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Unang gabi sa huling sandali
Nag-aagaw ang ilaw at dilim
Katahimika'y namamayani.

Nakatayo sa gilid ng bangin
Isang hakbang tungo sa libingan
Nakapikit ngunit nakatingin.

Sumilip ang buwan sa kalangitan
Hudyat ng katapusan ng duyog
Tuluyang bumukas ang pintuan.

Lumiyab ang bawat alikabok
Mga alitaptap na dumadapo
Sa bawat sugat nangingimasok.

Buhok ay nagsimulang lumago
Sabay sa pag-ikli ng hininga
Nagpupumiglas sa bawat pulso.

Isang bulaklak na bumubuka
Dugo at ginto ang tanging dilig
Usbong sa hungkag at tuyong lupa.

Buto at laman ay nanginginig
Balat ay nagsimulang uminit
Halik ng apoy sa pulang tubig.

Umuungol sa bawat pagpunit
Likuran na may bagong pasanin
Ngipin na sukdulang nagngangalit.

Nakalutang sa payak na hangin
Kamay ang nagsisilbing kandila
Maglalakbay sa tulay na itim.

Isang sulyap bago kumawala
Ibinuka ang pakpak na pilak
Huling yugto ng pakikidigma.
11 November 2018

© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.
natalie Nov 2013
Like bladed birds of steel they glide and wing,
Across the ice without any dismay,
Fearing no hard body check or cold swing.

They circle the net in frozen ballet,
Flitting about like puck-handling mice,
Tenacity drips from each ounce of their play.

They dazzle with grace all over the ice,
With a jump, a spin, and a pirouette,
Always ready to pay a high price.

They give it all ‘till they’re soaked through with sweat.
We watch with joy from our perch high above.
Our yells, their chirping—it’s quite a duet!

These men change the game with the drop of a glove,
And so, bloodthirsty, we give them our love.
Robert C Howard Aug 2013
(Scene by the brook)*                                

He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
    and walked alone by its crystal stream
        welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.

Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
    a distant, cool and forbidding stage
        where few would embrace a pastoral dream.

He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
    with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
        (though fare rich enough for any age) .                

He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
    and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
        all "choired" together by his masterful art.

At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
    and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'

*July, 2006
Chuck Jan 2013
O' elder Oak, how thou growest so old?
What ancient yarns thou could spin from each limb.
Wars, drought, what visions thine gray bark doth hold.

Ole Pennsylvanian wood, were thou sewn by him
Whose king's debt owed, founded this sovereign land.
Thine story hath gravid weight, not a tale told grim.

As a youth, thou were a knight's castle grand
Or a dark dragon with fiery breath.
High in thee boughs, thy mastered the farmland.

As years passed and our kinship reached its breadth,
Thy cannot help but to lament the time
That thou spied on thy joyous play. Now thy death
Looms long. To Heaven thine branches doth climb.
This is my first Terza rima. I chose to write about an ole friend in an ole form of English.  Thanks for reading. Please give constructive criticism.
LD Goodwin Mar 2013
Let us tell you of our adventure, they said.
Of war and all its horrors we've seen.
Dying dough boys screamed and moaned as they bled.

And the flash of mortar fire would glean,
displaying his numbers on our surface,
and the terracotta blood and drab green.

We are just a playbill for Satan's circus,
with no part lest our roll is through,
or did not perish in his wicked furnace.

And now, retired, no more to do.
But handed down to next of kin
til now I tell this story to you.

We are not just made of tin,
so many tales lay deep within.
Harrogate, TN  March 2013
A few years ago my Aunt gave me my Grandfather's WWI dogtags, ......they started speaking to me.
v V v Sep 2010
The world awakes when light at dawn shines
             and wrinkled blankets greet the coming day,
                   then hazy colors dance and form in lines,
                        a surging mass that moves as if to say,
  “We’re here but can’t you see we’re not the same?”
                          A sea of lonely souls in deep dismay
                that rise from lovers’ beds in sleepy shame
         to dance the dance of their redundant pain
They pray the world might someday know their name
           while working jobs they hate for money’s gain.
                      So sad that in this world the lonely pine
                            in morning traffic looking for a lane,
                           to set themselves apart and so define
                        their lives by lucky breaks, as if divine.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2015
Love is green
Life to spark life
From rooms unseen

Ever wide eyed
Song of our children
Strong as the tide

Hope for the risen
Making all new
Accepting the given

Color of youth
Branches to vine
Green is the truth

Truth is divine
Marieta Maglas Nov 2012
I pray although it's the end of the time,
The angel wakes up to flutter his wings.
Fluffing up the cloud's pillow, he's sublime.

Snowflakes are the angel's feathers, like springs.
They dance with the wind of change, in despair.
The sky glows pinkly in the shades of things.
We're like icy trees screaming at the air,
With icy leaves and crystal hearts, we dream
The crystals of wept tears in our prayer.
Within sky vastness is our bleeding scream,
Digging early graves in the war of crime,
While our thread of love weaves wounds for life's gleam.
I pray although it's the end of the time,
Fluffing up the cloud's pillow, he's sublime.

— The End —