Best Guava Poems
RED ANGEL
I see the fire in your eyes!
This Red Angel, who's not human, intriguing with lies.
Pointing to the path that leads to paradise.
Ending Revelations with violence, breaking every inch of ice.
Blazing wings like the sunset over a field of corn.
A row of roses with rubies sharper than a thorn.
A devious smile covering up a set of horns.
Diluting me with images, since the day I was born.
Goose bumps when your essence is near.
I linger and shiver my lips with fear.
A slithery hypnotic tongue, the Red Angel wipes away my tear.
Holding the reddish key, whispering the word. "FREEDOM!"Into my ear.
Like the crimson tide lifting me from drowning at his request.
I find my heart pondering deeper and deeper within my chest.
Blessed with the curse of 'death' when my demons are depressed.
I'm still smiling to the sweet surrender of your breath.
A halo exploding like the fur of a volcano filled with lava.
Allowing the angel's advocate around~like a tree of strawberry guava.
Swallowing my own drops of red blood from my own saliva.
Living like the dead after a full bottle of vodka.
I beg for mercy at the Red Angels cow like feet.
Collapsing with sweat in his sweet eternal heat.
Gasping for the fresh air to avoid the smell of rotten meat.
I see the aura of an angel with his fangs ready to feast and eat.
Falling into a daze towards the red picket fence.
My Red House engraved with flames, after my feeling where condense.
My soul tormented by goodness at evils expense.
Flowing with every feeling including God's given sixth sense...
By; P.D.
((( Merry X- Mass Everyone)))
Bagels and baguettes
Bap or fried bake,
The fruits of the flour
are easy to make
Chollah, chapatti,
Cinnamon bun.
These global delights,
make eating such fun.
Filled with Caribbean sweet meat
like Guava jam,
Scottish smoked salmon;
Or Danish roast ham.
Add a fresh fruit salad,
Some sparkling wine,
A candle, red roses and
you’re ready to dine.
Joanna Davis
Rain is brewing;
black clouds hang over the Cockpit Country.
Them rainclouds have a habit of shifting colors like a lizard.
The smell of the pending shower is strong on September’s breath;
the sun take a well-deserved break.
Mango season is long gone,
and bellies are tied up in knots.
Naseberries; they accompanied the mangoes.
Them guys from abroad,
who bought the government land across from the football field,
slaughtered them faithful guava trees.
They build condos,
but poor people can’t eat condos.
How inconsiderate them big-shot government boys are.
We (me, Footloose, and Squealie) device a plan,
when our bellies start telling us something must be done,
but we have to wait ‘til darkness falls,
‘cause bushes have eyes in sunlight.
While everyone sleeps in the bosom of the night,
we put on our birthday suits,
and scale the barbed wire fence at the back of the house.
We are now one with the blinding shadows.
We race carelessly across the open pasture;
burrs biting at our tender flesh,
and mosquitoes humming maddening music in our ears.
We tip toe on the dry leaves,
using our hands as shields
to fend off the razor-sharp edges of the cane leaves.
We drop down on all four, bellies on the ground;
we navigate the rows like them American marines – naked and all.
We ate our full,
and Squealie wet the bed that night.
Them sugarcane have a way of making us hyper.
Footloose fell from a Poinciana tree and fractured his hand,
but we stayed energized that fall.
1#
Brewed tea
Wife and myself
Nothing between us
2#
He was metamorphosed
Into a frog
When his wife had left him
3#
I needed
A lonely woman
Thousand years back
4#
She shivered
In yellow sun
Struck by her coyness
5#
God travels
With three suitcases
One for me
6#
I kissed
Her frostiness
And my lips turned icebergs
7#
The bed
Gets embarrassed
At our nakedness
8#
Her hands
Stopped me
To pick evenings
9#
We two rested
In a cave of Kundalini
Behind the waterfall
10#
The alien woman
Travelled six moons
To deliver her baby in a burial ground
11#
An eagle swoops
On a field –mouse
Tables of wedding
12#
The woman kissed me
I felt her hollow ribs
As if in a spring dream
13#
The woman’s hair
Struck by a gale
Made waterfalls
14#
My wife locked
Me one fine evening
In my neighbour’s hole
15#
The rats are away
When mice take in
My wife’s clammy face
16#
The summer rain
In exasperation
Took wings to raid the moon
17#
Lolo my wife
Her green sleek steps
Thundered an innocent fly
18#
In the dead of night
God made two wives
One for me one for my neighbour
19#
My neighbour’s wife
Delivered a child
When I was asleep
20#
The woman said goodbye
And I took a fish for dinner
I mistook it for my wife
21#
My wife is a canvas
Where I paint
My forebodings
22#
A painter’s apprentice
In sheer foolishness
daubed in red my wife’s rear-view
23#
A squirrel saw my wife
And in haste
Lost her guava
24#
I was caught in neighbour’s bedroom
By my wife last summer
I lost my glasses
25#
A wolf entered the graveyard
Unannounced
And annoyed my wife
26#
Sarah my wife
Lumbering
Dizzy commuters
27#
Sarah wed me
And in brief forgetfulness
Greeted my neighbour
28#
A tiger ate Sarah my wife
It happened by accident
The tiger knows
29#
Morning bell
Wake up call
I want to sleep
30#
Pola my pet fly
Fouled things up
She ate my wife’s breakfast
31#
My dog Pintu
Hydrophobia
I set him free on my wife’s posterior
32#
Eons ago a butterfly
Gave birth to my wife
Now, a caterpillar
33#
A hard slap
Stammering
Hurricane Sarah will win
34#
You have gathered enough winters
Woman sighs
Leave one for me
35#
The woman flapped her wings
To clouded mountaintops
Silky as white
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Along this foggy daybreak stroll,
I tread along the intersection
between Mabini Street and EDSA boulevard,
crossing number 25 Ortigas Road.
I breathe in the same grain
of Manila pollen and dust itching
my throat ; an acrid mound of city garbage
gathered by rain’s aftermath,
as if to beckon another tropical deluge;
and the loud chatter of headlines
from the newspaper stand pierces
the lobes with a burning jolt… a bundle
of political scoops and trade rumors
grating an otherwise neutral hour.
Few distances away, a flea market stand
vibrates with energy; pedestrians milling
around to check buko pies, plum bits,
and homemade guava jams… the exotic aromas
mixing with smoky flavor of dried bamboo leaves
on top of abaca wares; all these catering
to small pleasures of the low-middle working class.
Curving through Francis Square, a deluge
of movement initiates the 7 30 am rush…
buses, cars, and taxi- stands unload
a giant hive of wayfarers coming from
different points of the map; dragging
their skeletal frames like ticks of a clock.
Amidst a Friday hub, I stop to glance at the
towering statue of Mother Mary as a
cart-pusher slowly wanders by; his warm
smile bearing a contrast in a region
where the rat race of man is typical.
Surrounded by a collage of fragrant
eucalypti and mango trees, I breath in
a sense of delight likened to my
yard’s garden, this time, with heady scent.
The plump oaks at the front lobby
of Pharmo Industries are shedding
foliage, while a painted splash
of native robins cruises from laced twigs,
far beyond the clutter of newspaper stands,
market place, and taxi-stands.
My gaze casts inward to balance my thoughts,
as I begin my protracted stay at work.
Stand Contest of Debbie Guzzi
and Nathan's One of Your Best
by nette onclaud
Old guava tree
Still bearing fruits;
Sixty years old now
~~~~~~~~~
Old aunt's house
Porch with fruit trees;
Custard apple delights
~~~~~~~~~
Grandmother calls
Two pungent durians;
Holiday treat
~~~~~~~~~
Waiting time here
School bus arrives;
Goodbye waves
~~~~~~~~~
Memorial tablets
Family altar offerings;
Ancestors watching
~~~~~~~~~
Prayers sung
On festival days;
Harmony abides
~~~~~~~~~
Mind your words
Power resides within;
Seed new moments
~~~~~~~~~
Words surge
Magic floods;
Cosmic activity
~~~~~~~~~
Change anchors
Nothing to lose;
All things come and go
~~~~~~~~~
Death flavours life
Life yields to death;
Nothing stays the same
~~~~~~~~~
All that is true
Seen only with clear heart;
Listen to your soul
~~~~~~~~~
Poise beyond voice
Heart knows fond choice;
Learn to rejoice
~~~~~~~~~
Let blame be brief
Reject all grief;
Now simply breathe
~~~~~~~~~
Words echo
Stones in egg shell;
Noisy crackle
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
20 August 2014
Singapore
(Dedication: For Regina Riddle)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tree caterpillar crawling
Strong windy debris;
Blown over the bough
~~~~~~~~~
Violet blossoms
Vine decorations dancing;
Sun and breeze move
~~~~~~~~~
Joy wears a face:
Your smiles highlight;
Dazzle of morning
~~~~~~~~~
Hasty scribblings
Poetry in motion;
Grassy blooms unnoticed
~~~~~~~~~
Rose garden memories
Touch of rapture;
Thorny issues exfoliate
~~~~~~~~~
Sweet yellow guava
Pleasant tasty treat;
Oxford Road townhouse
~~~~~~~~~
This old Jasmine tree
Fondly remembers;
Our rowdy flower picking
~~~~~~~~~
Joy wears a face
Nature reveals seasons;
Change comes to all
~~~~~~~~~
Look to strange change
To re-jig feelings;
Afternoon rain respite
~~~~~~~~~
Be of good cheer
Bear with bad weather;
Dance with danger
~~~~~~~~~
Mid-autumn frolic
Peace in kind harvest;
Moon cakes and moonlight
~~~~~~~~~
Ghosts of lovers past
Touch of fond rapture;
Breezy plumeria garden
~~~~~~~~~
Voice in the wind
Fragrant with rain;
Black clouds threaten
~~~~~~~~~
Evening stroll
Hand-in-hand;
Plumeria flowers preside
~~~~~~~~~
So much to discern
Harmony trees here;
Gardens By The Bay
~~~~~~~~~
Evening serenade
Cicadas and frogs;
Sounds at nightfall
~~~~~~~~~
Orchard Boulevard stroll
Sense surrounds;
Fragrant touch sifting
~~~~~~~~~
Two yellow butterflies
Fluttering between shrubs;
Sky Bridge tower above
~~~~~~~~~
Haiku surprise
Or senryu moment;
Experience reveals
~~~~~~~~~
Observe dear heart
What nature shows;
See things clearly
~~~~~~~~~
Frangipani tree
Crimson and red flowers;
Walkway perfumery
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
10 August 2014
Singapore
When I am completely with myself, immersed in my reflections,
All the day's works are done - mundane and monotonous,
From far away in the past, an endearing picture emerges to me,
Surreal, yet distinctly visible!
A house which was left abruptly with no warning,
A porch where I scattered all my playthings, on splendid summer days,
The huge windows which smelt of drenched khuskhus herbs from its covering to protect from scorching heat,
Frolicking in the orchard full of shady Guava and Mango trees!
Oh! the spectacular garden of my father’s dream!
Chrysanthemums and Dahlias - I could smell the fragrance of the flowers - Roses, encircled with ferns!
The swing - the symbol of my entire childhood,
Of the laughter, the chatter, the admiring friends, the unforgettable scent of Jasmine flowers on the ground!
I decided not to go back! I was afraid the music had stopped, and the colours were lost!
The birdsongs were gone!
I decided not to open the shell and find the coveted pearl!
But the captivating vision doesn't fade away!
The crumbling door creaks open, and only whispers of the blowing wind I hear -
The black and white photographs on the walls unpainted for long, look faded, although the familiar faces are smiling,
A Rosette, immensely treasured once, is left on the floor - for so long nobody cared to pick it up,
The once-valued carvings on the ceiling is caving in, in melancholy.
The lonely, dusty, staircase which was once a refuge for giggling children playing hide-and-seek, has no footprints!
I decided not to go back,
To witness the decays, which break my heart beyond repair.
But I revisit again and again,
My heart takes me there.
For Decaying House Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Every morning and evening, I happen to watch parrots,
A pandemonium always adorns my guava tree;
Each parrot seems unique, having its very quaint merits,
Like angelic souls, they seem in physique and psyche free...!
What a strong jambiya dagger curved bill! Vertical stance!
Green drainpipe pants-clad legs! Clawed zygodactyl stylish feet!
The parrots that visit my tree in green the scene enhance,
In a romantic mood, merrily my guavas they eat...!
Splendidly observing humans, parrots mimic their speech,
So melodious is their Tabor pipe trumpeting song;
Ballet-like they grip, grasp, and at the highest top they reach,
A craft of the master craftsman, they're happy all day long...!
In my melancholic moods, parrots lift my heart and soul,
In gracing the charm of the world, parrots play a great role...!!!
Quote: "“They have no idea what it is like to lose home at the risk of never finding home again, have your entire life split between two lands and become the bridge between two countries.” –unknown
Amidst the whispers of the waves, I sail,
An expatriate adrift in memories pale.
Through years that roll like distant tides,
I've seen the changes, where once I bide.
In lands where mango, guava, and berry trees stood,
Now swallowed by progress, misunderstood.
Housing estates rise, devouring my past,
Soccer fields and cricket grounds, memories amassed.
No familiar faces in this foreign expanse,
Lost in the crowd, a solitary dance.
Relatives meet, but the gap's too wide,
They see the changes, the scars I hide.
I yearn for the homeland, under azure skies,
Where verdant bushes once met my eyes.
But alas, it's but a dream, a wistful sigh,
My voyage home, forever in the sky.
Yet in the heart's compass, the longing persists,
For the land of my roots, where memories exist.
Though oceans apart, in dreams, I roam,
A voyage to homeland, a whispered poem.
BALIKBAYAN
Six months away to travel
Home to a nostalgic place
Where, once more, I'd be able to capture
The free things:
Mountains, pristine rivers, rice fields, fresh air, etc
My relatives packing all sorts
Used clothing, spam, corned beef, Vienna sausage
Coffee, coffee mates, chocolates, candies
As if those items were not availabe
In any stores except United States.
My childhood I mirror
Daydreaming in the middle of the ricefield
Pulling strings of scarecrows
Washing clothes in the running river
Drying them under the sun.
My childhood brings me back
Climbing guava tree in the backyard
Riding a carabao was a delight
Watching a river gorge
Was a wonder and awe!
I have gone too far.
Now, I am a Balikbayan!
With big boxes in a row
Fascinating pasalubong to everyone
In return
Happy smiles I've got!
Meanings:
Balikbayan -----Overseas Filipino Workers
Pasalubong----a present or a gift
Carabao--------water buffalo
~ Oh, maiden of light cracks the wispy air open ,
wandering around viscous spaces
like virgin shadow caressing the edge
of sleep… and the days stretch longer,
taller than guava trees dreamingly shedding
laces of northeast streams when
songbirds, orbits, and a pageant of flowers listen
to a single humming breeze… and when all else
is sprawled quiet, waterfalls marry her certain
lingering star straying on mouths of gentleness
past eons bound by nuptials in iridescent realms…
*O, ilaw, sa gabing malamig, wangis mo'y
bituin sa langit… O, tanglaw, sa gabing tahimik,
larawan mo, Neneng, nagbigay pasakit. Ay! *
Somehow ,curlicues drape a fragrant smoke
leaking out a folk sky; dancing in the mirror
of the mountain pool… a serenade weeps;
quivering, moaning along the inland pass that
someone said morning becomes electra,
that learning how to hear her blossom or
pearl stone unravels the very skin from
which it was born is allowing time to
shed her purity far beyond unknowing a
water’s need to keep still: the juice spills…
**Gising at magbangon sa pagkagupiling
sa pagkakatulog na lubhang mahimbing;
buksan ang bintana at ako'y dungawin,
nang mapagtanto mo ang tunay kong pagdaing. * *
Peeling new faces of time, shaping the width of
endless rhyme in sprays of endless mystery...
like so, a thousand times before and after,
twilight and daybreak entwine… oh,light elusive,
passing through calm eyes of young maiden’s season
is love’s way of coming back to itself. ~
--------
* O, light, in the cold night; you're like a star in the sky
O, light, in the quiet night, your picture, Neneng,
makes one ache…. Oh!
** Awake and arise from slumber,
from your sleep so deep.
Open your window and look out to me
So that you may understand my true lament.
~ this poem is inspired by a harana, a traditional Filipino serenade. The suitor
is accompanied by his friends who back him up both vocally.
At first, the woman's window is closed. The man calls out to her
and if she's interested, she'll open her window.
Singing harana originated during the Spanish
colonial period in the Philippines.~
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYueJU0Ufws&feature=related
---------
For Debbie’s Bi-lingual Poetry by nette onclaud
While watching the expansions of cities I felt too sad one day. In order to create more roofs and houses, Green fields were slaughtered to meet the passions of the builders and our politicians.
The places where there used to swing in air, the branches of dancing mustard and linseed flowers were weeping with tears in their eyes. I kept moving from one field to another and I found the same story everywhere.
At another place a small water stream was in the process of elimination and concrete pipes were laid beneath the ground to make the entire place on a level. The builders were about to celebrate a party, as their building plans were in the final stage of taking a shape. New shining houses with lots of street lights will soon be there, where Nature was spreading its smiles in the form of flowers and buds, grains and harvests, brooks and streams, orchards of Mango and guava. The old trees and wild flowers with hanging creepers and their smiling little buds would be wiped out as the old order changes giving place to new.
I thought for a moment that perhaps our new generations would never know why the beauty and music, which lurks from the yellow Mustard and purple Linseed flowers, when their crops swings and dances in the months of Fagun* (Feb. and March) inspires us to write Poems and Songs. Perhaps the new generation would be too busy in exploring new stars and planets in search of some water and air. As by that time the Earth would be empty from such blessings of Nature.
THE POEM ON SPRING WILL BE HERE VERY SOON
4.
on this spine
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down
the climate
everyday
the sunglass changes
look at the soil and the sky
no one of them has any body-guard
the open mouth of the light
swallows the grey coin
here the wall becomes more tamed
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart
and hums
then ripping open my veins
should i also vomit the blue elocution
accumulated on the cock-pit
after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on
even introduction with the gas-balloon
has not been done yet
5.
arrangements are being made
the green shirt will gradually
turn reddish
the culverts that have become exhausted
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight
and the hawker will get passed the silent-home
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands
from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles
of the children-park
the amaltas will say
i’m ready
then to escape the sun-shine
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition
will embrace… oh margosa … its your pierced-heart
you may tell him that the name of the girl
who is eating guava and swinging her legs
sitting on its branch is munni
6.
the horse is running
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice
his back is full of dreams
or a girl named miss dorothy
around it is the mid-night
around it is the wind that wants to be printed
and in every corner of its flying
are hundreds of skirts
all are of free-size
what may be their market-price
there is no shop-keeper there
in that valley
a shadow is proceeding on
do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily
this time there is no thin cane
in his hand
in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms
there is ‘darling’ there
and ‘yours beloved greta’
in which skirt
a touch of that greta does remain
is it being searched even today
is it greta or margaret or eliza
there is no bar if it is dorothy
in whose smell there is no greta
who has no such horse flying just above three feet
of the yellow cornice
each mid-night fills the fountain pen
with the flow of blue ink
Famed gold crepuscular rays angling down
Knifing in between, through volcanic haze
Hualalai and Mauna Loa’s crowns
Fire Goddess Pele greets fresh island day
Fuchsia blooms explode, steal attention
Pollens mingle on zephyr coastal breeze
Hallowed entry, this tropic dimension
Surf thunder backdrop, soundtrack of the sea
Running shoes crunching the roadside lava
Kaleidoscopic blooms, soon to transmute
Mango, papaya, lilikoi, guava
Untended harvest of paradise fruit
Slow tempo set to the island perfume
Soul dances in the fragrant sensation
Unbridled speed would be this journey’s doom
Not to give in to the exultation
Entering town, the cast of characters
Pungent whiffs of spoiled fish atop stale rice
Green Shangri-La’s dingy inheritors
Tropical Bukowski's frayed paradise
Amphetamine native, drawn skin and bones
Wincing eyes, loose grasp, cigarette homespun
Tribal markings long burnt, faded blue tones
Completed journey, dark side of the sun
Manicured denizens clutter the way
Fair guests at the Royal Lik’a’Heini
Young surf seekers grimace to greet the day
Pakalolo Hostel, skunk-and-briny
Volta at the pier, Triathlon’s temple
Hallowed asphalt, footfalls of history
World’s smartest man living life so simple
Broom pushing, tune whistling, smiling at me
I should run faster; it's Ali’i Drive
Temple of Ironman’s Marathon pride
Vainglorious dreams have boiled alive
Burgeoning pace, a seaside suicide
Fair breeze has halted, sharp rays now reigning
Blanket of torpor fights progress forward
Through fragrant pillow, all fight is draining
A ballistic migraine arcing southward
Demons exorcised, sultry purgation,
Epic journey ends in clear sacred brine
Feet dive in wet sand, a bless’t sensation
Gaia’s ocean of sweat swallowing mine
4/28/16
© Thomas W. Quigley