798.
Ang Alamat ng May Nanalo Na
Bakit at paano nga ba
Na ang tawag sa
Kanilang ayaw mag-protesta
Na natalo ay “May Nanalo Na”
Bawal RAO magreklamo
Dahil “Finish Na” ang laRO
Kanila ang Ginto
May bacon pang sobrang luto
Ao! Aw! May sumigaw ng “Ihaw”
Katayin RAo asong nakabubulahaw
Barking on the wrong tree RAo kc
Biting RAo the hand of Mineral Mommy
Para raw si Mojo Jojo ng Puff City
Overcooked daw ang Nognog ng Makati
Dahil kinagat din ang Liberal
Tama lang na Dina magtagal
Kaya karaka-RAka, binuo si MiJo…
Inspired by Miriam Hall kung saang nagluto…
And also VP Jojo na ininsulto
Ito ang multo ng pang-TWO sa pwesto!
Cge sbi pa ng: “Push mo yan, teh!”
Umasa… Nasaktan… Nagbig-BAE!...
Macho-gwapito migo ni Jose…
Kaya react nila: “Wag kang pabeBE!”
Wag kaung mag-alala sa Birheng Lola
Matakot kayo sa kanyang Valedora
SAF44 at Warriors F4... ipaghihiganti
Sa pagpatak ng Countdown to thirty!
-07/29/2020
(Dumarao)
*Alamat ng Kanilang Mga Expressions
It simmers. This constant invisible, hovering
like a wasp in the forever periphery threatening
lightning strike yellows, sudden and unbidden. It spills
and spools, down into black stripes melting and melding
to pools of what could be oil, what could be memory.
What could be regret now slick with – what?
A splash of anger boiled, with sprinkles of blame out of date;
mixed with grief curdling, poured into a well of questions
overcooked yet left raw, still somehow
roasted and burnt-snap-toast /
ed too tough for even a
crouton of relief.
It’s a recipe I can never master. Ingredients
lacking, my baking tray left to crust.
‘The Chronic Pain’ special.
'The Looping Blame Game’ starter.
“Welcome to Self-Sabotage Restaurant and its
rotating menu of dishes which you serve yourself.”
The blood in my veins,
Long past smoldering, begins to scorch---
Beneath the skin
Purple agony erupts again,
Ignited by the shimmer of your eyes---
My breath is gone,
Excluded by my swollen tongue---
My nose feels like a potato
Overcooked,
Or dunked in hellish alien wines---
Impossible concentration---
How long will you stretch the agony---
My skin is near the breaking point,
Flame broiled beneath your gaze
Please release me,
Let me go
The girl in the room doesn't crawl backwards on the floor of her room, she doesn't chop her hair off in edgy disfigured shapes to contain all the leftovers of her being.
The girl in the room is normal.
As normal as an overcooked khichdi, you'll eat it anyway because it's a medicine.
Let alone ponder about it's beauty.
The girl in the room is reading news about a city known for the number of innocent
dead bodies it produces every year due to a war.
Noone really talks about survival in these cities anymore, only escaping.
Why do most humans find war stories interesting ?
The girl in the room reads news to draw relatability with normalised war zones.
The girl in the room, prefers quilts regardless of weather, she has mastered the art of a childhood game.
She seeks hiding.
Like she hides here, in this poem
She struggles to get out words
That never say enough
Not as clear as she hoped
Never conveying
What she wanted to say
Feelings on paper
She stares
Disappointed
Discouraged
Angry at herself
They are bland,
Stale, overused.
Under baked or overcooked.
She crumples up a page
Begins again
Throwing this clump
Onto the sea of clumps
Around her desk chair
Begins again.
And again.
And again.
Maybe it’s not her day to write.
She struggles to get out words
That never say enough
Not as clear as she hoped
Never conveying
What she wanted to say
Feelings on paper
She stares
Disappointed
Discouraged
Angry at herself
They are bland,
Stale, overused.
Under baked or overcooked.
She crumples up a page
Begins again
Throwing this clump
Onto the sea of clumps
Around her desk chair
Begins again.
And again.
And again.
Maybe it’s not her day to write.
Begin with something positive;
no need to start out negative.
A writer needs encouragement;
it feeds their ego nourishment.
And what is strong about the piece?
Is there a spot that needs some grease?
Or did it flow like brooks in spring?
Is there a line that really rings?
Can you suggest some helpful hints
that act like after-dinner mints?
And did their writing make you cry?
Or, perhaps, it made you sigh.
Did you giggle? Did you laugh?
Do you want their autograph?
Was there a phrase that kept you hooked?
Or was the subject overcooked?
Was your perception so engaged
you couldn't wait to flip the page?
Above all else, try to be kind.
Writer, reader intertwined.
You tell me your leaving
Impersonal over the phone
Couldn't you at least write me a Poem
Spelling out why
Or was I just small fry
You overcooked
Because you weren't paying attention
Romping up the temperature
Drained on old newspaper
Yesterday's news in small print
You never really cared about
Hanging on your arm whilst you looked out
For something better to come along
And sweep you off your feet
Elephants ran
from the perilous sounds
the bakery overcooked the days bread
winter tires
installed on the wheelchairs
soldiers in a line to eat cakes
bread was in short supply
monsters on break, or strike
clouds dipped to human eyes
blinding all with hope
if a grave misses a few flowers?
what does it matter?
chimneys have no smoke
wineries have no grapes
lovers lost all grace
when rain falls
words become wet
like feet caressing the sand
I have a photo?
would you understand?
Some people you can read like an open book
Pages worn, just a bunch of gobbledegook
Sorry for them
A lot depends
Sometimes brains can get overcooked
Childhood Xmas memories, mine are not so fine.
Daddy would overindulge in the Christmas wine.
Mother and the turkey never could get on.
The ham overcooked, boiled dry on Xmas morn.
Presents were a problem, so many to be bought.
Mum and Dad said Santa must have forgot.
Thinking of Xmas past, I must pause awhile.
As in remembering, I also have to smile.
Carols in the church, gentle flakes of snow,
falling on our faces as we gazed from below.
Frost on the window at bedtime as we play.
Certain in the night I heard Santa's sleigh.
Cowboy suits and guns with caps that bang.
Sweeties, cuddly toys and dolls that sang.
Best of all the feeling of magic in the air,
Christmas Eve family, kneeling united in prayer.
Twelve months later
I’m struggling for a motivator
To get me up in the morning
My life at present is stagnant and boring
Mixed feelings about my ex-wife
Am I missing her from my life?
Yes I’ve dated many people
But none have reached the height of her steeple
I miss the companionship
I’m on constant guilt trip
I think about her every day
When I see her it makes my day
How can I move on from this abyss?
Of desolate lands which the world will dismiss
A black hole in darkness of space
Reminds of the taste of overcooked mace
Do I continue this lie?
And keep looking through my glass eye
Or do I try and be strong
Identify where things went wrong
I need to sort out my life
Perhaps even have a chat to the ex-wife
Is the marriage salvageable or is this a blind spot
Or shall I just un-tie our love knot
Crying is not the answer
I need to eradicate this cancer
That consumes my world at present
Life is not a television segment
Created:-13/10/17
Finished 3rd place in Broken Hearted Poems competition
Contest sponsor:- Broken Wings
Contest Name:- Broken Hearted Poems
The Pig
The pig, also called swine is the most human of animals
those who have tasted human flesh say it is not different
in taste and texture, but can easily be overcooked.
The domestic white person colour pig gets little exercise
cooped up in a pen where they have to sleep in their own
excrement and fattened for slaughter.
One can regard this as an ultimate cruelty to an intelligent
the animal is robbing it of natural dignity.
The wild pig –boar- is quite another thing, a good runner
that is not easy to catch, lives and thrives in Europe`s forests
it is not scared and can attack and kill you if it so wanted, but
the boar think humans stink and prefer to run away when
smelling Christian blood and the odour of dark church recesses.
It’s been a choppy day for trading,
And the market’s looking wan,
Gold is sticking to its vaults
While Bitcoin faces a ban
Greece is eying the drachma,
Its kebabs now overcooked,
While Chinese knees are trembling
As America cooks its books
And as the rich get richer
And the poor man fades away,
Money, gold and diamonds,
Will always win the day.
Her scrambled pessimism flowed like lava streams
Her yoke incubated more than just hopes and dreams
A alien world that resembled a festering wound
Smouldering ash, toxic gas was all that could be found
Her primordial soup had the chaotic future of a rotten egg
Tomorrow was a dark blanket - overcooked solid like a boiled egg
Her yesterdays were a ghost town of erupted volcano's
And life was - an overheated oven - a raging inferno
Before the first fish hatched to become seafood for the shark
I craked open the atmosphere to release a spicy aroma with a fork
Before the first dinosaur wore the scales of her costume
I gave the world more than all the oceans could ever consume
I was an unknown element nourishing in the stifling enigma
As a master chef wailing onions and chopping red magma
I was an unknown flavour preparing for this exquisite moment
The main ingredient - beaten into a beautiful omelette
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