Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
bryan-amerilaPoems
How old I was I can’t remember well. But too old for a vivid remembrance, of pain for me, and death for you. Whiteness of fur spoke of purity, blood painted whiteness, Red-- rusted beatings you bore, Whimpering, wriggling your body tied on that rope, hanging on that “santol” tree, bearing witness, wounding your skin, In agony, you were wrestling with metals, they folded, they bowed, clasped to your neck, the rust. Hide! said my Mama. Don’t look, she added. Hide I did and look I did. In-between those bamboo slats, I saw: the whiteness of your body; blood painted the whiteness, red, like the rust. Sweating. On that bamboo stick I held, I gripped my hands also brown, like the lining on your neck. Tears unshed, sealing my lips. Like boiling water, trapped on that *** that these brutes had prepared scalding your skin, Dogs fed on dog, these brutes were singing in worship of “Tanduay”, a bottle,  their god. Drumbeats wanting, but laugh,  and laugh they did. Like a good master they called you, Azucena, an innocent girl. Voice lilting, luring you to your death, Azucena... not the provincial bus, that will transport you to your grave, Azucena... not the white “liliums” that abound the heaven, or your grave. But a name, a noun, to feed their protruding stomachs, stinking, to wash their rotten soul, perhaps. Azucena, Asocena, But that’s not your name.
0
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
A Song of Grief to a Dead Dog of My Childhood
How old I was I can’t remember well. But too old for a vivid remembrance, of pain for me, and death for you. Whiteness of fur spoke of purity, blood painted whiteness, Red-- rusted beatings you bore, Whimpering, wriggling your body tied on that rope, hanging on that “santol” tree, bearing witness, wounding your skin, In agony, you were wrestling with metals, they folded, they bowed, clasped to your neck, the rust. Hide! said my Mama. Don’t look, she added. Hide I did and look I did. In-between those bamboo slats, I saw: the whiteness of your body; blood painted the whiteness, red, like the rust. Sweating. On that bamboo stick I held, I gripped my hands also brown, like the lining on your neck. Tears unshed, sealing my lips. Like boiling water, trapped on that *** that these brutes had prepared scalding your skin, Dogs fed on dog, these brutes were singing in worship of “Tanduay”, a bottle,  their god. Drumbeats wanting, but laugh,  and laugh they did. Like a good master they called you, Azucena, an innocent girl. Voice lilting, luring you to your death, Azucena... not the provincial bus, that will transport you to your grave, Azucena... not the white “liliums” that abound the heaven, or your grave. But a name, a noun, to feed their protruding stomachs, stinking, to wash their rotten soul, perhaps. Azucena, Asocena, But that’s not your name.
Note: Asocena is a dish primarily consisting of dog meat. Also, "Necklace" was the name of my dog.
#poem#poetry#animal#cruelty
bryan-amerila
Written by
bryan-amerila
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem