Hinay nga Pagkawagtang sa Lagaslas sa Cabulig

Poetry by | September 21, 2026

Padayon ang pagdagayday sa tubig
nga gikan sa sapa sa bukid,
paingon sa suba sa Cabulig.
Mahanoy ang lagaslas niini
samtang nagadakdak sa bunal
ang mga dagang inahan sa daplin,
aron mawagtang ang mantsang dalag
sa bisti sa ilang mga batingot nga pinalangga.

May kasikas usab sa lawom nga bahin,
samtang nagtabisay ug nagduwa ang mga batan-on;
puno sa kalipay ug pagsinggit-singgit,
hawan sa kaguol, kay ang tino lamang
mao ang kasadya nga dala sa kabugnaw sa tubig.

Walay sama ang gasa sa kinaiyahan!
Apan sa pag-agas sa katubigan,
mao sab ang pagkahanaw sa mga balas sa ilawom.
Walay puas ang pagpangsako sa grabas
aron isagol sa pagpahimutang sa mga balay sa kalungsuran.

Nanganindot tuod ang mga balay ug establisyemento,
Padayon sa kanunay ang trabaho ug negosyo
apan ang suba padayon sa pagkalawom
nga mamahimong hinungdan sa kadaot
og pagakatumpag sa pundasyon sa kilid sa yuta.
Padayon lagi ang pagsaka ug asenso sa kalungsuran,
ibabaw sa gilubong nga buhi nga kinaiyahan.

Nympha Amor H. Eugenio is a public secondary school teacher in DepEd Misamis Oriental Division. She teaches Creative Writing under the Special Program in the Arts (SPA), nurturing the next generation of local writers.

Post-Midnight Snack Epiphany

Poetry by | September 21, 2026

Over a few crusty plates on the sink
in a tub of soapy water, I wish
and pretend the world
is mine. Over this brief respite, my life
belongs to me. All of a sudden, I remember
ambitions. I remember how to dream,
in the last light before all becomes dark again.

I remember how my hands
are capable of transformations. All
of a sudden, I have with me things
that would know desire to be saved. All
of a sudden, I become my own god
and all the ones that are drowning,
I give breath, lift them to the light,
and see them spotless.

In strict successive suddens,
I learn to leave my stale morose grain
by softened grain at the maw
of the poor, hungry drain. I rinse
my hands until the last grime disappears
in its appetite. Then the kitchen is dark again,
and I remember nothing in the morning.

James Bryan Delgado was a fellow of the 2018 ADDU Summer Writers Workshop and the 2025 Davao Writers Workshop.

Mubalik rako

Nonfiction by | September 21, 2026

It was Sunday. Molave Street was bright with the noontime sun. The doors of the neighborhood homes were wide open, letting the wind sweep through the insides. The sound of laughter echoed with the beeps of cars passing by, and children fearlessly running beside the curve of the road, untouched by the weight of the world, unburdened by worries of an adult.

I could hear them from where I sat, separated only by the blurry plastic screen of the sari-sari store I was keeping watch over. Occasional murmurs slipped in but were never understood.

The silence on my side and the joy of the other felt uncomfortable. The noise felt so far away despite the short distance, like I was only meant to listen. Envy lingered in my mind for a moment before vanishing as the first customer of the day approached.

“Unsay ato angkol?” I gave a practiced, amiable smile.

It was Friday. She said we were going somewhere nice and that I had to wear my best clothes. I stared at the pile of clothes on the floor, looking like a mountain of rags, and settled on one. I guess a hand-me-down faded red dress with fewer patches could work as one. It smelled like old, wet paper, but I have never worn it. I never knew I was allowed to wear a dress.

“Inig abot nato didto dapat mag binuotan ka,” she said as she fixed my collar. It was folded inside.

“Opo,” I said like an automatic response, staring at her. There was a curve on her lips I had never seen. Or maybe never directed at me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed easily. Maybe I should have asked questions. But she smiled at me after years of scowls and frowns, and disgusted scoffs.

Continue reading Mubalik rako

The Red Stone Pendant

Nonfiction by | September 21, 2026

I could feel the sticky jelly in between my fingers while I scraped the jelly cup clean, pretending I could taste the strawberry flavor in it.

I turned my gaze toward the roaring television that my Lolo was so engrossed in. He was on the edge of his seat as Manny Pacquiao threw a punch.

“Tua ra! Sige sumbaga! Humana!” He shouted and cheered, while his face was just inches away from the screen and no one could ever bother him.

Meanwhile, there was my Lola, sitting in her favorite chair while combing her short, wavy hair. She has a  fair complexion, narrow eyes, round face, red colored nails, and what caught my attention most, was her gleaming gold and silver jewelries.

“Ma, kanak da yaang singsing mo kay masigahay,” I pleaded with a sweet smile but she was not moved by it.

Instead, she pulled out her jewelry box and got a fancy looking silver necklace with a red stone pendant.

“Kani na imo, dayai kini ha hatag dako kanmo.”

It was the fanciest thing I had that time, so I had it with pride and charm. I wore it in school, making sure my classmates will notice it and I could have the reaction I want to hear. But, I was getting conscious every time someone noticed it. 

Continue reading The Red Stone Pendant

This is where I grieve you,

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

on the ascent, Manila in sight
filtered through cabin windows, a city alight

and i am alone. a row to myself, i wonder
is it normal, the emptiness

in night flights, the silence in sleep,
the permanence in loss, the quiet

within, the numbness
i anticipate upon arrival.

i welcome unpredictable
rain, hope against turbulence, i remember—

remember, i carry like luggage
every conversation, sermon, whisper

i grew up with, in reluctance, your words
rooted in my silence, in my leaving.

i anticipate upon descent
grief lost in the air, perhaps

only in transit, can i hold the sadness
in childhood, the sadness

within, the loss
i now carry like luggage

every candle, flower, prayer
i offered, in reluctance, my words

silent, i can only remember.
in my leaving again, i welcome your memory.

Cheska Cortejos was born and raised in Cagayan de Oro City. She graduated with a BA in Creative Writing from the University of the Philippines Diliman. She has been a member of Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro (NAGMAC) since 2019.

The Weight of Air

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

For Nanay Lucing

Your chair rests hollow,
like the loosened edge
of an old woolen shawl
frayed with forgotten prayers,
spun from a thread
you weave and pull,
packed with promises.

A quiet tear dampens this blue mat
where your light still lingers.
A slow drift of dust hung in the hallway
marks another year without you.

The silence remembers
how you kept the peace—
the steady rustle of your rosary beads,
the sharp, sweet scent
of camphor and dried liniment,
the low kettle whistling over morning coffee,
and the patient rhythm of your hands
smoothing out the wrinkles
of our folded lives.

How do seasons turn
without your knowing,
as you drift toward other fields
to tend a garden of starlight
for our collective peace?

How many silences will pass in this room
before grief stops feeling
like an open doorway?

I wonder whose hands will reach
to hold my shadow
when the dark begins to break—
as I breathe these heavy verses
into the quiet air.

Gino holds a Bachelor’s degree from Xavier University Ateneo de Cagayan. He was a fellow of the 2010 Davao Writers Workshop and the 2015 Cornelio Faigao Writers Workshop.

Tartanilya Travails

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

He is no Sleipnir, gifted with speed
And his master, no Odin either.
Mortal man and an even more mortal beast
Plying the concrete though narrow Badelles Street
Stopping by every now and then
To pick up pasaheros
Who climb up the tartanilya to sit behind his master
On the box seat, back hunched from the burdens of life,
On one hand a whip that is hardly used.
An old woman struggles to climb up carrying her basket
Filled with vegetables and who knows what;
A young girl, in a graduation regalia, wearing high heels
Nearly missing the step-plate; her mother behind her,
Sweaty clothes sticking to her skin, make-up melting on her face.
He is no Sleipnir, and his master no Odin either.
They are not traveling by sea or sky nor to the underworld,
Just through the concrete though narrow Badelles Street,
Bearing the burden of the burdened.

Therese Padilla Abonales is a native of Iligan City in Northern Mindanao. Her stories have appeared in Mindanao Harvest, the now-defunct Panorama of Manila Bulletin, and NCCA’s Mantala Literary Journal. She was a fellow of the 28th UP National Writers Workshop in Davao, the 4th Iligan National Writers Workshop, and a senior writing fellow in the 29th Iligan National Writers Workshop.

Bag

Poetry by | September 7, 2026

Ito ay bag na aking dala sa eskwelahan
Saking hirap na mga balikat ito’y pasan
Mabigat man minsan na ito ay sakbitin
Mas mabigat ang liwanag saki’y binilin.

Sa loob ng bag na ito’y di lamang kagamitan
Bagkos pag-asang magdadala ng kaginhawaan
Pag-asang kalakip ay ang matayog na ekspektasyon
Akong kanilang itinaas upang siya ang mag-ahon

Ako raw ang pag-asa ng pamilya
Kasama ay ang bag na aking dala
Ako ang huling alas na inihain ng aming tahanan
Ang lalaban sa laro na tinatawag nilang kahirapan.

Ngunit ako’y natatakot rin
Pagkat labis nilang hangarin
Isang tungkuling di ko ninais tanggapin
Sa balikat ko’y tahimik na nakabitin.

Ngunit gaano man ito kabigat di ko ito bibitawan
Sa halip ito ay aking iingatan at pangangalagaan
Pagkat habang sinasakbit ko ito patungo sa paaralan
Siya namang hakbang ng pamilya ko palayo sa kahirapan.

Kent Nathan S. Mortilla is currently a Grade 12 student. He loves writing poems about his feelings and experiences as a form of self-expression. This poem was written during days when exhaustion and doubt weighed heavily on his heart.