Eternal Envy
Eternal Envy
1 day ago

Ngayon ko nalang ulit naramdaman yung sakit
Ngayon ko nalang ulit naranasan na umiyak
Ngayon ko nalang ulit nagawa na umasa

Ngayon nalang ulit ako nag mahal ng ganito
Ngayon nalang ulit ako nag mahal ng ganito katindi
Ngayon ko nalang ulit to naramdaman

Ngayon nalang ulit ako nagpaka tanga
Ngayon nalang ulit ako nagpaka lasing
Ngayon nalang ulit ako nagpaka baliw

Ngayon nalang ulit ako sumayaw sa kanta ng pag-ibig na walang himig
Ngayon nalang nalang ulit ako nalunod sa dagat ng pag ibig na wala namang tubig
Ngayon nalang ulit ako napa hinto sa pagtakbo habang umaandar ang oras

Ngayon nalang ulit ako umasa na merong tayo
Ngayon nalang ulit ako nasaktan ng ganito
Ngayon nalang ulit....

1:23 am

No need for extra notes.
Kitty Ting
Kitty Ting
1 day ago

is still successfully regulating his bowel movements, and there's nothing wrong with that. There will be more on this tomorrow. There are clues to his mastery over elimination in his mega-hit songs “Baby, I'm Amazed,” “Someone's Knocking on the Door” and “The Crap Song.”

Abby Elbambo
Abby Elbambo
1 day ago

Minsan mong itinanong sa akin kung ilan na ang aking minahal
Na tila ba ang bilang na pilit ibinubunyag ang parehong bilang na ibabawas sa kabuuan ng aking pagsinta
Mahal, okay lang; ikaw ay aking naiintindihan
Alam ko kung paano ang paulit-ulit na pananakit at pagkabigo sa digmaan ng pag-ibig ay walang iniwan kung ‘di abo ng pag-aalinlangan at pagkukumpara sa mga bagong kasintahang ipinalit sayo
Alam ko ang lasa ng pait na sumasalubong sa iyo sa bawat paghinga
Kung kaya’t nung iyong tinanong ay walang magawa kung hindi ika’y pagmasdan Titigan ang bakanteng mga matang wala nang mailuluha
Mga kamay na pagod na kabubuhat
Mga labi na wala nang ibang alam bigkasin kung hindi “patawad”kahit hindi alam kung para saan
Wala akong magawa kung hindi ika’y pagmasdan
Dahil alam kong hindi mo na naririnig ang anumang salita maliban kung ito’y “paalam”
Kaya hayaan mong ipadaan ko na lamang sa pagyakap ng hangin at pagbati ng mga bituin ang mga katagang isinusuka ng iyong mga tainga
Kasi mahal, mahal kita
At hindi ako titigil hanggang sa makita mo ang parehong taong tinatawag kong akin Hayaan mong punan ng umuumapaw kong pag-ibig ang natuyong lawa ng iyong pagmamahal
Pagmasdan mo kung paano pagsasama-samahin ng araw-araw na aking pagyakap ang pira-piraso mong puso na nagkalat
At alam kong pagod ka na kahihintay sa mga tunay na bagay kung kaya’t pinipili mo na lamang ang mga “pwede na”
Pero andito na ako,
At mahal, pangako, tapos na ang pag-aabang
Hindi lahat ng nagsasabing mahal kita ay nagsisinungaling

Minsan mong itinanong sa akin kung ilan na ang aking minahal Tinanong kita kung ilan na ang nanakit sayo
Sabi mo, isa
At saka binanggit ang sariling pangalan sabay sabi “tapos na”

A Filipino piece I wrote and performed for Doxa's event entitled "Head Over Heels"
11 hours ago

Sexually repressed!

1 day ago

Overwhelmed by your beauty
In awe of your passion
Melted by your smile
Fascinated with your thoughts
Smitten with your soul
Sight to behold
Watching the fire
That is your spirit dance
Eager to show you romance


#poem   #poetry   #life   #heart   #hope   #romance   #beauty   #thoughts   #soul   #you  


Hebrew calendar says Summer Sabbath,
the day of rest has, as scheduled...arrived

wryly, ironically, bitterly,
poet rhymingly thinking nowadays...survived

more apropos,
#even survived alive,
for therein is a concomitant, under-the-surface implication,
of the uncertainty of forecast  future,
for no matter how theoretically normalized and organized,
even a trip to a shopping mall...deadly

survive - a far, far bitter...but better fit

not sure of the why-well of my being here,
poem composing scheduled, always on this day of pause,
this week-ending demarcator of the who I am

I am among the many of little understanding,
who having garnered no solace nor rest,
that a seventh day supposedly, is purposed to beget,
for the world is in a bloody awful mess

with neither the rhyme or the reason,
the single breath I expirate, as proof of life,
is this season's perfect, sufficing hallmark,
symbolic of the reign of unceasing confusion that has left our minds
damaged and contused,
secretly selfishly thinking to oneself,
#my life matters

this Sabbath,  I speak German,
the language of my father and his father's,
all my ancestors, even unto the years of the Age of Enlightenment,
today, spoken in the ironic dialect of Munich

Am Morgen borning glorreiche
the morning borning glorious

poet seeks an answer, mission to permission,
to rightly explain
how he visions in unsightly confusion
how he divines loving in Munich's tribulations

sitting in the poet's nook, upon the ancient Adirondack chair,
nature listens to the poet discordant chords
of musical tears upon musical chairs,
wet-staining flesh

all around, the other noise makers gone quiet as well
for they are pityingly, eavesdrop listening for what happens next

The Chair speaks:

"this day,
I am happily,
made of wood,
my living cells
long dispatched,
so that I can no longer
weep in time
with my poet-occupant's
struggling lines,
verses upon the decomposing
of the worst of times,
though in compathy,
my silence, by and to him,
is gratefully unnoticed"

the poet  has no visitors this fine day,
none human or divine anyway,
but not alone

for a gaggle of old ones have early come,
from Rebecca's and his mother's Canada dispatched,
my regular geese guests southbound have returned for their
summer stopover,
but so early,
for the calendar must be telling lies,
it says these are the days of July,
so named  for all  to recall
another murdering assignation~assassination,
that of a fallen Caesar,

my summertime flying audience comes yearly to share the bounty
of this, my sheltering isle,
good guests who in payment for their use of our facilities,
honk Facebook  "likes" in appreciation
for every writ completedin the nookery

this year of fear,the geese are newly tasked,
seek to share and understand the world weariness
so strongly encountered in the roughened atmospheric conditions
newly facing all of us

everybody's needy for respite from the next

where next?

a plump audience of eleve on this grayed sunny day,
greet me, honking, feverishly, excitable honking, but!

auf Deutsch,
in German

full of questions about predatory man
which I fluently comprehend but of answers,
have none completed, none sealed as of yet,  
any writ by my hand to give away or
even keep

so when the temperature cooingly cools,
on their way further south, them,  it sends,
they will not be burdened with the empty baggage
of inexcusably and poorly manmade
naturalized, pasteurized, synthesized,
crap excuses

the poet's own reflection in the fast moving bay waters,
is not reflected,
these, no calm pond waters, but his own internal reflections,
beg him, explain this poem's entitlement,
this designation of confusion and its inflection,

confusion as something lovely?

no good answers do the witnessing waters or the winds sidebar provision,
the geese, the chair, all unfair,
only have similar quarreling questions for him to dare

foremost and direst first,
where is there loveliness in confusion the poems sees?

poet stands on the dock, as if in the dock,
noticed, the waters pause, the winds into silence, swept,
the gulls grounded, the geese aligned in rapt attention,
all to the poet, as jury, they steadfastly attend
to his creation,  this poem's titled curse,
an answer even barely adequate, some solution?

In Munich,  Nazism born and welcomed,
Dachau, the very first death camp,
sited a mere ten miles away

one could conceivably could demand that

this poet, this Jew, this could-be-Shylock,

having seen a pound of flesh extracted,
might accept this balancing as a compensation
of history's scales weighted by the concentrated demise
of millions of his very own flesh and faith

but he does not...

a nation takes in a million strangers and refugees,
not without peril costly,
visible now, these side servings of this risk,
that noble gestures so oft bring

what he feels, why he cries is for the

loveliness of forgiveness,

he unashamedly honest  borrows the words he confesses,

any innocent man's death diminishes him

now the winds kicks up, the waters refrosted frothy,
the gulls go airborne, the geese fly away,
searching for another poet to respirate, infatuate and inspire,
clearly, neither satisfied or enchanted with the one
presently available

only the aged Adirondack fair, his aged long time companion chair,
remains moved - but unmoving,
in the domaine of their unity, in the vineyard of
their conjoined, place of quiet contemplation

a woman observes tear stains upon his cheeks,
noticing them upon the chair's open arms now all-fallen,
tho a surface wood hardened,
the tearsare softly welcomed and storingly embraced,

the three,
the woman, the chair, the poet-me,
all as one, tearfully, no longer cry in vain,
having  found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings


July 23, 2016
Shelter Island

Dimitris Sarris
Dimitris Sarris
11 hours ago

A crown does not make someone a king.
The woman he loves and call his queen,
prays and stares from afar, for all the blood
and tears he will spill.
All the people he led and promised, craft a
crown for himself. No gold, no diamond
but pure silverlight.
All he survived and almost got him killed
made his spirit bend but never faltered,
for his wounds of honor are self inflicted.
Power did not corrupt him.
Well prepared to lure himself and pick a top.
Heart of a lion, a shrouded armor and a blooded crown,
he is the king...

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