Category: Poetry

The Multitude of Reminiscence and Apprehension

Poetry by | November 15, 2025

Three years down the drain
Left me with cloudy rectitude
A woeful plea in temperance
A series of anxious trepidation:

I dread the rain
The unseen and stifled pain
The haunting echo of being insane

I fear the solitude
The faltering incertitude
The desolate ruin of my fortitude

I worry the dissonance
The restless resistance
The formidable need for assurance

I agonize over the regression
The lingering tension
The wounded, toxic repetition

How can I love again
When life is full of vicissitude?
How can I seek acceptance,
When I’m fading into deep attrition?

Maybe I will never know.

Marevic Jean P. Lutog is an instructor at Davao Oriental State University. She writes poems and stories as her primary outlet for expressing her concealed emotions since she finds solace in literature.

If the Street Could Speak

Poetry by | November 15, 2025

Along a busy street,
people hurry past,
cars cry out in chorus,
each chasing their own day.

Across that street sits an old man,
in a loose, torn shirt,
selling vegetables,
hoping for pennies
to fill an empty stomach.

On that same street,
hundreds gather,
banners raised high,
truth painted in black and red.
In unison, they screamed,
“Wakasan na ang korapsyon!”

Indeed,
the street holds stories.

It has witnessed underpaid workers
set out with the sunrise,
and return with the stars.

It has braced trembling bodies,
lying on the cold ground—

no roof, no wall,
owning only a piece of cardboard.

It has carried the footsteps of the angry,
and heard the cries of the brave—
the endless scream for justice.

If the street could speak,
it would tell of lives worn down by greed.

It would march with the protesters,
for it too bears the marks of corruption—
never repaired, always drowning in injustice.

Because, like the people who walk upon it,
it remains neglected, yet still endures.

Najhanne Buat Asum, 21, is from Balindong, Lanao del Sur. She is a fourth-year student in the Bachelor of Arts in English Language Studies program at Mindanao State University – Main Campus. Najhanne writes from the heart, inspired by what she observes in the world, and hopes her words can make a small difference.

2:00 a.m thoughts beside my window

Poetry by | November 15, 2025

I write less
And speak
Even more
Sparsely
Of the colors
Of my soul

Too many words
They say
Tend to deceive
Too much prose
Tend to do poetry
An injustice

I sing less
And dance
Even more
Rarely
To the rhythm
Of love

Too much theater
They say
Tend to mislead
Too much panache
Tend to convey
Only the good

Yet, too, they say
In tones less shrill
That, indeed, it is
Through words, songs
Even dances

That tend to calm
Soften our hearts
And tend to uphold
Only the true

Nikki Rivera Gomez has written four books on living in Mindanao, three of which are being published by the UP Press. He lives in Davao City and hopes to inspire young writers to “write with abandon and live purposefully.”

Warning: Wala Ni Hinungdan

Poetry by | November 15, 2025

Have you ever tried writing a poem
nga wala ka kabalo asa padulong?
Like this ba.

Nahimoot ko samtang ga suwat ani.
There are fishes swimming on my mind,
a pool that is mine to operate.

Busa, wala ni goal. Walay bili.
Basta dle lang magkagubot ang rhyme,
everything will be fine.

By the way, love ko nimo?

Sometimes I think the universe
is orchestrating music
too cosmic for human ears.

Maybe we are meant to hear it
instead of clocking in and out,
working forty hours
under a system built by the devil.

Isn’t it strange
A thread connects us for a moment,
then cuts
after each transaction.

Imagine fate
as a brief handshake.

That thought made me smile
as I write this,
because I might just be wasting your time.
This is your one chance at goodbye.

You may go now.

This is my first time.
How about you?
Do you still dream?

O basta kay makaamgo lang
mahimayaong kalipay,
let the kaligutgot pass by?

Mao na na.
Surrender.
Surrender.
Surrender.

That is the content of my prayer.
I whisper it three times a day,
like a prescription for being human.

Balik ta. Sa poem. Dili kita.

Maybe this is written from boredom.

Tong bata pa ko, nadusmo ko
sige og dula og Chinese garter.
I was the “mother.”
A broken jaw taught me silence.

Pero when my nanay died,
I learned the world
has quieter ways of breaking people.

Ever since I met grief,
I’ve gathered more books than I can count
not to enjoy,
but to escape.

Some of them gather dust,
waiting for my attention,
like old loves I’ve muted online.

What’s your favorite literary device?
I don’t know a man
who’s ever asked me that question.

Kapait ning kinabuhi-a.
Need ba gyud nga kanawong pa ni Beast
usa magka-perfect fairytale ang poor mademoiselle?

What do I do with books?
I stare at them,
smell their leaf,
imagine the hands that once caressed it.

Stories intrigue
but what about the fingerprints
they carry through the years?

When it cuts deep,
that’s when I write
about what it did to me.

Pag di ko niya mapakahilak,
o di mumata akong kasuko,
ayaw na lang.

I share them with friends
willing to listen.

I tell them how love looks
when it refuses to die quietly.

Sometimes I think of Arundhati Roy,
and her hunger for metaphors,
how she turns ache into ecstasy.

Balik ta sa hinungdan sa poem.
Wala gihapon.

Josephine May Grace Famoso is a lifelong learner of literature. She teaches literature at the University of Southeastern Philippines.

Obrero

Poetry by | November 15, 2025

The dogs are lying flat
              on the gritty and abrasive
surface of the road,
              detached from the mortal and
fleeting manias of men,
              while the flies liberally perform
barrel rolls and aileron rolls
              on the dogs’ grubby coats,
while I cling to the corroded
              metal bar of the tricycle,
on the verge of—crying,
              thinking about how I will make
the money dwell in the refuge
              of my two sweat-soaked hands,
when all I can do is daydream
              like the dogs beneath the car
engines, snoozing, as I recognize
              how my stomach is
the same as my bank account—
              empty. There are
no bones to fetch, only fingers
              to work to the bone.
Prince Marlo D. Montadas is a poet, author, and licensed professional teacher based in Butuan City. His works have appeared in San Anselmo Publications, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, and Cha: An Asian Literary Journal.

Para Sa Mga Dumadapong Lamok Sa Lansangan

Poetry by | October 27, 2025

Kapag sinispsip mo ang dugo ko
nalalasahan mo ba ang pait
na danas ko?
Natitikman mo ba
ang sigarilyong
pantawid-gutom
ang sting
na pampagising
ang kapeng
nakakalasing
Kailangan kong malasing
Kailangan kong magising
dahil hindi ko kaya
umidlip at sumiping
sa tabi ng
mga basahin
mga takdang-aralin
mga alituntuin
na bawal hindi sundin
Sila lahat ay kailangang gawin
dahil kung hindi
grado ko’y magiging mababa
marka ko’y masasagwa
Mayroon pa ba akong
magagawa?

Maiintindihan mo naman siguro
kung bakit ako’y nasa lansangan
hindi dahil para maging
hapunan mo
pero para maging
lamok din
Dadapo kami sa balat
ng kanilang teritoryo
Sisipsipin namin sa aspalto
ang mga dugong natuyo
mula sa mga patayang
utos ng gobyerno
Para kahit papaano
para kahit ganoon na lang
maangkin namin
ang kanilang mga buhay
na binuwis para
para sa saan?
Mga lamok, sabayan niyo kami
kahit kaming mga kabataan
na nalulunod sa bahang
matagal na dapat naiwasan
na nalulunod sa bahang
burukrasya pa rin
ang sinasabing daan

Mga lamok, nasa labas ako
dahil ang tunay na pag-asa ng bayan
ay hindi nagpapakulong
sa silid-aralan
Kolektibo rin kaming
iingay, iingay, at iingay
Bzzt… bzzt… bzzt…
Ang pondong inyong binulsa
ay dapat pinunta
sa mas mabuting sistema
sa edukasyong tunay
na pang-masa
sa medikasyong
hindi kapitalista
Mga lamok, naririnig niyo ba iyon?
Ang sigaw ng mga tao
Ang sigaw ng mga kabataan
Ayos lang na dumapo ka sa akin
Ayos lang na dugo ko’y iyong inumin
Naiintindihan ko naman
Naiintindihan kita
Kasi ang hirap nang mabuhay
sa panahong mala-dekada sitenta
Kaya lamok, inom lang
Hindi na kita pahihirapan pa

Henri Marie C. Belimac is a budding writer and filmmaker from General Santos City, with a father from Glan, Sarangani, and a mother from Tantangan, South Cotabato. She was a fellow at the 21st Ateneo National Writers Workshop and the Film Development Council of the Philippines x Filipino Screenwriters Guild Screenwriting Workshop – Davao Leg. She is currently a student of BA English (Creative Writing) at UP Mindanao.

Intimations of Mortality

Poetry by | October 27, 2025

There are lines,
deep and symmetrical,
etched upon her face.
I trace each one with my eyes:
forehead, cheeks, mouth.
I see a face so like mine,
save that it is withered and worn
with years of strife and selfless giving.

Her eyes that see past me
were once dreamy and eager;
yet, never, in my foolish
and carefree youth,
have I looked into their depths,
to discern
what I might have meant to them,
or if they were ever proud of me.
I do not remember them crying,
only glinting with iron will.

Her gnarled and wrinkled hands,
smooth a handkerchief carefully,
delicately.
Those trembling fingers
once wielded power with a pen
but also wrote me
indecipherable love letters.
I remember the noise
they created on the piano,
discordant notes echoing
in the distance of years.

She is thin and stooped.
There is no sign of that ample bosom
I would bury my face in for comfort.
Her legs would not support her anymore.
Once they brought her
to dank and dirty marketplaces,
and to hilly suburbs
to negotiate acquisitions of prime estate,
I have now inherited unencumbered.

Her voice is hesitant.
It is tired.
It once sweetly sang me lullabies,
rang with authority,
snapped with temper,
rose in frustration,
soothed my pain.
I would never hear it hum softly
with the ancient sewing machine again,
nor call me sweetly for some errand,
or to dinner.
There will be no more of those long,
lazy afternoon conversations
at the dining table,
while partaking her favorite
rice cakes and latte.

I watch her breathing evenly
as she goes back to sleep,
her dreams perhaps bringing her
back to those pre-war tales
she would reminisce a million times,
while I listened in exasperation,
(and helpless amusement)
as their plots got taller,
embellished year after year.
I will forever treasure
these second-hand memories,
as if they were mine,
as if I were there with her.

I leave her lying there
with the chorus
of tree sparrows in her garden
faint in her ears;
and my last glimpse of her toothless smile
lingers beyond this half-open door
that I shut with finality.

Grace Lumacang is fifty-five years old. She teaches Literature at Father Saturnino Urios University, Butuan City, Philippines. In 2018, one of her poems was included in Mindanao Harvest 4: A 21st Century Literary Anthology edited by Jaime An Lim, Christine F. Godinez-Ortega, and Ricardo M. de Ungria. It was published by Far Eastern University.

The Reaper in the Blood

Poetry by | October 20, 2025

My mother used to tell me, as a child
how selfless my grandmother was—
that she would give her children food
she was about to put in her mouth
just so they wouldn’t starve.
She never counted what she had given,
believing God saw every good deed
and blessed those who gave without asking in return.

I was two when the first coffin entered our home,
glad I didn’t witness her suffering.
Mama Rosie, the first body claimed,
traveling her veins slowly,
wrecking every part of her
until her entire body could no longer fight.

She was the youngest among seven.
Yet it never halted her
from taking on roles too big for her age.
She fetched and sent us to school,
checked our knees for bruises,
lulled us to sleep until our cries softened.

I was fifteen when I watched over her in the ICU,
unresisting the tube pressed to her mouth,
Every breath is a painful attempt to stay alive.
Ate Lablab, the second life taken,
as it knew no age, it ran in the blood,
remembers every cell,
waiting for the right time to strike.

I feared him growing up.
His voice commanded attention,
as if punishing those who disobeyed.
He was their eldest, a seaman
who never continued sailing.
But beneath that stern demeanor
hid a kindness few could name.
He let me devour everything in his fridge,
until my stomach could hold no more.

I was sixteen when he was rushed to the hospital,
his left foot rotten, bacteria spreading like wildfire.
I watched over him day after day,
old enough not to throw up
while eating inside a ward of bodies
busy with their own survival.
Kuya Archie, the third to fall
to the poison hidden in sweetness
unhurriedly ravaging every organ
that came its way.

She had a twin sister—
the second and third among seven.
Maybe that’s why my mother
gave birth to twins, too—
our blood remembering what it once held.
She made sure we learned our lessons—
a hit from a belt or hanger
each time we misbehaved.
It may sound cruel,
but it was her way of caring.

I was twenty when her body,
once tireless in feeding others,
could no longer serve even herself.
Ate Nene, the fourth soul captured,
as it patiently waited,
revealing itself only to disrupt
the body’s function.

I had grown used to the alcohol scent,
the chaos, the maze of white corridors.
It comforted me thinking
that the final resting place wasn’t lonely—
it’s noisy, somehow alive.
I grew up unafraid of coffins.
I thought it was normal,
how one by one, our family
disappeared into silence.
I began to wonder—
who would it call next?

Mark Lhoyd D. Tampad, born and raised in Davao City, is still learning the craft of poetry and hopes to grow into a better poet. He is currently studying BA English major in Creative Writing at UP Mindanao.