Literary as hell.
The end of a century flipping like a calendar number,
and here I am kissing a short squat building where
everyone says hello, and no one recognizes me.
Upstairs there are families I once lived in, but
pawnshops have moved in like stray cats. In the garden,
rhizome dreams borrow the curiosity from a stare,
sending up tomorrow as a stalk and teaching it to listen.
Afternoon is a jeweler
Setting hours in gold,
As silver glinting waves
Slap the garnet shore.
Gonzalinho da Costa—a pen name—teaches at the Ateneo Graduate School of Business, Makati City, Philippines. He is a management research and communication consultant. A lover of world literature, he has completed three humanities degrees and writes poetry as a hobby.
The night stars, I’m going to miss them
light up the dark sky, like Dante’s god.
From here, on this cold hill, it seems
the earth is dark but heaven is bright.
Languishing in a state of dire straits,
he contemplates the rate of his life,
the ways of his strife,
the days and the nights.
An abecedarian learning to speak again
in his most recent reincarnation,
walking fine lines between monstrosity
and virtuousness.
The streets are clogged
with heat and horns
the crash of sliding metal gates
sidewalk steams where it’s been hosed
in the paper
I search for mention of people I used to know
the sun bakes my face
by Carl Boon
The journey takes her past
the faces of the women
in the village making tea.
She thinks to photograph them
to make a book, but they're so many,
and some trail children
through valleys of flowers
until rock, until sea, until
the world's run out of wonders.
What have I eaten?
(Inspired by Sylvia Plath)
In response to my mother’s nagging question,
“What have you eaten today, Annie?”
What have I eaten?
Lies and smirks.
My diet calls for uncertainty,
I’ve got a hunger for what hurts.
Breadcrumbs of grumbles,
And bits of anxieties unsung,
Tastes that sit familiar on my tongue.
(I think I am made of dust and thirsty for your rain.)
All I have eaten for 13 months
Are leftover scraps of stale hope
And heaping portions of quiet patience.
My big eyes for love left unfulfilled,
My stomach full of deprivation.
***********************
Annie is a writer/poet named after her mother’s favorite book, Anne of Green Gables (so it’s spelled Anne-with-an-E!). She’s obsessed with poetry, stargazing, antiques, & animals, and she’s always on the lookout for unusual and/or beautiful words to record in her notebook, which she never leaves the house without. For more of Annie’s poetry and writing, follow her on Twitter (@Beannie129) or email her at aturn139@gmail.com.
i keep the
universe
in my
knees
the ground
is hard
and
cold
this night will
never
have a
day
my mouth is
wide
and has no
name
At least once a week
3 kids are thrown into the frying pan
carelessly yolked together
olive oil siphoned off
black & salt left out on purpose
the shells still have transparent film
stuck to the side of the garbage disposal
homework crumbled like cake is there too
There is surplus salmon pink late notices
broken shards of glass
swept from the kitchen aluminum floor
overflowing for space Continue reading
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