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Sy Lilang Aug 20
082021

Inuusig niya ang mga talang kumikinang
At tumatabon sa mga parating na bulalakaw.
Ang mga mata ng santelmo’y
Hindi na lagim ang ibinubuntong hininga
Kundi liwanag na humahabol
Sa bawat paghikab nang nakatihaya.

Hati-hati sila sa papag
Sa kung sino ang taya sa pagsilang ng araw
At sa pinintang dilim
Na hindi na bangunot ang pasalubong
Kundi pag-asang makapagsalu-salong muli
Sa hapag-kainan sa panibagong kalendaryo.

Habang nagniningas ang mga baga’y
Guguhitan nila ang pisngi ng bawat isa
Gamit ang bawat kwentong agimat ng kahapon.
At mapupuno ng halakhakan ang bawat kurtina
Na para bang sila’y nasa entablado
Ng sarili nilang istoryang sila rin ang nagbigay-buhay.

Ang bawat butil ng bigas
Ay katumbas ng pawis na alay nila sa palayan
Habang ang kirampot na tuyong walang sawsawan
Ay sining na makulay sa kanilang mga mata.

At sila’y magtatampisaw
Sa putikan ng kanilang hanapbuhay
At ni isa sa kanila’y ni minsa’y
Di ginambala na ang bukas ay magiging sakuna.

Isa, dalawa, tatlo..
Sunud-sunod ang mabibilis na butil
Na ni isa’y di mailagan.
Ang mga butil ng palay
Ay nagmistulang mga basura sa lansangan
Na nilalangaw at pinag-aagawan
Ng mga itim na ibong gahaman sa kapangyarihan.
The smell of fresh summer peaches fill the air,
a willow tree blows gently under a sunny abyss.
Silence fills the caterpillars cocoon and here I lay under the moon.
Hot night, soft breeze, smell of whiskey underneath the trees.
Crops are a grow'n' and the farmers fiddle sits on the hay.
Bonfires, beers and roasting fish on a smear rod snicket.
In the distance the scare crow stands tall and strong to protect the farmers land.
Animals squawk, hibernate and lock themselves in for a winter cold coming ahead.
Snowflakes fall, warm stew to be made by mom, morning comes, cup of chow time to relax with grandpa Jo.
Seasons pass and Spring is here at last,
muddy puddles, ***** feet, time to plant more growing seeds.
Life is beautiful, so is time, make it right and you shall find,
the touch, and warmth of every goodnight
Life's Seasons, Summer to Spring
Madelle Calayag Jan 2020
Maaga kong nilisan
ang lupang sakahan
Tinahak ang lugar
na maingay at magara,
ito pala ang Maynila.

‘di napigilan ng tirik na araw
ang aming pagkukumpulan.

Nagkamayan
kaming magkakabrad,
Simula na ng himagsikan.

Sariwa pa sa alala
kung pa’no
kami inagrabyado.
Itinulak.
Binugbog.
Tinakot.
Ginamitan ng dahas.

Sa plano ng gobyerno
kami pa rin pala ang talo.

Paano pa kami mabubuhay
kung wala ng lupang mapagtatamnan?

Akala ko sa bundok
o gubat lang may ahas
-yun ay sa akala ko lang pala.

Sa’ming magsasaka’y
Kumukulapot ang putik
Ngunit
sa inyong mga nakabarong,
animoy
walang duming nakabahid.

Sa inakala kong
tubig lang ang maaaring
idilig,
Dugo
pala nami’y pwede ring
pumatik.
Tila ba ang gobyerno’y namamanhid.

Nasaan na
ang pinangako nyong
libreng abono?

Ginawa nyo na bang pataba
sa mga bulsa nyo!?

Sa pagpunta
ng mga imperyalistang bansa,
Matutulugan
pa ba kaming mga dukha?
Makatatayo ako
sa aking pagkakadapa
Ngunit
ang bayan
kong nakalugmok ,
makakaahon pa kaya?
I wrote this four years ago for the Filipino farmers
Madelle Calayag Jan 2020
Pagmasdan mo ako.

Damhin mo ang magaspang kong palad na bagamat ay nangulubot ay syang humahalik sa putikang sakahang pinaghihirapan.

Titigan mo ang mga mata kong hapung-hapo sa pagtanggap sa bagsak-presyong palay na katumbas ng presyo ng isang tsitsirya.

Ngunit, pakikinggan mo ba sila sa sasabihin nilang wag kaming papamarisan?

Sa bawat hakbang ko papalayo sa lupang sakahan

ay sya namang hakbang ko papalapit sa mataas na antas ng pakikibaka.

Kakalabanin ang pasistang gobyernong pilit yumuyurak sa katulad naming mga dukha.



Isa ako sa may pinakamaliliit na tinig sa lipunan.

Isa ako sa hindi maintindihan ng nakararami na isa sa mga nagtatanim ngunit ngayon ay walang makain.

Patawarin mo ako sa paglisan ko’t pagsama sa mga pagpupulong at sa pakikidigma para sa natatanging kilusan.

Dahil ako ang bumabagtas sa estrangherong lugar na kung tawagin ay Maynila.

Ako ngayon ang mukha ng mga magbubukid, ng mga inapi at ng mga pinagkaitan ng karapatan sa ilalim ng berdugong administrasyon ng bayan kong hindi na nakalaya.

Ako ang estrangherong kumilala sa bawat sulok at lagusan ng Mendiola na piping-saksi sa mga panaghoy naming kailanma’y hindi pakikinggan ng nakatataas.

Ako at ng aking mga kasama, ang bagong dugong isasalin sa sistemang ninanais naming patakbuhin.

Patawarin mo ako sa pagpili kong matangay sa agos ng mabilisang kamatayan tungo sa pulang kulay ng rebolusyon.

Ngunit, kailanman ay hindi nyo maiintindihan,

na hindi naging mali na ipaglaban ko ang aking bayan.
for the Filipino farmers
Mark Toney Nov 2019
Harvest is over,
Crops are in, and
Falls's first killing frost
Stirs feelings of melancholy
Sustained by winter's cold,
With its bare trees,
Migration, hibernation,
Wisdom of fallow fields and
Mice attempting entry
During long, cold nights.
Yet farmers are never idle,
Caring for their animals,
Cleaning and fixing equipment,
Checking their fences,
Cleaning fields and
Clearing tree lines.
11/20/2019 - Poetry form: Idyll - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Keerthi Sep 2019
Cropped lands replaced with concrete slabs
stomping on the chance of life,
cries over the dried sky and cracked earth
died in the drone of city life,
Red dust clung to his dhoti
migrating with him to the lush city
only to be swept away to the curb,
his feet traced the streets
soles and soul with holes
inflicted with pain,
anger filled the hungry stomach
only to burn some more.
The gold that flows, through our elaborate veins,
The crop that is known, by many names,
The gift that alleviates, our daytime pains,
The commodity that plays, one too many games.

Our world is nothing, but a bottomless mine,
Simply waiting, for the wrath and plunder of humankind,  
Oh labourers please, wait your spot in line,
For it was not you that made, this incredible find.

You’re a fool to think, the system needs a redesign,
For your fate and this chain, are forever intertwined.
Stay in your corner, as they wine and dine,
For it is you not them, contained by this chain’s bind.  

Posing as a gift, that elevates their daily grind,
The brown gold is no longer, part of your bloodline,
It was their chains after all, that made this incredible find,
For it now flows away, from the Plateau’s skyline.
  
You continue to hope, for these chains to be redefined,
But to imagine you even exist to them, is asinine,
Yet you believe a consumer movement, would be so inclined,
For you forget that chains were made, to always confine.
This is a poem dedicated to the hard working smallholder coffee farmers around the world. This poem is intended to speak to their struggle, the inequalities of coffee value/supply chains the world over, and the unfortunate reality that these farmers face. This poem can certainly apply to many smallholder farmers and other labourers (landless or not) who suffer similar fates. Note that coffee in some circles is referred to as brown gold because of its economic value.
Rachel Eileen Jul 2019
Faded brick streets,
Iron-colored pathway
Leading us downtown
Lilac shirt,
**** black raspberries,
Bursts of sweet, floral blueberries on my tongue
Old ladies in long dresses
with baskets full of vegetables
Saturday morning
Honey in espresso
Bluegrass in the blue grass
16, 17, 18 windows
Waving at little ones
while fathers' backs are turned
Sweet little braids and pink bows
Brown, but golden in the sun
Busy streets on market mornings
Moss-covered picnic tables
Giggling under shaded hide-aways
Breathe in the present
Sunshine shimmering through Maple trees
Beads of sweat;
rolling down water bottles and my forehead
Glass, pottery, and macrame
Herbs, microgreenery, and fruit
My mouth waters
with thoughts of sautees and soups
Robins chirp over the bustling morning crowd
The scent of fresh baked sourdough
carried by the breeze
Young, hip parents intermingling with kind, old farmers
All of us captivated with the now
sitting in a park across from saturday morning farmers market <3
cluster **** ;,)
Elizabeth May 2019
As I walked along the sidewalk I could smell the lingering flowers and summer floating toward me. The spring was coming to an end for summer was slowly approaching smelling of sunflowers and farmers markets.
Good morning everyone!
Sujata Kanojia Dec 2018
With axe and sickle in his hand
He serves the best way he can
Heavily burdened with debts
Hardly anything to look forward
Out of hunger he himself growl
Still never fails to fill our food bowl
Mourn continues, No solution in sight
Until another one commits suicide

Sitting in comforts, not realising even once
Why can't we, be a help even an ounce?
We are fortunate enough to add them a mirth
A morsel with gratitude will be of worth
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