Almost a child herself, how will she cope?
Until now everything had labels, expiry dates,
do’s and don’ts, helpful hints, arrow pointing ‘UP’.
But this one was delivered not even marked ‘FRAGILE’.
What will she do? She’ll have to start by giving it a name.
368.
The Plea of the Offspring of Makati
Oh Father God, let me win millions of pesos in Philippine Lotto lottery
Let's see how the world will treat me
If I already have lots of money
For sure even my fans in FB
Will increase surprisingly
Hear me, oh hear me, my Father God Almighty!!!...
Hearken to the Plea of the Offspring of Makati!
By Your will, the world shall see
A great enterprise rising from this country!
An enterprise that shall uplift the many
And magnify Thy mercy & glory!
An enterprise that shall rescue me
From their lynching & lingchi literally and/or figuratively
An enterprise that shall show to the many
Your glorious miracle not yet in history!
Be our hope & foundation of prosperity
Make me an instrument of a new dawn for humanity!
-06/11/2015
(Dumarao)
*My Prayer Poems for Ultimate Victory Collection
Water is the offspring of space and time
and when it flows seeks to trace the area
of its parents courtship which resulted in
their fiery union producing seeds of nature
to provide for their nourishment and growth,
in the soil of this earth with its fertile clime.
_________________________________________
They inhale the poisonous substance,
adduction had no power over resistance;
their brain's responsiveness is too slow:
look at them: their glance is so mellow!
This is the offspring of the floating potheads,
they renounce everything that means strides;
they sit in a relaxed pose with mindless eyes:
soldiers fight the wars, while they enjoy puffs. "
Vacant glances and sunken cheeks stir disgust,
their veins must be fed with drugs, not nutrients;
don't they stretch out that bony hand to collect
a meager sum not enough to buy Ecstasy pills?
Onlookers speed by, not expressing human apathy
for the useless ones who display a state of misery,
but who are the offspring of the floating potheads?
Friends, strangers, the homeless, and the Diddies!
When your heart exists outside
of your body, in someone that
was created from you,
it is most vulnerable
and can reach the heights of joy
or plummet into the depths of dispair
warm sunlight streams down
gently kissing her face
she sighs as the trade winds blow
just atop her blanket of trees
her high mountains touch the clouds
and sweep downward with such grace
her body jeweled in emerald
and blue are her mighty seas
the Lord God created her
out of nothing He poised her from first
Mother Earth has always
held in her arms so many offspring
she's the one God chose
to entrust the Savior's birth
Chicory chew chew, tobakky chaw
I love my pappy. I love my ma.
Spit in a tin can, straight from my jaw
Chicory chew chew, tobakky chaw.
i am a copy
of a copy
of a copy
screaming, originality!
a functional fallacy
that we are created as
individuals
when really we are
predetermined
by DNA
Don’t tell me what to do!
Nothing defines who I am!
Aside from you existing in half of me
still, I fail to understand
the complexities that
weave us together
if I am just a copy
how can I be better?
i want to be a rainbow fish
with something shiny
and unique to give
follow the advice of the wise
octopus and live so
freely like the other fish
yet, I worry I will always be
a shark
lurking in dark waters
the terror of the sea
giving birth to copies
of copies
of copies
of me
the residue left behind
Ribs in a tide
Nudging at my spine
Answering for questions
these ghosts have left behind
a message from a former me
thrice i've now denied
the existence of the copy
her body left behind
warm spring day dipping toes in the cool creek I spot a geode; a large specimen, of crystals that I will clean and admire as it rests between my favorite amethyst chunk and the twin crystal, on my mirrored tile,
next to the potted plants.
natures’ offspring
glitters in creek water
sunlight reflects
3-12-2022
A BRIAN STRAND FORMAL Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Breathe in a dust
Cough up a lung
Atmospheric poison
Futuristic prison
Can't you see the destruction
Of the offspring of evolution
They see beauty trough filters
Hear nature trough earplugs
Smell pines in candles
And don't touch! Oh so dangerous...
They walk trough life,
Like they travel the world
Experiencing the superficiality of existence
Thoughtlessly missing out on the essence.
Does your writing dance above the words
or somewhere down below
Do voices borrowed and feelings loaned,
occlude your diction’s flow
Do phrases couple and stanzas mesh,
in new harmonic forms
Does music waltz proudly from page to page
—to score new lyrics born
(Walking With Colby: February, 2021)
Amid the glare and glitter at this jolliest of seasons there lurks a deep rich human impulse born to halo moons.
Glowing cheek of cherry blossom offspring,
lovingly they tug at universal father figure Santa’s blood red garb,
sugar coated pledge that leave our budding spirit spellbound, in a trance.
Ice floe dreamscape wonderland a Mecca for this incandescent childhood phase,
where fantasy meets heart of gold creation.
Christmas pudding marinate, citrus peel aroma, coal fire nuggets ring dance round familiar carol bursts
With a crazy weirdo witchlike stare
She said “Break this stale and stifled air”
The crow landed softly on autumn’s mare.
And drove his talons into her soft hair.
With cheer and tidings greeted
The warlock felt slightly irritated and defeated.
He had taught his offspring to fly; brooms meted.
And here she was on soft horse seated.
Squirrels felt alive in October grand.
Brisk the smile and crisp the hand
Jack-o-lanterns displayed, trick-or-treaters shaking
Daddy’s hands extended, quick for shaking
Those sparkled eyes and sunny faces duly greeting
On Halloween night met with joyful spirits meeting
Daddy Warlock was proud as his little witch flew in on broom.
Her autopilot license alive and well. He watched her on Zoom.
We locked eyes
you and I;
your onyx rounds
held me in their grip
until my mind was read.
Brother of the woods
I wish no harm;
your sensuous visage,
displaying its power,
cannot match the engine’s bulk...
Go back brother deer
go back and beautify
the greenwood;
you do not need my world;
the collector’s are unkind.
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