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John AD Nov 2017
Nandito nanaman ako sa isang silid,
malungkot , nagiisip kung anong mangyayari sa paligid
Bukas ba ay payapa muli ang isip o bibilis nanaman ang tibok ng dibdib
Sa bawat nangyayaring karanasan sa buhay ko
may mga bagay akong naiisip na lumalait sa sarili kong pagkatao,
sa pagkatao kong , pagiging mahina , na puro salita walang gawa,
sa pagkatao kong kulang sa tiyaga umaasa sa kasiyahan na napupunta sa wala...At

Paglipas nang taon sa kolehiyo , nanatili parin akong talo
sa pag angat , pinili ang kurso na hindi naman kasing bigat ng abogado,
Oo inaamin ko naiwan ako sa larangan ng akademika ,
alam ko naman na ginawa ko tong landas na to para sumaya pero,

Dati yon iba na ang nasa isip ko ngayon,
sana pala pinagbutihan ko nung mga araw na nakakahabol pa ko
Pero ngayon ,ito natupad nga ang mga pangarap ko sa sarili ko ,
Pero di ko naman naisip ang kapalaran na darating sa kinabukasan ko

Ano nga ba ang magiging kinabukasan ko ?
Kung sariling kaligayan nalang palagi nag nasa isip ko
Palagi nalang bang ganto ang buhay ko o isang araw ,
babagsak ang katawan ko katulad ng pagbagsak ng utak ko
Tuwing naiisip ang mga malalagim na nakaraan sa buhay ko

Mula sa palangiting tao na nakikita nyo ,
Maganda lang tignan parang takip ng libro,
Pero ang totoo ay iba ang nilalaman nito,
Magulo ang takbo ng buhay ko ,
Pero salamat narin may mga tao na nagbibigay ng halaga at pagmamahal
Upang magpursigi pa akong mabuhay dito sa mundo...


Salamat Ina,Itay,Lolo,Lola, Kaibigan,Katunggali
Salamat sa walang hupay na pag intindi sakin sa lahat ng galit , panunukso
Pagmamahal , pakikisama at sa mga bagay na nakalagay dito sa memorya ko,
Isa kayong tagapagligtas dahil kung wala kayo
Wala rin saysay ang pagkatao ko...
Eleanor Webster Oct 2017
What makes a good poem?
Is it the rhythm? The structure? The carefully placed similes like dog treats and the restricted use of rhetorical questions?
Oh.
If that's the case,
I think I failed the test.
Oh please! Don't leave! Let me try this again!

(A cough to clear the throat)
Ha-HEM.

When one writes iambic pentameter
Doth that make his good prose the worthier then?

...No?

If I write a witty couplet in a rhyme
Does that make this utter **** more worth your time?

Have I got the tempo right?
I need an exclamatory tone!
Rhyming feels better somehow
But it doesn't make trombone.

My jittery jilted stream-of-consciousness different-line-length punctuation-less word-***** onto a page-
Pause for breath-
Can never match the likes of Donne or Keats;
But I've bled my soul and fire onto this page
And surely, that is worth more than conceits?
This is my attempt at humour. Apologies. The title is a play on 'A Good Friday, 1613, riding Westward', a poem by John Donne, who I was studying at the time. This was prompted by reading all the great poets and realising that, technically, I will never be as 'good' as them. But I like to think that art isn't quantifiable, and that so long as you write with truth and emotion, you'll create something beautiful.
TexasRambler Sep 2017
As Heaven and Hell filled your glass you gave me the the gift of laughter and raised my spirits several times.
Those stories about a plethora of assess, wild crazed friends, and a hard painful life intrigued me for countless hours.

Never are you just a simple shade of black or white your always that insane drunk artist that mixes up the paint.
Your advice and experience taught me new colors that I would have never been able to imagine before.
Unlike me your a true writer that’s unaffected with the STD of being just a poet, but you still just might have the clap.
Your works are ****** great so don’t you EVER stop trying to get your stuff out to this twisted world……..

Because if you quit I will seriously be obligated to punch you and I know you’ll still be able to easily kick my ***,
even though you probably broke your hip after you got out of your walker and unplugged your dialysis machine.

I’m not a mascochist  (Unless I get a *** of cash or your a pretty Asian girl) so please for the love of god never make me do that, and hell I really like a lot you so I’d really prefer not to put a .38 special deep into your chest cavity.

Keep staying crazy you ******* and although more than likely as your future attorney I’ll sure as hell stay busy,
but your my big brother and I ******* love you man so don’t you ever change.

P.S. Don’t hog on all of the good runoff ***** unless they are too chubby.
Heres a poem dedicated to probably the most interesting person that I personally know.
Mikel Sep 2017
You knew that for such yearning thirst

No sunlight rapture would suffice

When you created these poor eyes of mine

You were thinking of that eternal gaze

Enraptured by the endless deep
Though this was not mine. I just love the guy so much.
Andrew T May 2017
Thu used to live in Saigon. When the war ended,
she had fallen in love with a boy who lived next door to her.
He was her first love. He would write love poems to her.
Sometimes they would hold hands.
Once they shared a kiss.
They were young and deeply in love.
But as the war finished, they moved on from each other.
The boy went to live with his family in Australia, while she moved to America.
After they broke up, Thu would still think about him.
He was the one who dumped her.
The breakup crushed her heart.
But she didn’t let it mar her dignity.
Time passed, Thu moved to Virginia
and she went to high school in Fairfax County.
The letters started pouring in from the boy.
But she had too much pride and she didn’t respond until one day.
That was the day that John Lennon was murdered
in cold blood.
She was heartbroken like every other person in the world.
Yet, she also thought of the boy and how much he loved John Lennon.
Thu remembers reading the newspaper, seeing John Lennon’s face
on the front page of the paper.
She took a pair of scissors
and cut a square around John’s face.
Then she wrote a letter to the boy.
And then she sealed the newspaper clipping and the letter in an envelope.
Begged her mom over the phone to send the letter to the boy.
Her mom was still in Saigon and somehow she made contact with the boy.
And she gave the letter to him.
A month later, she opened the mail and there was a letter from the boy.
She read the letter, stifled a cry, and then proceeded to write.
The next day she sent the letter.
Thu was happy to read his words.
It was as though she could hear his voice through his sentences.
Like he was there next to her, looking at her,
speaking to her spirit.
Days passed.
Weeks passed.
And then after a month, she realized he wasn’t going to respond back to her letter.
She couldn’t believe that he didn’t give her a response.

“And that’s the end of the story,” Thu said to her son.
“What do you mean that’s the end of the story? That can’t be the end!”
“Well you’re the writer, right? Think of an ending.”
Nora Apr 2017
Two camps, divided;
On which one will I stay?
Little did I know
The road I took
Would **** me someday
inspired by Humoresque (1946)
Nora Apr 2017
Irreplaceable you,
Drifting into my world
With so little a care
As the heat of the evening
Turned into a sordid affair

Irreplaceable you,
Riding me gently, tamer
Of heavy waves
Tangled together in shadows --
For you, I’ll always misbehave

Irreplaceable you,
Slipping from my grasp
And into another’s  --
Trembling toward your kiss
Tell me I’m your only lover

Irreplaceable you,
But replaceable me
Left to wilt at the shoreline
While you sailed off to sea.
inspired by Humoresque (1946)
May the words of my mouth
and the meditation of my heart
be pleasing in your sight, LORD,
my Rock and my Redeemer.

Good Morning Beloved

It is good to be among you this morning.

Let us pray….

Gracious Lord

As we sojourn the pathways of life
You have brought us to the places
Of ecstatic splendorous peaks

You have blessed us with resounding joys
You have filled us with good things
The grace of your unconditional love
Is made manifest in the abundant life
you have promised to all your children
We bless you Lord for your provision
And your unfailing unrequited love

You have also humbled us Lord
With times of perplexing trial,
deep sorrows and pointed loss

Our earthly journey
has led us to places
of dread, devastation
sickness and pending death

Our plans and aspirations
Have turned to dust
Our eyes fill with tears

Our crestfallen hearts
have hardened
We fail to receive the
balm of love

We have been routed
We have lost the battle
We have been conquered
by separation, sin and despair

The spirit of life
Has evaporated
From our bodies

All that remains
Are dry bones

Scattered in the
valley of death

hidden by the shadows
In the nadir of our lives

Yet your abiding love
remains the
strong Present Helper
calling us to your light

May we rise from our
Afflictions as Lazarus
did when called by his
beloved friend Jesus

May your grace anoint
Our ears with the sound of
The Great Resurrectors voice

May you stir our hearts
With the wisdom of your will

May you bless our lips
With the grace of prophecy

That we may
Prophesy to the broken
And brittle bones of our lives

Prophecy to the bones
so they may be joined
With sinew and flesh again

May your words
Become flesh

May we walk again
In the land of the living
And rejoin the beloved
At the table of
Your abundant grace

In The Good Deliver's Name
We pray...

Selah

Music:
Eric Dolphy, Come Sunday

Readings,
Ezekiel 37 The Valley of Dry Bones,
John 11, The Death of Lazarus

Prayer of the Dry Bones
Faith Lutheran Church
Lavallette NJ
4th Sunday in Lent
4/2/17
Lenten Prayer, Valley of Dry Bones, Raising of Lazarus
delivered 4th Sunday in Lent
Faith Lutheran Church
Lavallette, NY
032517

I count the pages of written scripts
Of books in digits of sixty-six
And in thirty-three years,
I held you so close
Showed you this everlasting love
That was never untold.

Everything
I have made known to you
Revealed by the spirit, touched by grace
Unending love, heaven is here
I brought you the place
To where I'll dwell you in.
Read John 15:15
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