In times of yore,
A name arose –
With vulnerable emerging markets,
The “Sick Man” of Asia!

But it has primed its cutback!
“Sick Man” was now a former name,
Call him this nation
To breed at ‘breakneck’ pace!

The snap back is faster
As global growth stirs in its revival,
And billions of dollars are in his shares!

Philippines vs. U.S.
With 7 percent, the peso was down for the year!
And we were knocked out!

It was more a reflection of global fears! –
About higher U.S. interest rates,
Then, the worries ‘bout the realm’s own fortunes,
Has to be forgotten.

Southeast Asian nation's prospects remain bright,
Likely to produce “predictable growth,”
Yes, the three stars with lone sun –
Now sky-scraping ,
With Filipinos making a stand.

Moving far..
From being a financial basket case,
The government has cut its debt,
Carry on! March on Filipinos!

(2/25/13 @xirlleelang)

I can never compensate for the poems I have misplaced,
Yet I proceed to shed sincere ink upon an empty canvas,
and revert towards elusive answers.
I once again resort to the preferred instrument,
And stumble into a liberating trance.

However, genuine introspection often
Unearths wretched recurring recollections,
That have served as the creative source
For previous poetry collections,
Some of which cannot be read
Without a deep sense of dread,
Hence I flinch from acknowledgment instead.

How disoriented am I?
As disoriented as 20 year old Kimberly
Her derelict of a son is an embodiment
Of her youth blues memories.

How aimless it must be to venture
Amidst the sanctum of stagnation.
It was not long before even the architect
Began to disdain his own laborious creation.

Why wouldn't he?

He was a fool to build
A foundation out of complacency.
The structure is able to endure
Since it thrives off of a perpetual tragedy
Of self-defeating beliefs, lascivious senses,
And misguided aspirations.

Unfortunately, whoever it houses
Collapses out of utter exasperation.
An inevitable predicament I predict
Will confront me as soon as I deteriorate mentally.

The sanctum itself testifies to an aphorism
I recount hearing during a melancholic plight:
Truthfully, throughout the ages,
Fallibility has always been
Among humanity's playwrights.

6/18/13

(c) 2013 Brandon Antonio Smith

Julie steps off the bus Friday night before 10 pm.  She has had a long week at the store and wants to get home to relax.  Julie manages a franchise jewelry story and needs some down time in order to maintain her fragile sanity.

Friday is casual day at the mall, so Julie is relaxed in her designer blue  jeans and black sweater jacket over her blouse.  She is also wearing her signature black and gold baseball cap that she likes to wear when it’s cool outside.

Julie lives in a busy and congested neighborhood and isn’t crazy about the two block walk to her house from the bus stop. She doesn’t think its necessary to own a car as she likes the exercise of walking, and of being outdoors often.  However, as the bus drives away an eerie feeling creeps into her mind.

Her eyes begin to dart from the shadows of the trees as they rake in the cool night.  The tall timber sway back and forth in the breeze. A creaking sound crawls throughout her mind as the acute awareness of her surroundings increases. Julie stiffens as she continues her steady pace. Her shoulders raise from the tension, she shakes her head and attempts to steady her breathing into a calm pattern.

Stop! You're fine, just like every other night, she tells herself. This city isn't known for violent crime.  Julie shakes her head as she tries to focus on just walking home without incident. Things seem to be getting quieter in the night.   Perhaps too quiet?  Until a rustle from behind her unearths her terror once again.

Julie turns around suddenly at the new sound.  Her heart is beating so fast that she can now hear it.  She stares at what is only apparently a bush in the dark, but she notices that the bush seems to be moving!

Her mouth gapes open in realization. Something,  something is wrong. A dark figure seems to be within the bush. Paralyzed by her fear, she can't move and stands perfectly still.  Only the light breeze lifts her hair as the only sign of life in her body.

Julie stares at the shadowy figure intently for several agonizing seconds before she begins to see what the figure actually is.  A large branch with its leaves still on it has fallen onto the sidewalk from a large nearby white pine tree.    Oh my God!  What a relief!  Julie gasps and puts both hands on her face as she starts to feel the sweat pour down her neck from the terror.

At that exact moment in time,

A man from directly behind her lumbers toward her.  One quick step at a time. Julie freezes in terror as his shadow from the dim street light behind her reaches her feet. The man reaches her just as she is able to partially turn around at his sound.

Julie blacks out as her head is brutally forced into a collision with the concrete.  Warm, red, blood paints the sidewalk as life leaves her permanently.

An hour later Detective Olson calmly tells his partner Detective Reynolds, “I can only surmise that this young lady fell to her death from a freak accident.  There doesn’t appear to have been any struggle or foul play.  I will try and get ahold of her mother in Binghamton, but this seriously looks to be an accidental death.”

Junk sickness unearths this
Deep-rooted, oozing desperation.
Slack jaws,
Eyes
Bouncing in the back of your skull.
Tear through the paper flesh,
Scraping for a vein
Needing of
Molestation,
Mutilation,
Shredded from that constant need,
That whining itch,
To feel nothing
And everything all at once.
Praying for the earth to melt
Around the bare bones
Of the walking dead.

I am
But an observer
Stuffed in the back seat
While needles clog,
Blood surges,
Rage stirs.
I am
Just a spectator
To their universe coming to a
Creeping
Dull thud,
As they dream of better days that will
Surely come.
I am
Not sure
If it's possible to dig yourself
Back up
From the depths of a self-made grace.
I am
Not sure
If there is life after dope.
Lust swelters,
The shot is done,
We drive on.

How do we speak to each other?

How do words become a universal language?

How do we explain ourselves if we can never speak for each other?


A gentle kiss, quickening, deepening before its lost,

a warm smile but a whispered laugh.

A heart so light but a body so tired.

You unfurl for me, a bud springing open on the morning breeze,

palms open and eyes exploring,

so fragile yet so terrifyingly strong

it blinds me,

it shakes me,

it unearths the roots i worked to bury for myself,

it wounds me to falter before you.


You bare your soul,

a mirror uncovered despite the dust in the air.

it stands before me,

I can see myself stripped before you too.

you allow the light to drip down,

bathe you in vulnerability,

and that is a strength I can only look at in wonder.

inspiring.

admirable.

too brilliant it hurts to be the one to shatter your glass.


You feel me trace

your face,

fingers graze along your lines,

leaving cracks where I touch.

I know i’ll never open myself to you.

I know i’ll never unfurl like you have, because

I’m

frightened.

I don’t know what to expect.

of you.

of me.


I feel the longing warm the glass.

you want me

but i can’t provide.

I can provide for others,

who pierce my skin, eagerly fumble with my clothes,

press against me fiercely to absorb what they need.

but for you i feel too adequate,

too humble,

I know i do not crave your touch,

I feel

in a cavern where i safe-keep my heart, my feelings;

that I can provide only what a friend might offer,

only insight and best wishes.

I cannot feel like perfection bundled in your arms,

because

I feel

my being beat against my walls

screaming that it isn’t my place to be there

in your arms.


I cannot linger in your light,

i don’t want to trail my dark ink,

thick and clotted,

across that golden shine.

I only want comfort for us.

I only want that burst of sunshine

dripping gold and gems and diamonds,

of when we meet and explore the people who were meant to hold us,

embrace us,

coat us and touch us, whisper and laugh and cry before our outstretched

arms to one another.

to be the lovers to us that we desire.

to be the safest

hollow,

to be the safest shelter we could ever find amid a burning field.

the people we were designed to allow to pick apart the cobwebs, the

bruises, the joy and the

darkness we all carry inside.


I want to feel that.

I don’t want to see you break into pieces at my feet.

I don’t want to see shards of something so beautiful.


we want to be worshipped.

to feel we could walk on broken glass so long as

you were there to hold us tight at the end of the road,

to make us smile without even thinking

to make us burst without reasoning to.

to not even need words, explanations to others, gestures,

disguises.

to not even need to think about how we look.

but I don’t think my love will kneel before you and worship the thought

of holding you.

does that make me horrible?

why do I feel like I’m burning?


can you belong to someone while you wait to hopefully,

truly,

openly,

decidedly belong to another? the one you need to belong to.

Is it cruel to wait and play and tease,

knowing this,

or is it crueler still to break them open?

to make them fall away from you, to fear you, to make them taste the sour

tang

of you

instead of dragging them behind you in chains they want to bare.

How do you know all this?

or are you simply deceiving yourself?


where are you?

where am I?

Cold, damp, broken surf washing over my feet.

salted like tears.

Except I know they are mine.

I know you are still that beautiful golden mirror,

I keep

in my cavern

tucked away.

I know you stay behind a dusty, ***** sheet.

but right now I need to turn from this place

and

let

you

go.

free.

please, release yourself from me

and be free.

When I last tasted her,
her lips were still
a mysterious heavy.
A glossed *** shine
and her proud mother's grin
held me helpless-
a lioness jawing her cub.

A cowardly actor I was,
depicting a breathful, firm
man bored and unmoved
by this no more than textbook
show of affection.  No.
She's mastered that text book and,
by chance, written a few of her own.
My theatrical mask was shattered fast
by the calculated clumsiness of her
apricot kiss,
revealing my boyish face
as the answer to the question,
who now is her masked man?

And still,
being a scientist not a philosopher
She unearths more enigmas than
solutions leaving her colleagues
balanced on the fence, waiting
in merciless anticipation for her
theories to be proven.
But the essence of a theory
is that it's unprovable.

I, being human, need only
answers to questions,
her questions
which she insists I answer.
For she knows I will always answer them for her.

She, also being human,
needs nothing else from me.
So she walks away.

Where is my saint in the clouds
Who has fallen from ether
To reconfigure my essence?

Where is my saint in the foam of the sea
Who has evaporated into the mist
And waits to be inhaled by me?

Where is my saint in the grooves of my past
Who paints with my tears
A portrait of the coagulence I feel in the core of my being?

Where is my saint in the eyes of the stars
Who refuses to shine
Until I’m sheltered in between the chaos of time?

Where is my saint in the pores of the ground
Who tacitly unearths a grave
And convolutes my flesh into the pith of the earth?

Where is the demon
Who was born from my negligence
And taints the deeds of my conscience,
Frays the seams of my being
And lays dormant in the cellar of all my possibilities?

*March 2012

“The tree has fruit,”
Hands sticky,
Face smeared,
My stomach turning
“The fruit is rotten,”
Laughing, another in your hand
The first bite unearths no worm, no insect
Only the soft, wet peach-flesh
You’d expect from one of us.
“Isn’t it sour?
Isn’t it bitter?
Does the aftertaste not resemble
Pesticidal poison?”
Quiet now,
Only the sound of leaves shaking,
The pull of branch and the wobbly return,
The fruit’s fuzz against my fingers,
My lips.
I do not take a bite.

my feet are planted on these wooden planks,
the very separation of the soil beds and the stream. your hand’s quick to envelope mine in its warmth. dandelions dance with the cacophony of the breeze. the lighthouse stands tall a few distances from where we stood.
the sky gets littered by colors, sons and daughters of the sun bidding their farewell
everything within the expanse of the lakeshore showered in their translucence-
and quite frankly darling, we’re left with no exception.
you were staring off the distance
and in that moment you were almost miles away-but i didn’t mind,
for i was too mesmerized by the calmness
you were pulled under, the amber gold canvas bleeding in with the havoc it was pierced with.
i swear it was there where we’ve been in our safest state.
maybe that was our arrival to the once unknown destination we were targeting to be in all our plans to run away, fake our deaths.
we were a world away back there
and despite the sun sinking,
it breached the start of a hundred different voyages.
your presence was the closest i’ve felt to home.

in the expanse of a moment we were something more-something more than our sadness and all that we’ve stored in folds within the silhouettes.
and to a random onlooker,
we were just two kids content on being stupid and naive out on a chase for an i don’t know why the **** i’ve been put in this sick sad world but maybe we can stick together and make it ‘til we’re grey sort of happy ending.
to anyone else we weren’t anything but misfits, a pair lacking sense, knowing no better, junkies screaming out pent up emotions to rock songs on rooftops
or taking hairpin turns on 4am roadtrips that fueled the adrenaline.
thrill seekers, jaded
to anyone else, we were nothing more than a reckless pair almost making their way to the big screen or a typewritten poem the paper creasing on the edges.

but there we were made out of the sunset way past sets of bones and fractures by the sky,
the sunset looked like us.
now it’s months later, and we’ve let everything fade,
scratched out all that we’ve casted on the future, of long forgotten lullabies, null whispers- you’ve erased all our texts and chats,
in turn i have thrown out the flowers you picked and your book recommendations, the diy polaroids piled up in a box.
i stopped listening to all the songs you’ve sent. the curtains in my bedroom no longer match the shade of your hazel brown eyes.
the places i once brought you to are now ghost towns you’d get glimpses of in postcards 50 years from now-
at least that’s how they’re portrayed in my mind. but not without taking a drive, letting my footsteps baptize the ground they trample on with a feverish kiss,
one more time, one last time
clearly you’ve chosen to vanish, no traces left for a breadcrumb trail after that night at the diner where we spilled our closures
delivered with so much declaration,
leftover longing left caged in glassy eyes the whole time.
you stormed away with the last pieces of vulnerability, everything done with one final cruel exchange, just like that,
all my drunk texts a non-stop desperation reeking of “i love you’s” left to no reply;
that should signify that we’ve gone unto depths just to burn all our remnants
-maybe you more than i did.

here we are, free of the artifacts pointing back to each other,
from everywhere we’ve ever been
only to be proven of its blatant wrongness;
for we’ve forgotten about the sunsets but it sure as hell wouldn’t allow itself to be put to rest,
and it does the same thing with everything once marked by it.
you’re no longer here and our shadows have long unlearned the dwelling
once found on each other’s spines.
and maybe this you that never vacated my head even now, the one i couldn’t just bring to hate even after you’re no longer the you breathing softly beside the girl with twilight underneath her eyes.
but darling, the afterglows would pursue each time the sun sets;
each time, it unearths the glass shards from our fights and the longing and the butterflies crumbling onto chaos, our aftermath.
i no longer have an idea if you still marvel at the quiet like you once did,
as i stood there in the shades reflected by the currents under rushing with their beating.
“now we’re worlds away but sunsets still look a lot like us.”

He watches; quiet, reflective.
No doubt he detected
The weight of my
Body-shaped shame.
My name similar to his,
Who now rots under sunlight,
Unabashed in his righteousness
To which I was blind.
I find myself here,
In a garden once perfect,
Now tainted with ******.
I heard the scratching,
Faint at first,
So I turned and saw him.
The raven watches;
Quiet, perceptive,
His gaze so effective.
His foot scratches the ground,
Making a sound that feels
Almost peaceful.
He unearths the freedom
That I need him to show me.
Just below me,
The earth is opening up.
I grab my brother's limp arm,
Drag him away
From the evidence of his harm.
Further away
From the judgment of God.
The raven approves;
He quietly nods.

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in **** and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and ****** rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall,
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

We'll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.

From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
—Wisława Szymborska

it's quiet, but there's still a sound I can't hear
I've been listening for days
but it doesn't seem to come in clear

like the dust that dodges my hand in the air
I can't quite grasp it, but i know it's there

is this the sound of indifference--
will I ever know?
or is this dust from the days
I refuse to let go?

it's quiet, but I'm tuning up my ear
this silence unearths these dusty tears
I can't crack through it, or even let it be
I let the silence dismantle me

we’re sitting in silence and i can feel it somewhere in my bones
can feel it somewhere that you’re going to leave me someday
that you’ll look at me with eyes of strangers meeting for the first time
(and for the last time, as far as they’re concerned)
you’re whispering against my ear and it’s resonating at the base of my
spine and you’re telling me you’ll never leave, you’re so dead in
love with me and i know that you are, i can hear it in your voice
i can see it in your eyes
they way they light up when you think i’m not looking
but you’ve got bitter settled somewhere deep inside your heart
and sometimes it unearths itself, sometimes it
cuts me in places i’ll cover and try not to show you
i’ll dress the wounds myself, don’t you worry about me
and i know you won’t
one day, you really won’t
you’re lacing up promises to me and you think they aren’t empty but
they are, darling.
they are.

we’re sitting in silence and i can feel it somewhere in my bones
though you’re thousands of miles away and you haven’t held me in months
that you’re looking at pictures of me with eyes of strangers
meeting for the first time
and you’re looking for the last time, as far as you’re concerned
you’re whispering against someone else’s ear now,
and she’s thinking you’re moving mountains in her, i’m sure of it
and if she doesn’t feel that way, you get away fast
you think you’re so dead in love with her and i’m
sure you think you are
you were always so sure of things
so positive you had it right
and you’ve still got bitter settled somewhere deep inside your heart
have you let it come out? has she seen your hidden darkness?
i hope you have someone there to dress your wounds
if it ever cuts you in places you won’t show
and i’ll try not to worry about you
one day, maybe i won’t
i’m lacing up promises to myself that i’m going to be okay and i’m
swearing they aren’t empty but
they are, darling.
they are.

-k.c.
*10-03-2014

He stands up, his heart racing. The emotional lasso that grips him has become too much to bear. He feels that every step he takes or sound he makes tightens the rope's grasp around him. He can feel the pressure squeezing his words and emotions out of his chest, up through the long, dark corridors of his throat and out past the serenity of his sacred lips. Certain things are meant to be held back. But others are meant to be shouted out all the way to the far depths of the ocean where only the mysterious, pre-historic sea life dwells. No trick he tries can distract his mind from the one who consumes it night and day. A fly buzzes around his head and he swats at it. He decides that he will no longer swat at the true feelings that brew inside of him. It is he whom they've chose to slay the evil monster with crimson eyes known only as 'Time' that threatens the well-being of the town and its people.
       He plants his feet firmly on the hard, unforgiving ground below him. He knows if he falls it will hurt so he must be prepared. He stares down at her. Beauty radiates off of her like the sweet, sensual smell that unearths after a light rainfall. The sun glistens off of the silver buttons on her blouse that form a line down the middle of her chest, splitting her into two equally as perfect halves. He gently reaches his hand out to hers. As she meets them and delicately places her palms down into his, she feels the brisk sensation of chills forming at the back of her neck and quickly consuming her entire body. She gasps in pleasure. He pulls her arms up as if to suggest she stand up and she rises to her feet. As he and his subtle smile gaze upon her, he finds himself not in the park as he truly is, but plunging down the first few seconds of a roller-coaster, a feeling he so longs to keep. Her eyes slowly move up and meet his.
       "Oh, what beauty!" he thinks to himself as his subtle smile begins to widen. She stares back into his eyes for a few moments then quickly looks down to the unforgiving ground below as butterflies crowd her stomach. Through with the interminable waiting, he places his hand on the bottom of her chin and tilts her head up until their gazes meet again. The whole world around them seems to set still. Nothing matters besides the fireworks exploding in the few inches of space between their bodies. He slides his hand up the side of her neck to the back of her head, caressing her hair. She closes her eyes, leans her head back into his palm, and opens her mouth in pleasure, yet no words escape. Releasing his hand from her chin, he wraps it tightly around her waist and pulls her in until their bodies touch. He feels her heart beat against the outside of his chest. He closes his eyes and leans forward. At her wit's end, consumed by sheer pleasure, she gives into her temptations and slowly moves her head toward his. Their moist lips meet as they hold each other's bodies. He caresses the back of her head and hip bone and she runs her fingers down his back. After what seems like hours, the two pull away, blushing. And as they stand there, staring into each other's lustful eyes, it dawns on Lee that he and Kim were meant to be together.

So, let me come here, buddy,
you know you're the best,
live n' die by you!
I need to tell you before
I anything else before
I ******* explode
(a moon-strewn comet-collision).

I love her. I've loved her cruelly or generously,
dispassionate or desperate,
I would ******* offer my soul still
in place of hers in some ******* hell.
I miss the focus she gave me,
the nights of swirling, slippery purpose.
I love how she couldn't stand me anymore,

that she was so consumed by herself
as to break my heart.
I wish I'd cried in her arms and said,
"Don't leave me, darling"
instead of just crying in her arms.
They say if you step on only cracks
you can break a curse.
Do they, Jay? do they, really, eh?

I've made my peace, I think,
with Pride, Pain, and Providence
and what I wouldn't do
for dark-haired smart who
skylight ignites chooses to--
the usual beauty she unearths.

All very scary but
I feel so strong
Maybe couldn't reason
but squirm my way
out of anything.
So strong I could give you a gift,
not old something-hand jackets or coupons
but the gift of my pride for you to prize.

Men do not live on bread and pride alone.
I want she & I to show each
other the world, share life,
and I love her, too.
Come join me on a mountain.

And, now, can you guess who called?

He see things.
The undefined elements
we're immune to during the opera,
and he unearths them with his Westminster,
all of those peculiar things he learned in
ancient times that make us better than
we already are as we push past without noticing,
risking everything like an ******
all plush on the threshold of
new doors we can't accept to face,
like bearded wolves gambling
at any cost trying to steal our
chandelier so he might show us
a lighthouse of hope against our reef of fear.

Written by Sara Fielder © Oct 2016

Circumstance induced thought
Separation unearths the truth
The web of now’s in which I’m caught
Spun, so slowly, in my youth.
The future is but a Child's collection
Full of the now’s and then’s,
The past, if subjected to inspection,
Will yield the children to men.
Forget what you were taught,
Subscribe to what you learn,
Subtle motives, control sought,
Follow what you’ve earned.

every body
is addicted to something
& this body
seems to love
sadness
darkness
& pain -
this mind
unearths emotions
that cause
quite the commotion
to encourage a reaction
so intense
just to distract
from the silence

Oh to be witty and wise
To see deeply with these eyes
To be brilliant
And fiercely resilient
But gracefully disguised

Oh to awaken my senses
Without hiding inside pretences
To find strength within
That would let me live in this skin
And to drop all needless defences

Oh to know what knowing’s worth
To value growth more than birth
To teach and be taught
But not to be caught
In the trap that endless seeking unearths

Oh to be worthy of admirers
To ignite passions flaming fires
To stir emotion
And hopeless devotion
But not let praise be all that’s desired

Oh to tread lightly and free
Comprehend weight but not be held by its gravity
To know humour and fun
Will infect everyone
Who spends any time with me

Oh crap I set the bar high
I shall have to live in the sky
Don’t think I can reach
The target I preach
But it sure will be fun to try

seeping like red wine staining a white blouse
it implodes into each delicate fibre
exposing the loose threading
of its unsuspecting host

It is underestimated
like trickles of muddy water
filling superficial cracks
seconds before the flood

interwoven become the strands
of hatred and harmony
as sorrow unearths the hardened soil
around those densely habitual roots

emerging from its confines
it spreads the contagion of loss
disables the cure for love
unleashing the inevitability of suffering