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pat v Aug 23
Ang nakaupong tiwali—
siya ang binoto ng masa.
Sa manggas ng kanyang barong,
panganib ng maralita

May kinang ang kan’yang ngiti
mapungay ang mga mata
Sa bawat pangakong lahad
ay pagsibol ng pag-asa.

Pag-asa na tayo'y ligtas
ay naging katakot-takot.
Para raw sa Inang Bayan,
peligro na nakabalot.

Ang salitang bulaklakin
ay daglian ding nalanta
kapalit ang pagtungayaw,
at banta ng direktiba.

Hindi natin inasahan—
bahid ng dugo sa daan.
Mga kamay, nahugasan
ngunit hindi ang lansangan.

Sa lapida nakaukit
ngalan ng mga biktima.
Sunod kayang tatahimik
ang silang may pinupuna?

Hapis ng inang nawalan,
“Crispin, Basilio, anak ko,”
oyayi ng Inang Bayan.
“Pasismo! Peligro rito!”
I believe in a past
that never existed.
Always willing to tell
others they should
be sad they missed it.
For what never lasts
can always be reimagined,
engineered ad-hock.
For me, the door to
the past is always wide open.
But, the one to the future
I cannot unlock.

so please don't give me the key
I don't wanna see beyond
what went before.

I believe in a moment
of imagined purity.
To close my eyes
on the acts of cruelty,
that lead to this modernity.
Only seeing the light that
concealed the night,
and the chains of *******.
For the good,
that is all I see.
Because I need to see
that good in me.

so please don't give me the key
I don't wanna see beyond
what went before.
Dominique May 10
i enjoy england

with its little houses
hips brushing, faces smushed
together to revel in quaint rumour
among gentrified lilies and pink
lady apples that blush in the summer

its walkways and alleys
dribbles of soft lamplight guiding
the drunkard, moth-brained and ill
with silk threads to a blind spot
of amber where muck can be spilled

the people on transport
with their airy talk, their mindless
silence, heads lolling idly on
windows, eyes crumpling like napkins
against the leaking crumbs of warm scone sun

pretty little England
where exploitation is vintage
and runs like rosé
down the dusty store windows

here we are free to stumble
down streets with sweat
in our hair and manic karaoke
reverberating off the walls
glee drinking is government protected

I'm quite in love with england,
this field of dew and white roses
fed by gore and sweet tradition
where fresh-faced, sunny children play.
Moomin Apr 29
Into a tavern an American strode, on a quest to discover an Englishman's ways
Observing the gathered he suddenly spies, some well-to-do chaps with their pipes all ablaze
“Hey there you guys, Sam is the name”, He proudly announced to the well-tailored fray
“All the way from old Texas” he loudly proclaimed, “In the land of the free, the great USA”

A moustache of a man looked him up and down, and tipped his grand hat to Sam with a nod
“Greetings good fellow”, he said with a frown, “Welcome to Britain, by Queen and by God”
Sam shook their hands and tipped his large hat, and crunched his cigar, as he ordered a drink
“I'm here in this land to discover the fact, of what makes you English, what do you think?”    

One chap among them, a plum-spoken gent, puffed out his chest and declared with an air
“My dear Yankee doodle, let me present, the cream of the realm, gentlemen rare
One can disclose the knowledge you need, our proud sovereignty, nobility and grit
Can show you the heritage that you're lacking indeed, and the true meaning of us being true Brits”

“Being English is cricket, and tennis and tea, and the triage of filles, and fox-hunting yarns
At castle and keep, sipping afternoon brandy, while frolicking maids are kissing in barns
Watching Stocks and the opera, reciting the bard, and true English heroes, the blue blood of old
Like Churchill and Thatcher, in such high regard, and Newton and Scott, the brilliant and bold

These are the things, dear Samuel, that make, this green pleasant land, so English and true
The spirit of Nelson, of  Darwin and Drake, for glorious Britannia, the red white and blue”

As Plum finished preaching, he twirled his moustache, and held his head high awaiting the cheers
But none was forthcoming, and as minutes passed, a voice bellowed forth from a belly of beer
“Don't listen to Toff, Ee's out of his pram”, came the rough wheezy growl, approaching the fray
Standing bold and defiant, with tankard in hand, with hairy demeanour, started to say

“This geezer's a softy, a spoiled wealthy brat, who don't know this England, from the stuff that he spoke
Now let me inform you of the truth and the facts, of what makes a real Englishman bloke
Forget all the pompous, the silver and brass, the Lords and the Gentry, the horse-riding lark  
The caviar and strawberries, and French crystal glass, that's not the England that's dear to our hearts
Real men have blisters, and lungs full of dirt, they eat chips and winkles, and drink cloudy ale
England is scrumpin, and pullin the skirt, and cheering on footy, and fishermen's tales
To be English is cloth caps, and pidgeons and pints, to stand in our union, with the oppressed
It's greyhounds and betting, and Christmas tree lights, with our spam and and our jam, and our blessed NHS
And real English heroes, ain't silver spoon folk, but those that must struggle and fight for a break  
Like our Tolpuddle martyrs, who loosened our yolk, Bobby Moore and Nai Bevin, these are our greats
Thomas and Bowie, Mcartney and Quo, and Cooper our fighter, who knocked Goliath down  
We real English people, who carved life from stone, from our green hills and valleys, and our crammed little towns

So listen here mate, and learn what we are, a land of hard grafters, who weather all storms
With strong hearts and cheer, we have come far, for with such a spirit, Great Britain was born”

So yob declared, then swigged from his beer, backed by the chorus of lads in his mob
But just as the crowd were howling with cheer, a new voice was heard, that closed all their gobs
He pranced into view with red wine in his hand, and stood in their midst and started to speak
With accent so strong, he now made his stand, addressed the large crowd, as he stood on his seat

“Misseurs and madames, these pretenders are wrong, they know not what's true of this little Isle
For history shows to the French it belongs, as I will demonstrate in a short while
For two centuries, it's sovereign was France, and it's language reflects this reality still
It began when across the channel did dance, your true king of old, conquering Will      

You Eenglish learned French, our laws and our ways, and married our folk and Frenched up your clothes
We taught you valour, the knights of our days, and brought you garlic, to bother your nose
And to this day, you still speak our tongue, in everyday things, and places and names
French kisses and fries, Sol is for sun, French polishing and doors, and croquet, a French game            

And so your true nobles, Frenchmen no less, are the real English heroes, true ones of fame
Like Joan and dear Louis, and Charlemagne the blessed, good old Napolean, and Zinedine Zedane
For this is your heritage, your roots and your lot, this is our England, and your are French, sirs
This annex of Francais, this green little spot, we fondly regard as, Anglataire Sur-la-Mer”

As the Frenchman stepped down, quite chuffed with his speech, the room was in silence, so gobsmacked and shocked
But one more was to come, to implore and impeach, with a claim to old England, now addressed the flock
“Bueno, bueno”, dear Frog and misguided senoirs, a noble attempt but, stupido and wrong
You forget your true background, this land is not yours, it was born from us Romans, To Italia it belongs
Caeser was first, with Hadrian's wall, to keep out the riff-raff, and claim all land below  
We built cities and towns, and united them all, from Londinium to louth, with our great Roman roads,  

And we taught you barbarians to cease from your grunts, and embrace noble Latin, the language of prose
Gave you saunas and plumbing, to fight your cold fronts, and wine by the flagon to drown all you woes
Defended this island from the ravaging hordes, like the vicious old Vikings, who kept you on your toes  
Equipped your poor soldiers with Italian leather and swords, shared perfect pizzas, and fine Gucci clothes  

And the real English stock, are Italian brewed, Like Galileo and DaVinci, the wisest of men  
Marconi and Michleangelo, and Pinnochio of wood, and Gian franco Zola and Sophia Loren
So when speaking of English, and what it endows, remember this land is only on loan,
For England means Italy, and bid others ciao, for all England's roads will lead you to Rome”

Now at the end of these claimants, confusion set in, and the baffled tavern patrons were all in a daze
For no-one now knew, how England begins, or what on earth represented an Englishman's ways    

But Sam, he was beaming, was crowing with glee, and raised his hat high in triumph and praise
Twirled his hat in his hands, standing firm as a tree, and spoke words that amazed

“It's clear to y'all, good folk, is it not, that none of those here can stake a true claim
For this island it seems is a mixed melting ***, and on-one is English, only in name
You're a rag tag of strangers, from lands far away, and England is vacant, this I can see
So I'll gladly now claim it, for the good old USA, the land of the brave and the home of the free”

A din now erupted, and loud voices were heard, and the crowd were offended at old Sam's demands  
Indignant and angry at this fellow's nerve, and his bid for the taking of their own homeland
One after another, they responded to him, and challenged his audacious claim for the realm
That England would be a subservient kin, with them as the passengers, and USA at the helm

Moustache spoke up first, and challenged ole Sam, and quoting his words, berated his claims
“Look here, my good fellow, I'm offended I am, you slander our nations, with your grandiose aims
By saying such things of your own land out west, you imply rotten things with your patriot rave
That we all lack courage, and are less than the best, that we are all cowards, who are weak and enslaved”  

. “Old Snob is right, mate, the Cokney bloke chimed, ow dare you try grab this old land where I grew
So what if our roots are a little entwined, we're all here to stay now, and that much is true
You Yanks ain't so different, in where you come from, your a lucky dip bag, with surprises galore
With Indian, eskimo, shall I go on? You wandered from England and Italian shores        

The Frenchman stepped up, could hold back no more, and joined in the engagement with great zeal  and zest
“The Yob is spot on, but he's missing some more, don't forget Aztecs and Germans and the rest  
And what of our names, and our places you took, the new replication of our glorious towns
New Orleans, and old Boston, New England, New York, your cheek and audacity know of no bounds”  

Now a pin dropping then would have been a loud noise, as the multitude there ceased their attack
For old Sam stood there now, silently poised, confused and confounded, firmly gobsmacked
He pondered their words, and finally spoke, with a softer tone, he himself now set
For his pride had been prodded, his stride was now broke, he now offered them some form of regret

“Gee all you fellas, I may have been brash, I meant you no harm or disrespect
My presumptuous claim I'll recant in a flash, because to England's defence you have leapt
But, if I'm not American, and we don't belong, then nothing is sacred and no-one is free
Then I now pose a question to this mixed up throng, what is this land and who the hell are we?      

There were muttering and mumbling, and confusion reigned, as each gave some thought to this perplexing affair
The jury was out and the question remained, no answer forthcoming, from anyone there
Finally, from near the door came a sound, a voice that was new now spoke to the pack        
As the mish-mash of gentlemen all turned around, they beheld a tall figure standing there at the back

“What troubles you friends?” he asked with a smile, “This problem it only exists in your minds
While searching your ancestry all of this while, you left your identities and meaning behind
There is no mystery to solve and uncover, it is simple and plain as the nose on your face
You're not English or French nor any other, you are brothers and sisters of the great human race

You don't need your boundaries, or borders or flags, you all have the same desires and fears
Whether black white or red, in robes or in rags, you all fall in love and shed many tears
And your children don't see USA or UK, but only a playmate who will share all their fun
Who don't want to fight but just want to play, and share the same water, same air and same sun    

All the nations proclaim that they are best, that theirs is the right way to live from our birth
They claim they're united, and have passed all the tests, and that man's institutions can salvage the earth
United Nations and States and Kingdoms and such, yet paranoid and divided by the nationalist call
But all of this rhetoric doesn't mean much, for the truth is, dear brothers, we are God's children all”
fray narte Apr 7
my heart only knows rage
growing, crawling like wildfire
to which my bones will collapse like lilac twigs;

then again, honey,
we do not burn down with the fire — we become it,
should we fall like witches condemned.

then again, honey,
they do not burn; the fire knows its mistress' touch
and today, we have inherited
all the anger, all the wrath, all the names of the men
she held onto for centuries in her palms.

today, she will avenge
all her sisters lynched and effaced
all her brothers starved and gunned
by the very pigs who swore to protect
and the fire will
creep, engulf, and spread,
torching their money and their abusive hands —
their lying tongues and iron fists
burning in cauldrons
they will burn us in,
and the smoke will rise to the heavens
until all that's left are ashes
from where no cruel man will rise.
and the smoke will rise to the heavens
until justice,
like a goddess,
emerges from a foam of embers.

and the smoke will slowly lift —
so will this anger.
so will this wrath.

and it's the sun itself that awakes
to the promise of a new day.
Salma Mar 25
If I could
I would let some people go, convince them I'm contagious and that I'm no good,
Some other people, I will walk out on, call them to meet,
but don't show up
If I could
I would paint my face *****, erasing my features, resembling a liar or a beggar.
I would then walk about invisible. I would cry a lot, everywhere unbothered.
Next, I would walk between borders, crossing lines, entering and exiting territories.
I would do that,
If I could
Love is more than tender words!
Love is to have spoke them first.

In love, which many feel to all,
Still one before another falls.

Is love the 'life' and 'death' in dance;
A shield that not let either pass?

Know that love drives every hand,
So 'love' met 'love',
And razed their lands.
dati dizu dan dato chipu
Mr. Trump,
supposedly president of the United States
with three milllion fewer votes than your opponent
thanks to the GOP-rigged electoral colleges

after your speech
at the General Assembly of the United Nations
     for which you apparently
     had a better ghostwriter than usual
     and stuck to the script

I have had it, nevertheless!

you refuse to honor
international agreements
from the Iran nuclear deal
to the international postal service agreement

your sanctions create even more misery
in the countries from which
the refugees at the U.S. southern border
come to escape the terror at home

you destroy long-term international agreements
shouting „America first“
destabilizing politics and the global economy
and long-term alliances

      just to demonstrate
      that you can do it
      because you are now
      the president

not even to mention
all the silly and detrimental orders
you issue at home
to lift climate regulations
     or  pollution laws
     or the protection of national parks
     or pardon convicted criminals
     hoping this will help your reelection
     etc. etc.

I have had it!

with your erratic agenda
your great alien friends
    Putin  Duterte  Modi Erdogan
    and the Saudi Princes, etc. etc.
who help you win your elections

I live in a small country
at the heart of Europe
and I sincerely resent
     to suffer
from your *******-up version
of nationalist identity politics

so I suggest
YOU go home
where you
     and your ancestors
      came from

and I sincerely hope
that the German immigration officers
will act according to the rules
your ICE applies
to the refugees from
Middle America
Purcy Flaherty Jul 2018
Dad is so very proud of his culture, underneath this nationalist, racist, sexist, homophobic, religiously intolerant, ageist and xenophobic snobbery; is a man that stands by his right to hate who he likes.

Oh the irony!
Bigots and nationalism
cj Jul 2019
at paglabas sa apat na dingding ng silid-aralan,
ang debate ukol sa karapatan
ay iba nang usapan

na kung saan hindi lamang talino at boses
ang sandata
kundi pati rin ang pagpadyak
ng dalawang kinakalyong paa
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