The world is aging
It's years are increasing
Goodbye 2016
The year filled with
Doubts and bad choices
How can Britain exit?
How can America vote for trump?
How can Zambia re-elect Lungu?
Zuma and Rousseff are corrupt
Ali,Castro and King Adulyadej are dead
Is this not the Apocalypse of
The downfall of humanity
And good morals?
In a few days this world
Will be turning 2017 years old
On the first everybody will celebrate
But for the bad choices made
No body knows
What the year has for them
That's why I entitled
This poem untitled 2017.

I am your illness,
now pay attention to me,
I'm the reason you thrive,
I reside inside,
You're a taxi cab
and I'm your driver,
When they inquire about
your lack of sanity,
You can tell them I
drove you insane.

Thanks for letting everyone else
know my name,
Now my corners and crannies
are home to cobwebs of shame,
And I can't crawl out of any of them...
You are a cursed disaster,
nothing natural about you,
although,

You have the deepness of the ocean,
the warmth of the fire,
Deep planted roots of the earth,
and the breeze of the air,
a breeze of "I'm stronger than you",
a breeze of "I'm defeating you".

But I do not like having
my breath taken away
so suddenly,
I ponder my own existence;
Just smother me in dirt
so at least  I'll know
where the destruction
is coming from.

- Anti

Stars of tragedy.
Stories of their untimely demise
Told soberly in newsprint.

Stretching from Africa to Mexico,
Victims of natural disasters, crime,
And of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

What was here is lost.
What was warm is forever gone.
These envelopes that remain can be stamped with anyone’s address.

In the end, it’s all the same
Dust
That settles in the melting ***:

Empty shells littering beaches,
Dried-out husks,
Vacant houses.

Emptiness is the heaviest burden.
Longing is the toughest companion.

Indifference is a disaster.
Misunderstanding leaves the deepest scar.

Time doesn't heal.
Every opportunity compels you to feel.
Moving on are just words.
Without a proper end, you never truly depart.

Weakness becomes your mate.
Tears become your favourite nightmare.
Starts the search of a soul to lean on.
But compatibility isn't sth you just chance upon.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied.  It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

From The Complete Poems 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel.

The letters, they swirl.
     A word here,
                          a sentence there.
                                             They spin, and they spin.
Every so often,
               one is thrown.
                                                         ­          No placement,
                                    no rhythm,
just discarded.

              From a merry-go-round,
                                         it becomes a carousel.
Quickly advancing,
                                                      ­       into a tornado -
        the disaster thickens.
                                                       ­             Building, and building,
                                                      i­t continues to collect,
               as it tears a path.
No safe way to release,
                                                        ­    all that madness, has consumed.
                                            No beauty to be found,
            in the wake of the aftermath.
                                                      ­No way out of the destruction,
                                                    ­                                   that brews silently.

put your mask on, let's play pretend.
no smiles--no language.
only the glide of our hand, trembling--
like the way your mother body shakes when
you have been gone away too long from home.
whispers are allowed, but only secrets and morse
and the sweet after taste that you always tried to chase.
let us disappear into this play, immerse and submerge--titanic hitting an iceberg and sinking.
unstoppable, unredeemable. a tragedy.
but you and your soft lips and the slight rasp in your voice, the misery and the life and everything in between, made a storm that saves life.
so the theater applauds at the happy ending, love that saves the day.
completely ignoring, that the day only wants to end.

I.
Ang ganda ng panahon
Naalala ko pa noon,
Tumatakas ako sa pagtulog
Para lang makipaglaro tuwing hapon.

II.
Habang ginugunita ang nakalipas
Napatingin ako sa mga batang sa labas.
Habang sila'y naglalaro,
May mga patak na sa kanilang ulo'y tumutulo.

III.
Inangat ko ang aking ulo,
At pansin kong dumidilim ang mundo.
Tila may paparating na malakas na ulan,
Pero bakit naman ito'y biglaan?

IV.
Hindi magkanda-ugaga ang mga ale,
Sa pagkuha ng mga sinampay sa kable.
Kinukwestyon din nila ang kalangitan,
Bakit daw biglaan ang buhos ng ulan?

V.
Minuto lang nakalipas.
Haring araw ay muling nagpakita.
Nakakapikon ang sinag nitong dala,
Akala mo'y walang taong naperwisyo.

VI.
At bigla kong napagtanto
Para rin pala siyang biglaang ulan,
Dumating ka nalang bigla,
Kahit hindi naman kita kailangan.

VII.
Buti sana kung maganda ang dulot mo,
Sa nanahimik kong mundo.
Akala mo ba'y masaya ako sa'yo?
Pero ang totoo isa ka lamang hamak na perwisyo!