Dakbayan sa Sabaw

Poetry by | December 22, 2025

Balbacua diri
Kabaw-hinalang ngadto
Mga giabog nga paisano
Paghigop ang gi-ari

Mao kini ang Dabaw
Dakbayan sa Sabaw

Lagpad nga dalan
Kapingis sa pag mantinir
Pirti pang laplap sa mga engineer
Dayong busina sa baratong borikat
Ngisi gamay, gakos sa asawa’g anak.

Kamot nga mangumot sa hanggaw
gahulma sa dakbayan sa sabaw.

Ang boang nga gatiniil,
gitiunan og pusil.
Ang buotan nga ikaw, imbis
magpalambo; magpatubo
susama nalang sa pulis.
Dayong human sa adlaw
pil-on na ang bughaw
‘nya diha sa unahan:
mantikaong sabaw.
Higop, amaw.
Ikaw gipakatawo sa Dabaw,
Ang Dakbayan sa Sabaw.
Ang oyok nga nahilis
sa ibabaw sa tubig nga kaniadto tin-aw
karon mas lami pa sa dagat
kay ang iyang kaparat
‘di ra gumikan sa asin
‘duna pa’y tunga sa kilong bitsin.

Mao na, pahong
padayon la’g higop
imong mata tabuni
sa gasebo nga yahong.
Bahala’g hunghongan kana og,
“hunong!”

Mao mani imong tuyo bitaw
muburot, mu-tiurok, ug malanag sa kalami
sa balbacua, bulalo, ug pares
nga ang kaledad di jud malalis

Mga bulawan sa Dabaw,
Ang Dakbayan sa Sabaw.

Kuda Bux (b. 1991) crawled out of the concrete spill of Talamban. He’s been running around aimlessly, chasing approximations of whatever art is—scraping together near-zero-budget productions under  Corner House Productions, feverishly dreaming up scrap videos, junk stories, and other peculiar accidents. These days, he rolls through the streets and mountains of Mindanao.

Learning an unfinished recipe for 蛋炒饭 (egg fried rice)

Poetry by | December 22, 2025

  1. Begin with the rice.
    Day-old, cold, waiting in the bowl.
    Grains cling to each other as I press them with my fingers.
    They never loosen the way yours did.
    Set it aside.
    We learned to wait for the small, stubborn hope
    that someone might still return
    after the burial.
  2. Rinse it gently.
    Run your fingers through water.
    The water clouds.
    It smells faintly of the kitchen you left behind.
    Swirl. Lift. Swirl again.
    The motion should be ordinary, but my arms ache.
    There is no instruction for how long this takes.
    The grains never remember your hands.
    The water never clears. 
  3. Crack the eggs.
    Beat them slowly, coax them together.
    Add garlic, sliced thin.
    Add ginger.
    Scrape the memory from the edge of the knife.
    Spring onions. Soy sauce.
    There is no measure, no recipe, no certainty.
    Your hands knew.
    Mine only tremble.
    I whisper your name over and over
    and still nothing answers. 
  4. Heat the wok.
    Oil shimmers and waits.
    I pour it too fast.
    The flame jumps.
    The metal looks at me with patience I do not deserve.
    I want to be steady, useful,
    to hold something without breaking.
    Ahma, I want to move like you moved,
    to meet heat without fear, to meet life without trembling.
  5. Pour the eggs.
    Fold them gently against the pan.
    Lift. Push. Stir.
    They break anyway.
    Add the rice.
    Fold it in, separate the grains.
    Add everything else.
    Push and fold and lift.
    The spoon clangs against the pan.
    It is loud enough to remind me
    I am learning in the dark.
    Ahma, I want your hand over mine,
    even for a second,
    to guide me on what I do not know how to do.
  6. Taste.
    It is warm. Only warm.
    It fills the stomach but not the room.
    The color you coaxed from white things
    does not come.
    It stays muted, shy, unfinished.
    I swallow anyway.
  7. Fold, stir, fold again.
    My arms ache. My hands fail.
    Everything responds to heat except the one who taught me.
    This kitchen knows.
    The wok knows.
    The rice knows.
    I still refuse to know.
  8. Ahma, if you can hear me,
    Come back long enough to teach me
    what Mama refused to learn.
    Come back so my hands can finally be good
    for something that matters.
    Come back so this recipe
    does not end here,
    so I do not have to learn alone.
    Come back so this rice finally knows
    what it was meant to become.

Alyssa Ilaguison is a media producer and, at times, a writer, from Davao. Her works have appeared in MindaNews, Sunstar Davao, and Dagmay.

Make a Wish

Nonfiction by | December 15, 2025

When my nephew Jeff turned eight, I saw what a grand celebration looked like through his eyes. We had two kilos of grilled tilapia, a pack of his favorite hot dogs, a loaf of bread, three bottles of Coke, and a 350-peso bento chocolate cake that made him smile all night long. But most importantly, we had Uton bolok from our neighbor, literally, rotten fish. This was all his mother could afford while working away in Manila.

When she called that evening, Jeff’s first words were about the Uton bolok. He bragged about it because it was his mother’s favorite. He talked about his birthday, how happy he was, and his visitors, who were all his cousins. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was sweet how he could easily take pride in the simplest things. My siblings and I grew up like that, too, never with the luxury of asking for more. Gratitude, I suppose, was something we learned early; we were told to be thankful, and we understood what it meant to have just enough.

Growing up in the rural side of town, I don’t remember craving anything fancy. Food was just something to fill the stomach and keep us going. But when I left for college, my world widened. I wanted to taste, see, and know more about what life was like beyond our small Kohu back home. 

Kohu is a Tboli word for kitchen, and ours was special. It stood outside our house, with no door and one side completely open. Anyone could come and go. Most of our neighbors had theirs the same way, which made sharing easy. If smoke wasn’t rising from a family’s Kohu, it meant they hadn’t cooked their meals yet, so someone nearby would always send food over. Looking back, maybe that’s why life felt lighter. Continue reading Make a Wish

Kalaw Street

Poetry by | December 15, 2025

I went back to this place in Tangub,
 where I could still hear the beeping of tricycles,
 smell the smoke from the Libot Tangub vehicles,
 and watch the golden shower leaves brush gently along the streets.

The place is still the same — simply home.
 Nothing has changed, except for Manong selling malunggay pandesal
 And the tarpaulins on the street corners printed with Bible verses.

As I walked, I found myself standing before a familiar name — “Kalaw Street”.
 Memories came rushing in like lightning.
 I remembered everything that happened here, 

the laughter and the tears we shared,
 the one piece of “kwek-kwek” we bought from Kuya Suki,
 the five-peso buko juice from Manong George.

It has been eleven years since I last came here — nothing has changed.
 It is still the old street that holds the memory of you — of us.

This street witnessed the crash of your red Yamaha motorcycle.
 the place where your body fell to the ground,
 and where your blood was scattered across the road.

It was on Kalaw Street where I last held you in my arms,
 and looked into your eyes —
 before you said goodbye.

Aaron Diapana is a Literature instructor from Northwestern Mindanao State College of Science and Technology. He considers writing nonfiction, poetry, and essays in his leisure time.

Halok Wanpipte

Poetry by | December 15, 2025

Kapila gipasundayag sa salida og sonata sa radyo—
ang tawo dili buot mag-inusara,
sama sa tihilap ug maya nga mobayaw sa lagyong kahumayan,
makatagbo og pares nga makigdalit:
sa pagbukot og habol, sa kabugnawon sa kagabhion,
sa pagpamainit og tabliya sa sayo sa kabuntagon,
sa panag-uban, sa pagpaulipon, sa pagkamalipayon.

Apan subo pamalandungon:
basta bayot o tomboy, taman ra’g huna-huna og damgo.
Kinahanglan kwartaan,
kinahanglan nindot ang lawas,
kinahanglan mahal ang mga butang.
Ako nga uyamot pa sa pit-os, niundang na’g damgo—
kay wala’y tinuod nga mohigugma, ako nakaamgo.

Hangtod nga niabot siya sa akong kinabuhi—
lagom pero baruganan,
pobre pero nag-uros-uros ang kakugi,
di himansinon pero hitsuraan,
sama sa libro nga nibag-o sa akong tinoohan mahitungod sa gugma.
Wa nako damha, nga ako iyang giilad og gipangwartaan ra.

Sakit, pero nganong wa nako tagda ang iyang mga ‘pero’?
Sakit, pero di angay katingalahan.
Sakit, pero akong sala kay akong gitugyan, bisan kabalo na daan.
Wanpipte, kung halok.
Tripipte, kung hikap.
Paybpipte, kung tibuok lawas.
Pero kung gugmang tinuoray,
nganong naay presyohay?

Carlos Martin Benanwa is an Iliganon writer whose work revolves around gender, Indigenous lives, memory, and the quiet violences that shape everyday life. Grounded in the landscapes of Northern Mindanao, his writing reveals how survival, tenderness, and identity are intricately connected in the stories of the communities he calls home.

Surely, The Cosmos Was Made By Someone

Poetry by | December 15, 2025

I write all my marrow-deep desires
in a tender list, cast it into
a prayer, a super-condensed,
nuclear hope, ready
to welcome me—once truly
answered—as a surprise,
in a gentle, slow gust,
an anti-explosion, in a big
crunch, towards the singularity,
that is me, like a hug, in the warping
of matter around the Maker’s cosmic
finger as They tap
on the wishes that I held
inside my clasped palms,
like the first nucleus, to reveal
the grandest evanescence,
that is
this life.

James Bryan Galagate Delgado is a fourth-year Medical Biology student at Mapúa Malayan Colleges Mindanao. He is also a fellow of the 2018 ADDU Summer Writers Workshop and the 2025 Davao Writers Workshop.

Weight of Small Dreams

Nonfiction by | December 8, 2025

“What’s your dream in life?” I started my class this morning with a simple question, the kind you throw lightly into a sleepy classroom.

I didn’t expect much. Maybe a few shy smiles, a few half-formed answers, and then we’d move on to the actual lesson. But sometimes, the simplest questions carry more weight than we anticipate.

The first hand shot up quickly, certain and confident. “Gusto ko makasakay ug airplane, Ma’am!” (I want to fly in an airplane, Ma’am!).

Another student nodded excitedly in agreement. Their enthusiasm was contagious.  Laughing, I also admitted that I hadn’t flown in an airplane yet, either.

It made us laugh. Three people on the ground pretending, for a moment, that we could soon ride that man-controlled big bird in the sky.

I thought about how wonderful it was to see them imagine something so free, weightless, and untethered. Continue reading Weight of Small Dreams

Jokes You Can Use When You Have A Dead Father

Poetry by | December 8, 2025

  1. Have you seen my dad? I haven’t either, ever since he followed the light.
  2. My dad always preached about Jesus when I was young. He kept telling stories about the goodness of that son of God. He was dying to be with him. So, once the two of them met, he never came back.
  3. I have been taller than my father since I was 11 years old. He didn’t have a condition that restricted him from growing; he was just six feet under the ground. 
  4. I haven’t been able to contact my father lately. Perhaps they ban phones in heaven.
  5. My old man would not be proud of who I am today. But I don’t mind. What is he going to do, rise from his grave? 

When your audience hesitates to let out a laugh or even a chuckle, as if you can pluck the expression of pity from their faces, you can throw these lines to dispel the tension in the air: 

  1. Don’t feel bad. 
  2. You can find it funny. 
  3. It doesn’t bother me anymore. 
  4. Anyway, he was gone longer than the time we shared together.
  5. My dad will not haunt you. He doesn’t even visit me in my dreams. 

Laurehl Onyx B. Cabiles is a writer from Cotabato, Province. He has been a fellow of the Sox Writer’s Workshop (2023), NAGMAC-YWS (2024), and Ateneo de Davao Summer Writers Workshop (2024), and Davao Writers Workshop (2025).