Poetry by Orlando Sayman Jr. | February 3, 2008
they shun him just because
his hair is golden like the sun
skin painted with bright hues
like the sky scent reminiscent
of the earth’s elements
they close their ears on his songs
the silent and sad sea melodies
his music a sound of the breeze
sweeping through deaf streets
each drumbeat a heavy knock
on a door swiftly shut behind him
Continue reading Badjao
Poetry by Allen Samsuya | February 3, 2008
I wish love were just like instant noodles –
that it came with its flavor written on its pack—
sweet or spicy,
nothing too strange for the tongue;
that it came with instructions:
Cook in briskly boiling water for three minutes.
Mix special seasoning of secrets and soy sauce into a paste.
Drain noodles of unnecessary water. Mix well with the prepared paste.
ENJOY.
That it could be consumed,
whether a little half- or over- cooked,
‘til hunger is no more;
that it would warn
every starving boy and girl
when it will expire.
Poetry by Lyda May Sual | January 27, 2008
Tonight’s no night for stories and poems
The moon’s fair, witches are out leaping
from eaves to twigs
I paced about; heard them sing
“Come catch the moon about to fall.”
Nonfiction by Ram Botero | January 27, 2008
I have been gay since I was five. Playing with toy guns or miniature race cars were never my game. Instead, I fancied baby dolls and their flamboyant dresses and silky, curly locks. I considered them alive—my little friends and fairy godmothers with whom I shared my innermost desires.
But my Mama had a great distaste for watching me play with my little girly playmates and would pinch me hard to restore my male consciousness. After all, dolls are for girls and I was meant to play with less delicate things. To get back to my pink world, I decided to play with my dolls in a place where I thought we could be protected—behind the bushes in front of Mama Mary’s grotto in our backyard. Like the mists of Avalon, the bushes concealed us from the great perils of time and my mother’s disapproval. We played roles, had tea parties, and fairy dances. But our favorite musical act was Sister Act 1’s “I Will Follow Him,” in which the fake nun Whoopi Goldberg infected the world with happiness by reworking a boring church hymn into great song-and-dance number. It is the song that would best define my gay childhood. It carried me to beautiful heights of happiness and divinity.
Fiction by Gabriel Millado | January 27, 2008
From beneath the ground, across the leaves, up and down a wall, and into the cookie jar – the ants traveled, carrying crumbs of cookies back to their colony. Now and then, they would stop by and greet each other by brushing their antennas and then carried on with their merry hauling.
From far away – on the adjacent floor – the ant Antonino watched his fellow workers with a great deal of confusion and frustration.
Antonino had found a shortcut. By coming out of the edge of the colony, and passing through a crack on the wall, he could come out just beside the cookie jar. It would cut the length of traveling to less than half! His problem, however, was that the other ants did not want to take this route.
Hot air filtering through the
window screen eddies
around me as I sit with you
sometimes I expect to see a little smoke
or even an angry fire–feel compelled to
toss whatever object to feed the flames.
Continue reading On a Day Like This
this little origami life
lies on the floor with torn wings
what happened to days meant only
for kissing daisies while standing on pointed toes
was it in my absorption in the bright colors
that time seemed to have stopped and jumped simultaneously?
perhaps i should start counting and recounting petals
the way others do with sheep to dream
isn’t it what you wanted anyway
a math i can never understand
where you and i amount to a ripening womb
whose fruit is neither yours nor mine
sweet nectar ignorant of parched throats of those
whose heads are hanging and have browned–
from thirst of love and truth and life;
innocent and uncorrupted by all that we are
Your flesh is sweet
and tender
it melts
on my tongue
a raincloud on
a sunny day
consumed
by a hungry blue-ness
you inhale water
as i do air
and speak in bubbles
that i drown
in my language
to touch your words,
which i will never know.
My catch for the day
fresh from the lake
tomorrow again
another you.