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Sep. 15th, 2007

ntlandicho

(no subject)

 




MOON'S BROKEN PIECES

Mountain of rocks
endure heaven's anguished lashes,
when from bleeding pieces
white falls emerge.

If in the night
a silver stallion appears,
enfeebled fragment of the drowned stone 
from the falls, cascading and savage
it would redeem.

Out of the somber water
against the blackish dawn is a silver stroke.
'Tis the stone and the stallion
together evading
night's eternal woe.

-neenratzh.landicho

janinaig

Its my first time posting in a blog...bow

One of my dearest friends made this poem in less than 3 minutes...well I guess I got hit by it...its got rather flowery words but Id interpret it as something like "don't waste your life...if you do it becomes  pseudo(fake) life." 


Periwinkle flowers of the east
So pretty once in full blossom
Eulogies of old are forgotten . . .
Undying radiance of the tired eye,
Dost the beacon of fire light?
Oh how lovely is this sight?

Long live the hume
In the land of the living
For when life is not real-lived,
Eternity is nothing but regret.

................................................as for my work.................................................XD

Artificial?

He had only  three hours left
she was waiting


They had been playing
charades
for three and a half years now
she knew
she would always  lose to him 
but stubbornly
kept on playing


Time's up!
the wait is over
and?


it was far from checkmate
He claimed her lips and left
without saying anything.



she had given her everything
all or nothing
her innocent lips
her pride
herself

yes, she was his
and he was hers!
And yet his heart still shudders to speak?
Or simply has nothing to say?

Hope is a thing with wings
-----an eagle's
but Doubt has an angel's

and so without hesitation
she bet everything
on those three words
all just to hear  for herself
with his voice loud and

clear

a foolish gamble
on the greatest fallacy of all


1 message received

I love you. I rily min t

she stared silently at her phone
till rain started pouring
and loud thunder boomed
on a bright sunny day

cloud-seeding?

she muttered softly
as she pressed delete


Notes: .....I uuh got this idea from a close friend's(a girls) experience.....i'll take any violent reaction head on so go for it....its my first time to post stuff besides drawings anyway so....my pleasure. :D 

--G. Juanga

Sep. 14th, 2007

nihaokitty

A June Stigmata

A June Stigmata
by Samantha Anne L. Portillo

Up a sharp, 
YOU surfaced;
 
stumbling amongst the notes 
of every rhythmic pattern 
throbbing beneath my chest. 
Drumroll, drumroll.
I’m stuck in last song syndrome 
and I die of euphoria attack 
with a millisecond speck 
of your stare.
The moment is mine, 
and solely mine 
to devour.
Then, down a flat, 
the amplifiers 
scream prophecies 
that fulfill the omen 
that butterflies in my stomach bring.
They fly,
like a restless dream, 
like a shooting star 
stigmatizing the stellar skies swiftly,
from pitch to pitch, 
never missing the beat 
of the metronome, 
crying out melodies 
that quiver, 
living out of sleep.
You danced on the strings 
holding you in cages 
with every touch of the pick. 
But alas, 
your adrenaline suddenly fell short 
in keeping up 
with the abrupt ebb and flow 
of the time signature.
You succumbed 
and settled for a rest. 
FOREVER.



P.S. The poem's title is an anagram of the name of the person for which this poem is all about. The imagery in this poem is kind of music-oriented because the person whom I wrote this poem for is a musician; specifically a rhythm guitarist of a band. Also, I wrote this poem around June last year. That was the time in my life wherein that person had such an impact on me.

Sep. 13th, 2007

squareflare

9 PM and I'm feeling giddy and braindead at the same time

I've spent the last hour contemplating on what to post. Some things I considered were some form of music shuffle list, come up with a piece of work right now but I don't think German heavy metal is conducive for that, post poems written by others that I like along with something else I've written before.

I think I'll go with the last option. :)

This poem was written by a friend of mine over the Internet. He's an 18 yr old Dutch male who lives in the Netherlands, and I really like this piece he came up with.

Source: http://www.smogon.com/forums/showpost.php?p=607724&postcount=17

Pictures In The Sand Fade (But Not From Memories)

The sea turns red under a scarlet sunset,
And a full moon rises into heavens set
Above the shores where memories bled.

It's the last time winds breezed over the beach,
Through her hair just floating out of my reach
Into my ears whisp'ring virgin oceanspeech.

And she glanced from the corner of her eye,
Watching the fading world passing her by
A final gaze at the stars in the moonlit sky.

She sat down next to me and took my hand
And she drew circles and lines in the sand,
The last picture of us in the living's land.

We watched the sea recede from the shore
She held me tightly in her arms just before
She kissed me once but I never wanted more.

She whispered our last goodbye in my ears
Would I remember her when she left me here
Alone without her to keep the memory near?

------------------------------------------------------------------

I remember back when I was in 3rd year high school. I was asked to write a poem on how to describe the sunset to a blind man, under a 5 minute time limit. And since the above poem is also themed on sunset, I guess I'll post this. I'll post the poem I wrote in its raw un-edited 5-minute-written version.

Goodbye to the Setting Sun

How I long
To feel once more
The radiance
And the warmth of the glorious sun
As it sets
Casting its ray across the sea
Sinking away into the sea
And everything around me seems quiet
And everything around me seems cooler
As night approaches

A feeling of bliss
Oh how I will miss
The radiance
And the warmth of the glorious sun.

majbag

Mourning

I mourn for the death
of my fickle self-confidence
that was crushed
By the people around me.

It was pounded into ashes.
Spread by the wind.

Finding it
and building it
AGAIN
will be tedious.

I'm mourning for its death
Yet waiting...
For its slow resurrection.



-J. Gabionza



Sep. 14th, 2005

jibe89

FAR AWAY

Five o' clock in the morning
as I lie conscious on my bed
he would be packing his things up
with a tickled smile on his face.
  
Looking back
when laughter fills the air 
and dreams seems close to reach
he would be building a world
apart from my reverie.

Confusion and fear 
find their way in my mentality
yet he is akin to a bird 
longing to his Beloved heavens.

My eyes gradually set tears free
as he now overlooked the pledge
to remain closer to me.

I closed my wet eyes as I tried to sleep
holding our old picture close to my being
as he went away, away fom me...


- jayvee de los trinos

Sep. 13th, 2007

empty_pipe

(no subject)











A Bowl of Champorado

 

I love

the purple dawn.

My day starts this way

every single time.

The kettle sings.

Its voice is shrill.

Hoot! Hoot!

The oiled pan,

sprite sparks warming the air

a mini fireworks display

to celebrate the new day.

 

But what I love

about the purple dawn

is the warm

tickling aroma

of a pot of Champorado

simmering on a stove.

My

bowl of Champorado

on the breakfast table.

 

Here comes my husband

and my son

their clothes starched and ironed

with my own hands.

See,

I have proof.

There’s a little blister on my pinky.

An eternal scar

on my poor little pinky.

 

A kiss I plant on my man’s

cheek

and my son

with his pea-sized lips

plants one on mine.

 

I placed the pot

so tenderly

on the table

as if it were my infant son.

Three bowls on the table

filled with my

luscious

Champorado.

 

My son eats away

one slurp after another.

He seems pleased.

My son always loves

my cooking.

 

This is how our day starts

every single time.

And I love every breakfast

we share

 

Together.

 

 

 

Your Champorado,

my husband says,

is too sweet.

And it loses taste

when we eat it

too often.

Try cooking something else

for a change.

 

 

 

My son gets up from his seat.

He had already

finished his bowl.

Thanks, Mom,

he tells me,

that was great.

 

 

 

I need to get going now.

 

 

 

A small kiss on my cheek

from my son.

Brown smudges

from his lips

on my skin.

 

My husband follows,

I can’t finish this bowl.

I’ll be going too.

 

 

 

White steam

embraces our bowls still

even my son’s empty one.

 

 

My bowl is still untouched.

 

 

I lift my husband’s bowl

and throw its contents into the bin

where we throw in the pig’s feed.

The two bowls I wash

with my scaly hands.

Bits of Champorado—

my Champorado—

are still caught

in my nails. But

the bowls are

 

squeaky clean.

I always do things that way.  

 

A thin film

covers my Champorado

stagnant, until

I push through it

with a spoon. It isn’t

 

that warm anymore. But

it is still warm.

 

Good food

shouldn’t be put to waste,

I tell myself. I take

small sips,

slowly.

 

The sky

wasn't purple anymore.

 

Hours pass

and I still

can’t

finish

my

b

o

w

l.

 

 --AGBFrancisco


As for the "harsh", "juicy" comments i've been giving lately, I think I'll keep on giving them. That said, feel free to say whatever the hell you want with stuff I post. Do not restrain yourselves for modesty's sake or whatnot. If you think I'm going overboard, bite me. 

And if it is justified to do so, I'll bite you back :)

For it is my life's delight to see pages burn, and to see them reborn to things even more beautiful.
 

Sep. 11th, 2007

internally_evil

(no subject)

 











I hate it 
when
it rains.

Droplets 
would go 
pitter-patter
putter-potter
petter
all over the place, 
all wet, 
 and icky, 
and damp, 
and gross, 
creating 
an annoying barrage 
of noise 
that makes me wanna stop whatever I am doing 
and
shout out, 
scream, 
at the top of my voice: 
"Shut up!"
 



But 
of course 
I could never
no
never ever
not ever
do that,
(talk to the rain out loud, you know)
for then
I would be considered crazy
by my neighbors,
who I feel are already avoiding me in the first place.
(I wonder why?)


So what I do
what I do
is I just go out,
hold out my hands,
 and whisper
whisper to the falling droplets,
and to the cooing wind:
"Be still..."
hoping
ever hoping
that the rain gods
would hear
my plea.





And then
as always
as ever
the world
would
 
go
silent
...












Sep. 10th, 2007

jbrillantes

(no subject)

EXILE




Time is running slowly;


And as the clock ticks,


I found myself crying;


Crying ‘til my eyes get burned


Pleading for you to come back


Shouting for you to hear


Bleeding for you to see


A blindfold threadbare,


A bittersweet acceptance-


There cannot be any us.




I find it hard to forget,


But I must move on,


Carry on, walk on,


Find my distance,


And live on.




-marianne

Sep. 4th, 2007

kirstinjello

"What goes around comes around..."- from Karma by alicia Keys

 

One Round Morning

 

            I was just standing there, right in the middle, when an aroma revealed the making of a circle accompanied by the pretentious show of gravity.

 

 

            Walking my way to school one morning, I had this actively palpitating hunch that……I was going to be late. The solid image of my Math teacher terrorized my feet; condescending chin, raised eyebrow, tightly creased lips, tensed shoulders and arms bent like a teapot handle ready to pour some boiling water unto my pathetic little head. My buttocks fell beneath the acacia’s wings that never had the chance to fly with the seagulls.

 

            I deserved some good snooze for some reason that I really couldn’t point out but an annoying purring cat and three mongrels betrayed me. This black cat came revolving around my tree in about twelve-foot radius. Round and round and round…….i felt dizzy for that homeless creature actually. At the same time, I could smell fear and panic rousing from every purr. In the middle of my little thought-processing, three ruthless dogs came after my feline in raucous, really-disturbing barks that signaled an inescapable dominance.

           

            I saw it, without a smirch of blur. Stained with the feline’s blood, one carried the dripping cat between its sharp, ruthless jaws, the others followed. They stopped after some more steps and resumed bludgeoning the dead cat. They savored every licking moment they had in that one great chance of putting up a talent show for me—entitled; “We rock.”

 

            I ran away, trying to clean up the diabolical remains of that show. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. Panting, I stopped in the middle of the street where our home was just a few blocks away. Thirst.

 

            Searching for some drops of water, I roamed my eyes around the area. None. Not a single drop was within the reach of my tongue. I sniffed. Tracing the scent of beer, I saw some red brawny guys having their usual drinking sessions behind me. From their table, the aroma of azucena* filled my nose.

 

 

 

*azucena – a kind of dog steak for Filipinos

               

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