"sago" poems
Eto na naman ako
Nababalisa, hindi malaman kung hihiga o uupo
Buong araw na akong ganito
Hindi malaman kung nasiraan na ba ng ulo
Ibang klase talaga kapag tinamaan
Sino ba talaga ang may kagagawan?
Para akong sago
Habang ikaw naman ay gulaman
Dalawang bagay na magkaiba
Ngunit swak kapag pinagsama
Pero saglit, teka, taympers ako'y naguguluhan
Ano ba talagang meron saiyo babaeng nilalang?
Puso ko'y nabihag mo ng walang pakundangan
Alaala kapag kasamay ka ay hindi ko malimutan
Ang iyong ngiti ay walang kaparis
Mga tingin na sobrang tamis
Makasama ka lang ay parang nasa alapaap na
Tunay ngang hindi makakalimutang tumawa
Kung mabasa mo man ang tulang ito
Eto ang sasabihin ko saiyo:
Gagawin ang lahat para lungkot mo ay mapawi
Dahil ang tanging gusto ko lamang
Makita ang ngiti saiyong mga labi
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
Coming home from the mass,
body stretches became endless
no hurried showers were done
some returned to bed, everything
was on a slow pace....but then,
kitchen aromas roused sluggish senses,
revealed garlic and onion sauteing,
beef stewing, stuffed fish grilling,
even the smell of parched soil, being
sprinkled with water...became fragrant...
all rushed to the table...for lunch...
..............................................
dessert, was a choice...nothing...or,
slices of pie..fresh strawberries dipped
in condensed milk...peanuts, sour
chips, or salty tortillas, with salsa,
all these, over loud talks...whispers,
wholesome family conversations,
where endings are ever unpredictable
...............................................
each Sunday carries a different mood
...with cups of tea, or coffee, when
discussions are serious, long, hushed...
most times, they're a tall glass of sundae,
with shaved ice, sago, sweetened yam,
or, beans, milk, and sugar........
decisions made, and agreed upon
are the multi colored toppings,
pretty much like syrup.....or ice cream...
...................................................
seven days.....with different names...
each family member brings in a new shade
we do our best, to start, and end each day
................with pleasant airs
.................especially on Sundays,
......when families gather together...
..................................................
Sally
Copyright March 26, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 9:02 PM UTC
Across the blistered gibber plain where flies die in the sand
Through swamps of prickly sago where rotting death is planned,
To stride in windblown tussock hills where wind vanes carved their say
To saunter groves of green tree fern where moa giants did play.
In clearings cut with alkali, tusked elephant would loom
With crevassed hides, Methuselah, once aged in terms of doom.
Whilst high above the rocky crags of ancient mountain high,
The keening screech of kestral soaring up to deep blue sky.
Heavy boots in crusted sand where tiny lizards flee
Amidst the rust red rubble of volcanic rock and scree,
To clamber up the ignimbrite, great Vulcan's steps of stone,
Encrusted with thick epiphyte in lichen's mossy home.
Up into the altitude where dark cloud clusters here
And the threat of rolling thunder indicates that rain is near,
Torrential in it's downpour with sudden squall of gale
Surmounted, all quite suddenly, with a blinding blast of hail.
Staggering to shelter in a tiny alpine hut
To find hot coffee on the woodstove and a curvy, hot young ****
To find us frollicking together beneath a patterned patchwork quilt
Was quite beyond my imagination's comprehensions built?
And afterwards in slumber through the curtains of our room
I watched, in fascination, at a hanging, frozen moon
And wondered, in amazement, at the doings of the day
And speculated, sleepily, where tomorrow's prospects lay.
Blearily I stretch out from the covers, nicely warm
To nullify persistence of that alarm's intruding horn,
Yawning into morning I remove myself from bed
With panicked realisation....all dreams evacuate my head.
Vanished are the alpine hut, the dolly bird, the caves
The crash of rolling thunder and the plunge of mighty waves,
Gone are those phantoms which dwelt inside my mind
Devestatingly dismissed until re-dreamed another time.
M.
Pukehana Paradise
13 December 2014
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
minsan naisip ko
isa akong sago
tigasin talaga
palaban
pero sa oras na lunurin mo ako
sa kumukulong tubig
titigil ako't manlalambot
isa lang kasi akong sago
tigasin
palaban
pero
natatakot din.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
Savannah is beautiful is she not,
With her lovely homestead lots?
Have you seen her in the spring?
She is the most charming thing.
Azaleas blooming everywhere,
Adorning parks and town squares:
Fuchsia, red, pink, and white.
Such a breathtaking sight.
Dogwoods scattered here and there,
Nestled among the trees.
Magnolia fragrance fills the air,
Borne by gentle breeze.
Wisteria lends a delicate touch.
The aged oak we love so much.
How charming, spirited and brisk;
So beautiful and picturesque.
Crape myrtle with a crimped look
Brightens lawns and scenic nooks.
The river with its gentle flow.
The beach where many love to go.
Juniper, cypress and cedar too,
Give contrast with their dark-green hue.
The sago palm in bold fanfare
Is seen almost everywhere.
Savannah is fortunate to be
Richly filled with history.
Beautiful art for all to see
Adorns the various galleries.
Fancy eating, southern style.
Down-home cooking worthwhile.
A little time is all it takes
To visit the restaurants and lakes.
Come see Savannah in the spring;
Enjoy the view that nature brings.
And may God's blessings ever be
Upon our city by the sea.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
my granfather cultivated
beefsteak and ox heart tomatoes
great big red things
bigger than his
gnarled and ropy fist
smelling of acid and
sun shine and deep rich
goodness
he would sit at the table
and seperate the seeds
out of the pink granular flesh
like a surgeon
and they would sit like pink red sago
on cut pieces of yesterdays news
set upon the window ledge
gross yet compelling
there they dried out
in the sun
and were sorted for planting
some discarded as not good enough
some set aside for the "prize winning" bed
the plot of soil that got the best sun
the best compost, and some watered concoction
that smelt of things dead and rotting
I once asked what made a good tomato seed
his reply," you just know girlie....
you know the ones that are going to be great"
tomato growing was serious business to my grandpa
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC
Green gecko resting
Sunning ‘pon a sago frond -
Humanity reels.
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC