Thursday, January 26, 2017

Puñeta: Political Pilipinx Poetry

Read my poem: "LINE THEM UP"

@Copyright 2017 belongs to the respective author of each work.
Locofo Chaps is an imprint of Moria Books.  More information can be found at
Cover image: “Puñeta” (2015), embroidered on cotton by Jenny Ortuoste
Locofo Chaps is dedicated to publishing politically-oriented poetry.
Chicago, USA, 2017 


Michelle Bautista: “FLOW”       

Mg Roberts: “notes from the gyre”       

Kimberly Alidio: “I was born for a stricter regime”

Jose Padua: “Headhunters”        

Kimberly Alidio: “[untitled]”       

Luisa A. Igloria: “PEOPLE LIKE US”       

Glynda Velasco: “The F Word”       

Barbara Jane Reyes: “Prayers of Petition”      

Jose Padua: “Seven and Seven Is”       

Cristina Querrer: “LINE THEM UP”       

Angela Peñaredondo: “RETURN”       

Jean Vengua: SEPTEMBER 5, 2013       

Aileen Ibardaloza: “APOLOGY”       

Leny M. Strobel: “On the Limits of Grief”      


Mg Roberts: “from a scar mosaic”       

Eileen R. Tabios: “… from the MDR Poetry        Generator: ‘Pilipinx’”

Monday, January 16, 2017

Denying Your Wounds

sullen as flattened pillows
that are useless to sink into dreams

& rusty nails driven so deep
fantasies of sleep prevail

lovers close the door on a past
but nothing can resurrect

those moments before 
contentment contaminates

the canvas with realism 
struck in awe by how perfect

water droplets are on the golden challice
yet representations of light

go unnoticed in the scheme of things
the gallows, sunken ships in the foreground

Judith & Holofernes struggle
in that scene in the dark--his wound

from childhood come to existence
her wounds gone unnoticed

yet she won the cause, defeated 
the pain with her own intentions

but what if she loved him, this tormentor?
she would have given up her body

like communion but he would drink
all the wine, wipe his lips, & walk away again

never to promise to surrender
never to say he would

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Eileen Lives with Art

Eileen Tabios, my long time poet/writer friend, wrote about my art I had given to her a while back in her blog:  

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Debt Free

No matter how fresh our footprints
to the door are, they never stay
Even though proof of us is there
in crisp mornings 
walking the dog in the dark 
& stars still twinkling in silence
after your Houdini tricks

The crackle of broken branches 
& dried leaves are evidence, too
The audible memory of our existence
transcends the minutiae of our quarrels
where squirrels in daylight robbed
& hid deep in trunks of old trees

Only to fall to the ground, forced 
off the ledge, rejected by the old curator
& the voices from the Pandora Box 
came back alive in us

You wouldn't give me the full-throttle
of your heart to bare proof to our
purpose, just glued pieces of us 
back haphazardly
with thick, ugly brown old glue
covering the San Andreas Fault
of this bare bone china

I shout: "Show me proof!"  Want it only 
certified and officially stamped 
even if it bypassed postal worker bees
in the wee hours of morning
who ensure news safely
gets to where it needs to go

& I waited for it patiently, diligently
checking the mailbox daily
You came & went like you did 
many times before, except now
I wanted to check your pockets for it

But you bared nothing but daily rantings
of your arcane life & how you 
yearned to sail around 
the world with me in retirement 
to stow away in some rustic, 
two-bit paradise bar
with other old ex-pats & young, 
drunk & chatty Peace Corps teachers

Wait. We've been there before,
repeat. Alas, yet nothing
but spider webs in my mailbox,
no golden-sealed letter that write
the whole weighty student loan off
that dredged through years of my life
like this--no relief from the debts
of plans gone awry

Waited long enough to start 
at the dusty airport where I left
& you said you'd be back in only 
four months time

But years passed & gave me nothing 
to bank on, to build up credit for, 
to put away for the future,
just senseless selfish chatter 
about your dreams where
you inserted me somewhere
for who knows for how long this time,
as long as I don't leave, you say

I close my mailbox, 
locked the front door behind me 
& gave you back
all that you owed 

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Poetry in the Dark

I have nothing to offer:

I have been steeped too long
in silence not worthy of
song or flowers 

yet I write poetry in the dark
in underwater caves, loveless
& cold. I eat dried leaves
& disemboweled vowels

as my dark letters curve & tilt
& trail off
my compressed language
dangle above

you walk on by
never noticing -- Be. Ethical. Fair Trade Global Products