Poetry by Roselle Jimeno | August 24, 2008
kay ang gimingaw bungol
sa mga panghasi sa kawatan
inig abot sa kagab-ihon
para lungkabon ang kaldero
nga dukot ray nahibilin.
ang kawatan ibusdak-bagting-bu-ak
ang kaldero (nangliki ang salog).
pero ang gimingaw dili makamata
kay siya bungol–
nabungol sa iyang kaugalingong paghagok
hagok hagok hagok hagok
hagok
hagok hagok
hagok hagok hagok
hagok sa damgo, hagok
ngadto sa pikas kalibutan.
Poetry by Alfredo Compra Jr. | August 24, 2008
tanging ang kulisap lamang
ang nasisiyahan sa liwanag
na nagmumula sa lampara.
Habang ang bawat galaw
ng guhit ng relo
ay malakas na naririnig,
ang dilim naman ay nagbabanta
ng matinding kalungkutan.
Saglit kinuha ang isang kahon,
nangangapa man sa dilim
ay huling-huli pa rin.
Buti rin, tahimik na ang lampara,
wala na rin ang kanina’y
naglalarong insekto.
Binudbod ang puting bagay
mula sa supot
at sinimulan ang nakagawiang orasyon.
Lalong tumahimik ang silid,
iginala ang mga tirik na mata
tumigil na ang galaw ng orasan
namatay na rin ang liwanag
lumutang ang katawan
pataas nang pataas…
Saglit pa’y may napansing
mukhang nakaguhit sa may dingding,
nakahihilakbot ang hitsurang tumambad
na minsan sa panaginip ay hindi mawari,
ang bawat patak ng dugong umaagos mula
sa sugat ng kanyang mukha
ay nakatatakot.
Natagpuan ko ang aking
sariling umiiyak sa awa, sa takot, sa galit
Ikaw nga, Hesus!
ang simula, ang hangganan, ang katapusan
ilan pang tulad ko ang magiging ganito?
”Diyos ko, bakit mo ako pinabayaan?”
Poetry by Arian Rey Tejano | August 17, 2008
You may
not
see
the raft,
buoying
in the ocean,
but you
can feel
the waters,
rippling
on the edges
of your feet.
If your hands
suffer from
the coldness
of the breeze,
just cup
these waters
and it will
carry you
to a white distance,
where I am
lost,
sailing
against the wind
of my departure.
Poetry by Ariel Lalisan | August 17, 2008
She used to live in a shanty
with nipa roof
and bamboo walls,
and soil for a floor.
She used to look so shabby
in hand-sewn clothes
and an old pair of shoes,
which, all, her mother once wore.
She used to be poorer than the rats
she would run after
and smash with a broom.
But everything has changed
since she met Mr. Jones.
Now life for her (and the neighborhood)
suddenly became easy
as Mr. Jones—it seems—
is a man so generous and wealthy.
No trace of a poor lady can be seen
as she walks around the town
with a tall, white man.
The smile on her face beams with pride
as her head she holds high.
But never had she heard of the stories
passed on from mouth to mouth,
of what she might have done
to bring home a gold mine.
Poetry by Joie Mar Prias | August 10, 2008
Ang kabugnaw sa hangin
Mao mutunaw sa kamatyanong kainit
Ang ga-asong kape, ang akong habol
Ug ang paghandum kanimo
Mao ray nagpainit
niining gabhiona,
Ug sama sa mga patak sa ulan
Na daaw dagom nga nitusok-lalom
Sa kaugatan, imong gitusok
ang dughan ko sa imong
hait ug init na gugma.
Poetry by Vanessa Almeria | August 10, 2008
I sit at the center,
the red metal stool
bearing my weight.
the girl in blue stares
at me with tiger eyes.
I face the other way, dragging
the stool as
it screeches—
my thoughts exactly.
The man in eyeglasses
shouts, “what’s the central image?”
the girl in blue nods,
not once
but twice
as the man hammers
my poems
on the table.
I face them,
carrying
my own weight as
he hurls the sheets
up in the air.
Our eyes witness
my syllables
fall
like the loosened
leaves
of a tree.
Poetry by Maria Virginia Yap Morales | August 10, 2008
Peering through a picture window
I saw pastel-hued balloons dance in the air,
anchored to chairs built so low
uprooted children are ill-fitted there.
I gaze at you and me standing –
opposite ends of a rainbow:
I am writing history.
You are certain
in this country
there is a treasure of stories to know.
You finally understood why you had to go.
Seeping sambong in a screened porch
embraced by life-filling green
Alone I stare upon your raiment of dark pink torch
more lovely than I can ever imagine.
Poetry by Karla Stefan Singson | August 3, 2008
Sitting beside handsome
Is an intricate art:
A bouquet of anxiety
Grows on your skin
So abruptly,
Yet so daintily,
As if it has happened before.
A familiar feeling, yes,
Like opening your first gift from Santa
Or taking the first strides
Of your pre-school graduation march.