues stop wagging,i still hear birds outside the...

Random Pickings

Rinsing rice

I fed two takal of rice Into the newly washed pot. Scooped water for rinsing. Fumbled, stirred the seeds Of Tatay’s perspiration. Spilled the milky water. Poured out slowly until...

POETRY: “Leaves” by Marra PL. Lanot

ARCHIVE — See the leaves turn green / To yellow to orange / To red   rust   brown

What Is Your Name?

How do you call yourselfwhen no one, not even you,listens? Where do you find the wordswhen everything escapes yourthoughts? What stories come to lifewhen images are...

A Summer Poem for Baguio

As the car was winding down Zigzag roadOne sizzling afternoonI gazed at smoke billowing, spiraling up the sky from a distant mountainGreen turning brown...