Poetry by Arian Rey Tejano | February 1, 2009
Walking in the garden,
I saw you and I asked,
“How does it feel to be a butterfly?”
You said,
“I don’t know”, asking me back,
“You, how does it feel to be a girl?”
Then I answered,
“I don’t know. I’m a boy.”
And as you flew away, you said,
“See. ‘Cause I’m a moth, not a butterfly. Shhhhhh!”
Poetry by Laarni Lorono | February 1, 2009
i powdered my nose
you did the same
i applied cheeks’ tint
you followed suit
i swiped mascara
you wanted it too
i painted my lip with rouge
you looked at me and said,
“May I paint mine too?”
i stared back in a second
too dazed to react
but then again i said
“Sure…why not?”
Poetry by Yul AV Olaya | January 25, 2009
Ano ka sa akin?
Kundi bituin
Na nagniningning
Sa umaga
Na di nakikita
Ngunit di nawawala.
Isa kang tubig na naiipon
Sa gitna ng mga bato
Na sinisipsip ng tag-init
At ibinabalik ng mga hamog.
Isa kang dahong bagong silang
Kapalit ng mga dahong nalanta.
Musika kang banayad at masaya
Na sa loob ng mga bakanteng
bahay ng kabibe nakatira.
Isa kang masayang alaala.
Poetry by James Roy Pascual | January 25, 2009
(Paghinumdum sa 2008)
Maniradug tarung sa balay
Sukna sa iyang mama kanunay
Samtang wa pa sila naabot
Lisod na kuno ang panahon karon
Ang kinaiya sa tawo dili kakumpyansahan
Bisan unsa na lang ang buhaton
Aron lang gayud makalingkawas
Sa nagmantinir nga kahimtang
Poetry by Krizia Banosan Garcia | January 18, 2009
when our eyes meet
you stab me.
i see you indulge in whatever,
but you never notice the agony
that flows from my eyes.
time wishes to banish our insanity,
and our existence from each other.
you tend to forget about me,
while i pretend you never saw my heart.
i convinced myself i have forgotten your scent,
the taste of your lips,
the feel of your hands
even though i know i never will.
i was reconstructed by you
bitterly insane is what you made of me.
i was reconstructed by you
to never be held down by anyone—
but you.
to move as if i’m free
even though there’s a chain around my neck
with the other end attached to your ankles.
i was reconstructed by you
to forever dwell within this abyss of sorrow.
Poetry by Krizia Banosan Garcia | January 18, 2009
rip me open,
nail me on your bedroom wall;
speak all that’s left unspoken,
or leave me here with nothing at all.
peel off my skin,
take a glimpse at what lies within;
hear my pain, make it sing;
do all these whilst i’m breathing.
rip me open,
or break my every bone;
forsake me, to all that’s forsaken,
or leave me here all alone.
tear open my chest,
trick my heart to keep on beating;
teach me to lie to myself,
do all these, whilst i’m breathing.
hear me cry,
see me die;
don’t you dare close your eyes,
watch me beg for my life,
as you pierce my throat with a rusty knife;
i love you, i swear i won’t ask why-
why it seems like you love to see me die.
Continue reading Whilst I'm Breathing
Poetry by Yevgeny Honrade | January 11, 2009
Death is imminent.
Until the star implodes
and sucks all matter
within its grasp.
Even the ray of light
is a fatality
of its tightening grip
and ultimate hold onto life.
It becomes an abyss
of an unknown fate.
Death is near
but there is irony
in its dying existence.
Its penultimate death
becomes a lure
for more of death.
It becomes a rampage
of itself
frightful and threatening
to the unconscious
and slumbering spirit.
Then its last breath respires,
Emerging as a dense matter
of immense massiveness.
So Great,
but crammed with death.
(dedicated to the inequities everywhere)
Poetry by Henrietta Diana de Guzman | January 11, 2009
Dedicated to Kristoffer Alibangbang
The dawn is breaking rapidly
like hundred light years have
passed away over the omniscient horizon,
mirroring my heart nestled into
patterned solitude.
…because I have to find the panoramic view of
life. Eyeing differently from gleaming stars, moons and
shadows of light that reflects his cherub façade,
… because I, vowed to see each butterflies and how
they undergone several epiphanies every morning, with
flowers around them, frothed in rain drops, coaxed
by the sun. Leaving me empty with my scratch papers,
lines and silenced metaphors.
…because words are just words. But he composes a bucket of
strayed fragments that I should let go of- to decipher these words
are not just words.
… maybe because , my mind just aches, overfed with this cathartic malady.
…and maybe because, I want to get cured though I know I loved to be severe.