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Piotr B 1d
We have to goodbye our beloved island,
invaded by barbaric tribes.
For we can't change and leave alone
the crying children of thousand lights.
Louise Mar 20
I know you've heard things about me...
This and that, here and there...
And I also know you're a little scared,
could be of me, or of my beauty maybe...
This and this and this
Yet I know that as scared as you are,
you're also curious about my mysteries...
That and that and that
But if you take a chance on me,
if you step into my shores and feel my breeze,
you'll find that I'm just a beautiful island,
I could even be the best you'll ever see,
nothing more and nothing grand...
yet I could be the paradise you've never been
and I could have everything you'll ever need.
I could leave you exhilarated
with my magic, sunsets and seabed...
And you would leave me sparkling brand new,
like my oceans have never been this clear and blue.
This and that,
here and there,
I want you here now
and I want you near.
A love letter from Siquijor the island herself, to you dear reader... ūüŹĚ‚ú®ÔłŹūüĒ•

In this poem, I've personified Siquijor as if the island wrote this very poem. Inspired by the age-old scary tales and "rumors" surrounding Siquijor Island, this poem encourages readers to come visit the island despite all of these rumors and stereotypes, calling to you and urging you to come closer, like a siren's song...
Louise Feb 22
I miss her.
Me on the island.
The me that's carefree,
doesn't care about schedules,
about no rules,
eats healthier, sleeps better,
wears flowers on her hair
instead of carrying burdens in her head,
dances like no one's watching
and sings like no one has ever hurt her,
laughs her heart out
and hugs people and means it.
I miss the person that I was on the island;
she was everything I'm not
or I cannot be at home and in reality.

I miss her and I'm gonna keep missing her...
until I meet her again.
Summer is finally near... ūüĆě
You're an island in the anodyne brisk.

You're a holm of lonesomeness.

Your divers in deep diorama
sink like boats.

There's coins and clothing
and troubling notes
left by a female passenger
imprisoned on watery shore.

Run aground,
you harbor regret,
and speak in tongues of folklore.

If I had an ocean I'd give you to it.

Louise Jan 30
I would do it all over again:
Leave my safe space
Flee from my own sanctuary
Burn my body and face
Strut into an unknown territory
Fall down from grace
Give up my false sense of serenity

Trade my gold jewelries for pearls
Swap my diamonds for seashells
With the island air, I'd dance and twirl,
Along the ocean breeze, I'd twist and bend;
this bottled feeling is a message I won't send.

But I would do it all too:
Leave everything behind
if it's you I'll get to be with in the end
I would cut my own good hand,
go somewhere nobody can find
just for another day of me and you
in the island.
Louise Nov 2023
Don't puff.
See the ocean?
Run and go.
Want to make a new friend?
Put down your phone.
Or do as you please,
but please don't smoke cigarettes in Siargao.
Don't make an irony of your stay
and a fool of yourself here.
Don't disrespect her sweet air,
don't bastardize her fresh breeze.

See the ocean?
Run and go.
Make a friend.
Do what you please.
Breathe in the sweet air.
Feel the kiss of the fresh breeze.
Don't smoke cigarettes in Siargao.
Please don't smoke cigarettes„Ö°not in Siargao, not anywhere.
Bruce Adams Jul 2019
on ruby jacobs walk, a
small girl
asked us for money for ice cream.

she eyed our cones
                                yours, lemon
                                mine, strawberry
with a child’s hunger
glinting and opportunistic
as she held out her palm for coins.

i was not yet accustomed to the shapes and sizes,
to a dime being smaller than a nickel,
and in any case wanted to preserve them for souvenirs
so we shook our heads and walked away.

a year later, writing this poem,
i learned that ruby jacobs was a local restauranteur
who, as a boy,
illegally sold ice creams
for a nickel on the boardwalk.
                                                a nickel is the larger coin
                                                the size of a ten pence piece.
                                                i know that now.

the wide atlantic rose from a sloping manicured lawn
                                like everything here,
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†­¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†the airborne flag
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†­¬†¬†¬†¬†above a wide pavilion
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†­¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†a fanatic wedding cake topper
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†­¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†against the blood-blue sky.

        i slipped
out of my shoes and let
the white sand burn my feet,
and jaggedly fill the spaces between my toes.

the atlantic held open its arms
though we weren’t, as we imagined,
                looking east
                looking home
but south to new jersey, across the bay.

the gnarled boardwalk was a
song of the twentieth century
        a roll-call of mass-market capitalism
        here in the city that didn’t invent the concept
        but certainly perfected it:
                                                hot dogs
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†­¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†ice creams (we‚Äôve covered that)
                        fridge magnets
                baseball caps
        i bought an espresso cup with a picture of the president
and the caption:
¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† ‚Äėhuuuuge!‚Äô
i stopped to take a photograph
of a space-age building from the fifties
which turned out to be
                                        a public toilet.

from the sunbaked d train,
brooklyn spread out beneath us
the houses garnished with flags,
then the city coughed us up on seventh avenue
and night fell five hours early.
lua Sep 2023
i became an island
wrapped myself in an earthen blanket
and crawled into the ocean

i slept, the most peaceful sight
fetal position as i embraced nothing

i became an island
lost at sea
disappearing in the high tide
my sandy shores raked with coral
under the moon

under the moon
when i rise
to watch the waves lick at my soles

under the moon
i became an island.
KieraYale Aug 2023
Language drips from his tongue like honey,
skin kissed by the light of God.
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