the wry rhythm
eets a rat again
go get the dustpan
and flatten that scoundrel
throw it out and burn its ashes
scram for the door
and never come back again
sharomp sharomp downtown
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
20210723
20210711
20210701
Economic Scoundrel: An Interactive Poem
In an Old Bank
Down on Wolf Street, New York
He computed every last computation
He punched every punchable key
Nothing could multiply his profit
Probably it wasn't counted
To his own income account
Down there in Manhattan
She computes
Endlessly Because of This Gift
I Have It So I Can Manipulate It
Bend It To My Will
Made of Rubber or Not or Hard Plastic Probably
I Was Disturbed by Her Face Because Her Greed
Goes Unquestioned
I Can't Believe She Collects
Or Anagrams or Anasolves Each Item
What she has in her apartment
No one knows, except for
Crisp, SawBoard-y Cardboard
She turns on the lamp at night
Each window lit just right
God knows what she has up there
What she collects in the upstairs attic
Who knows what's inside those PigBellAlarms (tm)
Or if fake cherry fruits ever helped her live better
If she goes to the Protestant or the Catholic Heaven
We only know what kind of devotional she reads at night
What she keeps up there is a bunch of boardgames
I think we are more than friends. We are inner happiness.
We are riches. Real riches.
The Dark Horse of Manila
By T. Mina
Under the passageways of neglect and forgetfulness
Is an underlying complaint
Of everything else underneath
She speaks the language of funeral horses
Mistaken for white horses* are horses with large horns
Driving away for a funeral for two
Time is not of the essence; essence is like the bottles she sells as wares
Time is not a measurement; Time is like rivers running dry and filling up again in December
Maps are just as essential; they are also as deceptive
Better trust your senses
Rather than your stepsister;
Electrical wires are a thing of the past.
Things made of twine, charcoal, saddle leather and rose quartz
These things make up the City.
Never again will they cross paths.
They will only see a cartoon version of each other on Pub Posters
A City where people go on foot.
Where you hold out your hands and receive something;
Mountains can no longer be scaled by ladders;
They must be climbed by ropes.
In three hours, your life will last.
In three more minutes, your life will start.
20210122
A poem about Typhoon Yolanda
As featured in Poetry Magazine.
the ghosts of sea salt corpses
wander barangay Calogcog
do not stop to pick up strangers of barnacle flesh
soaking from the sea that drowned them
their skin blistered and fish-scale gray
ghost breath heavy
as the mountain of cadavers
we buried in this traffic triangle
the lolo pedicab driver shakes
when his midnight passengers disappear
leaving only a pool of saltwater on his tricycle seat
the smell of gutted fish stalking him home
seaweed arms crawling up his sprinting legs
beneath moonlight, their wrinkled fingers
comb the rice fields flooded in salt
skip through brown hills of dried tigbao grass
climb decapitated coconut trees
and sing to the families they left behind
their gasping voices pierce
like heavy rains into zinc roofs—
where else did you think our spirits would float?
in our town
every corner is a white cross memorial
and we are still finding bodies
skeletons trapped beneath debris
demanding proper burial
in San Jose, a family hears baby boy crying
buligi ako! help me, mama
the singing rains in his voice
stalk them sleepless
until seventh night
find a four- or five-year-old body wedged beneath septic tank
wrapped in the mosquito net he slept in
before storm surge swallowed his morning bedroom
or what about the 56 children of barangay Santa Cruz
their legs strangled by thick roots of water lilies
floating in the river, nine-year-old limbs
trapped in the crumbling of their own elementary school
at night, their spirits dance in the splashing sabang
laughter sweet as the stems of santan nectar
listen, to the 5th grade tsismosas gossip
chanting to the rhythm of jump rope—
tong tong tong tong,
pakitong-kitong alimango sa dagat
malaki at masarap mahirap hulihin
sapagkat naangangagat
mama teaches me
iday, do not fear these Yolanda spirits
speak to them, like you speak to your lola
ask them to watch over your brother back home
ask them to calm the winds
beg them, to keep our islands above ocean
until heavy rains and gusts of wind
no longer smell sour like decaying bodies
these spirits sing a warning—
an dagat gugutomon la gihap
the sea that feeds us
will one day grow hungry
again.
After Merlie M. Alunan
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