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kingjay Jan 2020
Sa kanyang himig ako'y nahahalina
Magkasintunog ng mga ibong malaya
Umiindayog sa puso ko't pagsinta
Misteryosong dilag, sino s'ya talaga?

Sa tuwing napapanood 'y anong ganda
Mata'y matimyas na tala sa umaga
Tanglaw sa daigdig na puno ng hiwaga
Liwanag sa bukang liwayway 't hiraya

Manipis ang labing kakulay 'y makopa
Malamyos ang tunog ng bawat salita
Halik ng anghel ang dapyo ng hininga
Halimuyak ay buhay, di nawawala

Kahit panlalaki ang gayak at porma
Na kanyang ginampanan sa prima donna
Munting lawiswis na lupaypay 't mahina
Nang lumaki'y diwata sa encantadia

Ang isip ko ay kinabig 't kinawawa
Ginapos nang mahigpit ng kanyang drama
Madalas ay namumugto ang mga mata
Kapag nasisilayan s'yang lumuluha

Huwag sana pabugso bugso't pabigla
Ang tibo niyang pangungusap at banta
Sapagkat nababagha't natutulala
Damdami'y pinamumugaran ng kaba

Sa kumpas ng mga kamay ay humahanga
Isang paraluman na ang kiyas 'y siga
Hudlum sa kanto na mahal ang pamilya
Pinakamatapang na lahing Claveria

Sa likod ng pagganap ano nga ba s'ya?
Sapantaha ko ay magalang na bata
Binibini at dalagang Filipina
May puring Perlas ng Silangan ng Asya

Lingid sa kamalayan nang napahanga
Sa kanyang angking galing bilang artista
Dagdag pa ang sayaw n'yang mala-prinsesa
Sa makabagong tinikling, siya'y reyna

Araw 'y nakahilig sa katanyagan n'ya
Harap 'y pangarap na sinasalubong pa
Hiyas s'ya sa mundo na walang kapara,
Kumikinang at nagbibigay pag-asa
Where Shelter Sep 2017

for all the Ella's of the world,
who wonder
"what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun."


one day when you arrive,
visiting, at my isle,
of Where Shelter,
(with signed parental permission slip),
resting upon weathered worn, Adirondack non-slip covered thrones,
in the official Poetry Nook,
a seashell throw from bay and dock, where the seagulls
thrive and dive, in between pooping, pollinating, and
rest up after day trip visiting the town dump

together we will write a poem about
what the seagulls talk about all day long

having employed them long time as co-conspirators,
editors and a test audience (assayers of my essays),
sadly must report they
occupy themselves in mostly matters culinary,
local gossip of my neighbors and other avian interlopers
(geese and osprey)

hoping this doesn't disappoint,
but know this,
it was the sand, the breeze, the trees,
the moon and setting sun, the waving waters,
animals of all kinds,
that together, taking years,
taught me to write like this:


the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its morning glory reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature

recall that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
its childlike insistence,
while stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world, insistent,

"write of me, attention must be paid!"

the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection

a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow tonight will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance

in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining  the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure conception

my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now,
suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to la vie en rose,
our wine glasses, ****** the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling, tippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice

to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of  inviting,
dying rays of setting,
answering the question, at long last,
a finale,

here is shelter!


so be quietly patient and never
write in regret,
for you are but sixteen years old,
and could teach to this old grandpa,
(who, by the by, has an Ella-all-his-own that is
of your proximate age,)

how to write
with the simple grace,
and the fresh wisdom,
of being
sixteen years young again

f r e e l y.
all alone on the evening beach. able to take in the moment alone.
slowly falling back into the sand. as if I'm trying to sink and hide into it. grabbing the sand in my hands and counting each grain because I have all the time in the world.
  letting the ocean crash unto the shore, slipping me it's deepest secret. making me laugh as the Novembers chilling air plays with my hair, trying to convince me it's secrets are much more scandalous than the waters.
  wondering what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun.
  I stand back to run freely, away from my daring problems. as I run, the wind whips my face, blowing my hair back. making me feel the need to let my arms back.
Shivani Lalan Apr 2019
hello, you -
tucked in soft covers,
your head on fluffy pillows,
your name in the prayers of lovers,
your light dancing in willows,

you can't see it,
but you paint the sky
every night in lush silver.

you can't see it,
but every lonely eye
every solitary sigh
looks to you for comfort.

blue moon,
your light cups its fingers
around so many sullen chins,
you, a night vision,
dance on so many fiery skins.
blue moon,
you're making a joke of distance,
you're making night blossoms bloom.

blue moon,
now we're no longer alone.
the original is by sinatra, but then ella fitz did a version, so obviously that is my favourite.
Mateo Mar 2016
A butterfly floats,
Among flowers of Spring.
Her crib lays empty.
~M. Pierce
A Haiku by Matthew Pierce
Borges Jun 2015
Ella y Ello,
Yo y ser o ser y yo,
Saber y Decir,
Los malos o Los Libros mal pensados,
Las palmas o las piernas siluetadas,
Saber Ver o Ver sin saber,
Problema o Mas querer.

Ojos o lagartijas esperándo el sol,
Nervios o espejismos,
Secuencia rota, o inesperada,
Idioma de locos o acciones en estaciones de tren.

Querer o mas bien sanar,
Los mato o un chiste barato,
niñas anunciando o gatos callados,
No lo tomes o date un baño con piedra puma,
Podrías enseñarme o
Lo que te queda.
Land Raccoon Jan 2015
Anoche lloré mientras te recodaba
Y recordé las noches que pasamos juntos
En las que no tenía que atraer al gato, que ya bastante me odia, hasta mis pies para no tener frío.
Anoche recordé también la noche en que dijiste que te irías para siempre y lloré desconsolado.
Luego vinieron a mis ojos las lágrimas de aquella otra en la que regresaste,
en la que te ayudé a cargar tus maletas,
en la que juntos acomodamos mi espacio que se convirtió en nuestro
y las palabras dulces que dijimos optimistas sobre el futuro.
No pude detenerme hasta recordar todas las noches que despiertos o dormidos pasé tranquilo a tu lado,
en las que reímos,
en las que bailamos,
en las que gozamos,
en las que nos conocimos y reencontramos.
Las noches en las que te besé,
ésas fueron las mejores por sobre todas.  
Y al final me quebré porque esta noche,
como las que sigue, estoy solo.
Y me quedo repasando todos esos recuerdos y lloro,
te juro que lloro.  
Pero has de saber que entre lágrimas se escuchan también risas,
porqué si hay algo que me hace enteramente feliz,
es amarte,
es recordarte.
Astrid Ember Jan 2015
Ella Bella
She's like this great gentle creature, but she could still rip you apart with her words if you ****** her off. Love you Ells. <3
anmey Sep 2014
I am from piano keys
from steel strings and sticky wood.
I am from the sheet music under the stairs.
(Crumbled, torn,
it felt like old age.)
I am from the vinyl shelf,
The stack of cassettes
whose voices I remember more clearly
than my own.

I’m from van Gogh and Klimt,
from paint spills and ink stains.

I’m from sketchbook enthusiasts
and color pencil hoarders,
from More contrast! and Less lines!
I’m from stacks of canvas
with pastel faces
and a charcoal line to connect them all.

I’m from Grandpa’s radio and Grandma’s paint set,
vanilla melodies and citrus colors.
From my sister’s hands over my own
on the keys,
on the brushes with bent handles.

Between my fingertips are a
slew of eighth notes,
an abundance of contoured figures
to slip in my mind.
I am from these things—
painted and composed through—
a casualty of family art.
This was an assignment for English class. Our teacher had us emulate the style of George Ella Lyon in her poem "Where I'm From".
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