Poetry by Mich
Locker .
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lock·er /ˈläkər/ a small lockable closet or compartment, typically as one of a number placed together for public or general use, e.g., in schools, gymnasiums, or train stations.
locker. the only silent witness to our beginning and end. .
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LOCKER
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Balut
love it or loathe it
there is no doubt
“balut” is of massive
cultural connotation
in the Philippines.
whether this makes
you want to smack
your lips together
or battle your upchuck reflex
it is for sure guaranteed
to ignite your curiosity.
i am a true blooded Filipino
but, damn! forgive me
my dear “kababayan”
“balut” is not for me
or my fussy appetite.
Note:
Balut– is a fertilized developing egg embryo that is boiled or steamed and eaten from the shell.
kababayan -fellow Filipino
Early Bird Prompt:
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that plays with the idea of a “fun fact.” Your fact could actually be fun – or the whole point could be that it’s not fun. Maybe you have a favorite wacky fact already, but if not, Mental Floss’s “Amazing Fact Generator” is here to help!
Rage
hope is finding comfort in the realm of my dreams
for it is where my heart finds rest after the chaos
of the rain and its conflicting pitter-patter sound
and the flashes of muddy waters in the ground.
hope is knowing that in silence, there is resilience
not a single storm can make me cry for vengeance
for it is in solitude that i won my greatest wars
for seclusion is more powerful than offensive words.
hope is seeking the truth, despite the thunderstorm of doubts
even in a single sudden flash of lightning, accuracy sprouts
i only need one spark of light to believe in honesty
of everyone around, amidst the nature of complexity.
hope is the hiatus of my soul from the overwhelming rage of nature.
For David’s Weave Weekly Prompt
II. Kerfe’s prompt guidelines
• Emily Dickinson famously wrote a poem that begins with the line: ‘Hope is the thing with feathers’;
• Begin your own poem with the words ‘Hope is…’ and see where it takes you.
And for Eugenia’s Moonwashed Challenge
i am closing March, Women’s Month with a poem “How Much More?”
a woman should be the heroine of her life, not the victim. she should learn to speak up when silenced. she should learn to fight back when abused. she should learn to walk away when needed. and most importantly, she should learn to cry, weep, wail, and go crazy mad when criticized badly, embarrassed, shamed, blamed, or manipulated, not only in dating and married relationships, but also in any relationship—including among friends, family members, and co-workers.
my poem “How Much More” is up now on MasticadoresUsa. thank you Barbara, the editor and the entire Masticadores team for their continued publication of my works.
here is an excerpt of the poem. kindly read the rest on MasticadoresUsa, and when you are there don’t forget to subscribe and to read wonderful literary pieces from brilliant poets/writers/artists worldwide.
How Much More?
you lost your voice
in the roaring thunder
of his growing ego
as you lose consciousness
under his vicious hands.how much more
of that sound do
you need to bear,
deaf in the truth
of torture and agony?
you lost your voice in the roaring thunder of his growing ego as you lose consciousness under his vicious hands. how much more of that sound do you need to bear, deaf in the truth of torture and agony? you lost your mind with every scornful tone from the blast of his nasty outrage and abomination. how much more of the mockery do you need to take, to run away and seek help? you lost your glow for every word he utters is a knife that cuts off the very essence of your being how much more of that smile will you hold, to unfold the truth that you are suffering silently? Copyright © 2023 Michelle Navajas All Rights Reserved
Michelle Ayon Navajas, a former college professor who taught literature, speech and oral communication, creative writing, drama, and theatre arts, has authored eight books, which…
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Coffee Drip
i started drinking coffee when i was ten years old. my mother never liked the idea. looking back, i now realize how horrible she must have felt for seeing her ten-year-old daughter obsessed with coffee.
she lectured me about the effects of coffee on our bodies and how bad it could be. (of course, again, i know that now.) she even used to joke about me not getting taller if i didn’t stop consuming coffee. (of course, again, i think she was right all along.) there was nothing my mom could do at that time, though.
and i am not talking about blended coffees which we can now get at some fancy coffee shops. no, not your usual Starbucks caramel macchiato, white mocha, or cafe latte. i don’t remember having Starbucks growing up. it wasn’t a thing then. i meant the black espresso, a single shot with no sugar.
coffee time with my papa was always special. i’d watched him brew coffee using one of the oldest, simplest, fastest, and cheapest ways: the drip method. with the use coffee cone and paper filter, hot water is poured evenly over the coffee grounds in a paper filter. and with gravity, the brewed coffee drips slowly and directly into a cup or pot.
i’d carefully and slowly watch the coffee drip onto the transparent coffee mug my papa and i used to share.
it was a sight to behold. one of my greatest joys growing up.
coffee time with my papa was always special; today, it is extra special.
i am seated at my working table, finishing writing the epilogue of my soon-to-be-released book, remembering my papa.
my coffee is now ready, single-shot espresso, no sugar. as i take my first sip, i feel a sudden gust of wind.
my papa’s voice lingers in my head.
“one day, when you are grown up, and i will be gone, you will prepare your coffee drip; remember that each drip is each of my standing ovation for you, ‘cos i am sure by then, you have already made your dreams come true.”
written for Reena’s Exploration Challenge
This week’s prompt challenge is a short video:
A Heartbreaking Ode to the Hand
you are a mother’s magic wand when
her child is in need of a loving tender care.
you are a father’s firm grip when his child is in need of a steady hold
to get by the day.
you are a lover’s gentle caress when
his beloved is in need of a passionate touch or a romantic get away.
you are an artist’s medium to bring to life his creative thoughts and visions.
you are a poet’s channel to record the rhythm and rhyme of his poetries.
you are made to ease the pain and soothe the brokenness of an ailing heart.
but….what have you become lately?
you were made to write words that destroy the very core of a human being.
you were utilized to take photos and videos without consent and permission.
you were employed to muddle through bank accounts and leave no one a single centavo.
and the most heartbreaking of all…
you were exploited to rage war against humanity destroying cities after cities, killing lives after lives.
you too were used to shot a gun, and take away the lives of innocent children leaving parents grieving in agonizing pain.
i believe if you are to choose you’d rather be
the magic wand,
the steady grip,
the gentle caress,
the medium to bring to life,
the channel to create rhytm and rhyme,
and the one to ease the pain and brokenness of an ailing heart.
but you simply don’t have the choice.
P.S.
last two days left to vote on Spillwors Press. If you have voted already, thank you so much. and to those who wish to vote for me here is the link:
For Sadje’s WDYS:
and dedicated to the parents who lost their innocent children over an indiscrimate shooting in an elementary school in Nashville this morning.
Blesssed Sunday dear friends and poets.
i am thrilled to share that i am nominated as AUTHOR OF THE MONTH on Spillwords Press.
if you have a minute kindly head over to this link and vote for me.
for IG users, the link is in my bio too.
Thank you all so much to Dagmara and the entire team of Spillwords Press for honoring me with this nomination.
Thank you too my dear friends and poets for your support.
Congratulations to all my fellow nominees.
The Past
“i’ve abandoned you once,” i said
“no twice,” you insisted madly
i don’t know what hurt you instead
for i left you and i lied to you totally.
“no twice,” you insisted madly
i hurt you i know, and i can’t change the past
for i left you and i lied to you totally
i too was hurting, i too was broken in fact.
i hurt you i know, and i can’t change the past
i’m sorry i betrayed you with a broken promise
i too was hurting, i too was broken in fact
but know that i wished there would be us.
i’m sorry i hurt you with a broken promise
i don’t know what hurt you instead
but know that i wished there would be us
“i’ve abandoned you once,” i said.
This week’s Poet of the Week is Punam
Punam’s prompt guidelines
• Write a Pantoum on the theme of abandonment.
What is an pantoum?
• The pantoum consists of a series of quatrains rhyming ABAB in which the second and fourth lines of a quatrain recur as the first and third lines in the succeeding quatrain;
• Each quatrain introduces a new second rhyme as BCBC, CDCD;
• The first line of the series recurs as the last line of the closing quatrain, and the third line of the poem recurs as the second line of the closing quatrain, rhyming ZAZA;
• The design is simple:
Line 1
Line 2
Line 3
Line 4
Line 5 (repeat of line 2)
Line 6
Line 7 (repeat of line 4)
Line 8
• Continue with as many stanzas as you wish, but the ending stanza then repeats the second and fourth lines of the previous stanza (as its first and third lines), and also repeats the third line of the first stanza, as its second line, and the first line of the first stanza as its fourth. So the first line of the poem is also the last.
• Last stanza:
• Line 2 of previous stanza
Line 3 of first stanza
Line 4 of previous stanza
Line 1 of first stanza
Willy- nilly
which side to take
i’d go willy-nilly
whatever is at stake
for love to win
over evil and sin.
which side to take
i’d go haphazardly
whatever is at risked
for good to triumph
over wicked defiant.
which side to take
i’d go aimlessly
whatever is in danger
for me to be with you
forever that’s true.
Last Night
papa, can you hear me scream your name last night?
i can’t breath, i can’t cry; i was unwell that’s why
for many years i’ve tried not to want you by myside
when darkness comes and sickness is like making a handshake with the Grim Reaper
but papa i can’t, for you’d forever be the one
who could make me feel better even for just a little while.
“my daddy’s hand, i want,” i’d insist as a little kid
a girl with poor health in dire need of medical care
no amount of needles stuck in my hand could make me cry
with my daddy’s hand caressing my back holding me tight
telling me “everything’s gonna be fine, i’d be here
no matter what i won’t let go even if they say i must.”
papa, can you hear me scream your name last night?
i know it’s been years since you’ve been gone, but i need you
most dearly when i am ill, for there’s no better way
to make me feel okay, than hear you say
“your daddy loves you, don’t be scared,” that sure brought joy in my heart
the little girl that i was, just yearns for her papa
one more time last night.
“poof,” the Grim Reaper was gone when i screamed of your name, last night papa.
Written for dVerse poetics. Today the host is the brilliant Punam of https://paeansunpluggedblog.wordpress.com/2023/03/22/my-dad/.
We are writing about fathers, incorporating at least three titles from those given below.
1. Dance with my father: Luther Vandross
2. Song for dad: Keith Urban
3. My father’s eyes: Eric Clapton
4. Papa don’t preach: Madonna
5. Daddy lessons: Beyonce and Dixie Chicks
6. Color him father: The Winstons
7. Daddy could swear, I declare: Gladys Knight and the Pips
8. Baby father: Sade
9. My old man: Mac Demarco
10. Father to son: Queen
11. Papa, can you hear me?: Barbara Streisand
12. Daddy’s hands: Holly Dunn
13. My father’s house: Bruce Springsteen
14. Papa don’t take no mess: James Brown
15. Your daddy loves you: Gil Scot-Heron
michnavs 