One does not go to Tula with one's own samovar.
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Tula-Tu-Tula-Baba 5.14.2008
Watching Dingaka, Jamie Uys,
African culture, justice, gum-boot-
dancing, tula-tu-tula-baba-lullaby
Killing an adversary for killing his
daughter, an eye-for-an-eye;
crying for Masaba, crying for
Cultural clashes, crying for
African cultures and Western
traditions, African heart breaking
Big cynical lawyer, not understanding,
punished for doing his African duty..
“Do you believe I want to be your
friend? ” “No, you don’t want to
look pretty damn silly in court again…”
a challenge, “Find my friend, Mputi,
take care of him, ” “We’ve got a deal…”
Mputi became the gardener
tula-tu-tula-baba-
“Hang Masaba, otherwise
you have betrayed me” -
Masaba murdered the child
Of a man devoted to his family,
the cruel death of his child -
he grew up in the jungle
With laws as stern and binding
as any of our statutes -
Makwena has a strong
Sense of justice – he believes
in right and wrong - punish a
man who harmed his family
In ignorance of the ways of
the white man – which is
no great loss at all…
Based on the movie “Dingaka” made by Jamie Uys
poem by Margaret Alice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Panaghoy
Aanhin ko
ang lahat ng yaman sa mundo
kung dito ay wala
ni isa mang kasalo.
Aanhin ko
ang pinakamataas na karangalan
kung dito ay walang
mapag-aalayan.
Aanhin ko
ang makapiling ka
kung ang isinisigaw ng iyong puso
ay hindi ako.
Aanhin ko
ang aking magandang tinig
kung wala ditong
makikinig.
Aanhin ko
ang aking mga tula
kung wala ditong
tutula.
Aanhin ko
ang mabuhay
kung aking saysay
ay maitutulad sa hanging
walang nakakakita.
Oh, poon ng mga poon
bakit pa ako'y nilalang
kung ika'y walang gagawin
kundi ako'y pagtaghuyin.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Gathering Mushrooms
As he knelt by the grave of his mother and father
the taste of dill, or tarragon-
he could barely tell one from the other-
filled his mouth. It seemed as if he might smother.
Why should he be stricken
with grief, not for his mother and father,
but a woman slinking from the fur of a sea-otter
In Portland, Maine, or, yes, Portland, Oregon-
he could barely tell one from the other-
and why should he now savour
the tang of her, her little pickled gherkin,
as he knelt by the grave of his mother and father?
*
He looked about. He remembered her palaver
on how both earth and sky would darken-
'You could barely tell one from the other'-
while the Monarch butterflies passed over
in their milkweed-hunger: 'A wing-beat, some reckon,
may trigger off the mother and father
of all storms, striking your Irish Cliffs of Moher
with the force of a hurricane.'
Then: 'Milkweed and Monarch 'invented' each other.'
*
He looked about. Cow's-parsley in a samovar.
He'd mistaken his mother's name, 'Regan, ' for Anger';
as he knelt by the grave of his mother and father
he could barely tell one from the other.
poem by Paul Muldoon
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The Decembrist
'To this the pagan senate bears witness:
-- THESE DEEDS SHALL NEVER DIE! -- '
He lit his pipe and wrapped his cloak around
While some play chess nearby.
He traded his ambitious dream
For a godforsaken Siberian plot
And an elegant pipe at his venomous lips,
Which uttered truth in a mournful world.
When the German oaks first rustled,
Europe wept in her snare.
Black horses in quadrigae reared
on each triumphant turn.
Once, the blue punch glowed in our glasses.
With the broad noises of the samovar,
A friend from across the Rhine spoke
In muted tones -- a freedom-loving guitar.
The lively voices are still excited
Over the sweet liberty of citizenship;
But the victims don't want blind skies,
Toil and consistency are truer.
Everything's confused and there is no one to say,
As things grow colder,
Everything's confused, it is sweet to repeat:
Russia, Lethe, Lorelei...
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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TRECE AÑIO DE AMO (13 years of love)
Nakasanayan ko nang ilapat sa tula,
aking nadarama...
Kadalasan kase di ko masabi,
mga katagang dapat ay sinasabi...
Sa ika-13 taon ng ating pagsasama
Di ko ma plano ang mga dapat sinta...
Gusto kitang masolo,
Yung tayo lang at wala ng iba
Gusto kong magpasalamat
Sa pagmamahal na iyong pinadama,
Pang unawa sa mga pagkakataong
Di ko na kaya...
Sa iyong katapatan, Sa ating pagsasama
Maraming salamat aking sinisinta...
Aking dalangin at sanay laging dinggin...
Tanglaw at liwanag ng Panginoon
Ay patuloy na magningas sa mga puso natin
Maraming salamat...salamat sa mga panahon
Na sa amin ay ginugol...
Lagi mong tatandaan,
Di ka maaalis sa aking puso,
Hanggang sa huling hibla ng buhay ko....
Happy 13 years of Love...
Happy anniversary daddy
poem by Ana Maria Ogena Rosarda
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Said She Was A Dancer
She said she was a dancer. if I believed it, it was my busines
She surely knew a thing or two about control.
Next to the bar we hit the samovar. she almost slipped right through my fingers.
It was snowing outside and in her soul.
Well, maybe youre a dancer, and maybe Im the king of old siam.
I thought it through... best to let the illusion roll.
I wouldnt say Ive never heard that tale before,
My frozen little seorita,
But if your dream is good, why not share it when the nights are cold?
Hey moscow, whats your story? lady, take your time, dont hurry.
Maybe a student of the agricultural plan.
Hey moscow, whats your name? if you dont want to say, dont worry.
It would probably be hard for me to make it scan.
With her phrase book in her silk soft hand
She spoke in riddles while the vodka listened.
I said, ''let me look up love, if I might be so bold.
She was the nearest thing to rock and roll
That side of the velvet curtain
That separates eastern steel from western gold.
Hey miss moscow, whats your story?
You neednt speak aloud, just whisper.
Am I just the closest thing to an englishman?
Youve seen me in your magazines, or maybe on state television.
Im your pepsi-cola, but you wont take me out the can.
She said she was a dancer --- so she did.
She said she was a dancer. if I believed it, it was my business.
It felt like a merry dance that I was being led.
So I stole one kiss. it was a near miss.
She looked at me like I was jack the ripper.
She leaned in close. ''goodnight, was all she said.
So I took myself off to bed.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nectar, Tears and Blood
Araw na nagdaan natin nilingon ko
Aking inaninaw, dahilan ba'y ano
Landas ng puso ko't landas ng puso mo
Ay nagkahiwalay, may sala ba'y sino
Tayo'y nagsumpaan na magmamahalan
Sa simula hanggang magpakailanman
Ang mga araw na sa ati'y nagdaan
Ay alaala na kay tamis balikan
Sa mga gabi na tayo'y namamasyal
Mga halakhak mo'y kay sarap pakinggan
Matamis na halik, sa iyo natikman
Di ko hahanapin kahit kanino man
Ang mga pangarap natin ay binuo
Parang ng panahon, di kayang iguho
Ang namagitan sa atin na pag-ibig
Nectar ang katulad, walang gasing tamis
Ngunit bakit ganoon, hindi natagalan
Puso mo'y nalihis, ng landas naligaw
Ang iyong puso ay naging salawahan
Ang aking pag-ibig, iyong sinuklian
Ng di pag-ibig din kundi kataksilan
Tula ng pag-ibig natin ay natala
Sa papel ng dusa, tinta'y aking luha
Ang taksil mong puso ay nais bumalik
Sa puso kong wasak, sa sakit na'y manhid
Di ko matatanggap ang iyong pag-ibig
Pag ako'y lumingon, aking nadadama
Ang pait ng iniwan mong alaala
Nakaraan nati'y may bahid ng dugo
Ng aking naluray, nadurog na puso
poem by Pacific Hernandez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sa Aking Sentimiento
Sa bintana ay nakadungaw
Isipa'y sa malayo nakatanaw
Simoy ng hangi'y ninanamnam
Mga mata ay malamlam
Sa labi ay inaasam
Na dating pagsinta mo ay muling makamtam
Sa awit ng mga ibon aking naaalala
Boses mong malamig at kahangahanga
Na noon ay naging aking himig na maaya
Sa pagsulat ng mga tula at nobela
Mga haplos mo ay naging oyayi sa paghimbing
Maiinit na lambing at bati sa aking paggising
Katawan mong mala-Adonis
Sa pangarap sana'y masilip
Higpit ng mga yakap mo't halik
Giliw labis akong nasasabik
Muli't-muli ang aking nais
Makapiling, maangkin ka't makaniig
Kung di dumating marahas na bagyo
Sa iyo sana'y di lubusang napalayo
Katulad ko ngayon ay bulaklak na kay bango
Ikaw ang paru-paro na nauuhaw sa pagdapo
Ibinubulong na lang sa hangin ang kahilingan ko
Umaasang dadalhin sa kinaroroonan mo
Hanggang sa sumapit ang takip silim
Laman kang lagi ng mga salamisim
Kung araw man ay tuluyang lamunin ng dilim
Ala-ala mong nasa puso ko't isipan ay nakasukbit pa rin
Sa pagtulog ng taimtim ang samo ko't dalangin
Makasama kang muli, ang bukang liwayway ating haharapin.
poem by Catherine Agunat
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A Glimpse Of China
I
In a Sampan
(Min River, Fo Kien)
Up in the misty morning,
Up past the gardened hills,
With the rhythmic stroke of the rowers,
While the blue deep pales and thrills!
Past the rice-fields green low-lying,
Where the sea-gull's winging down
From the fleets of junks and sampans
And the ancient Chinese Town!
II
In a Chair
(Foo-cbow)
From the bright and blinding sunshine,
From the whirling locust's song,
Into the dark and narrow fissures
Of the streets I am borne along.
Here and there dusky-beaming
A sun-shaft broadens and drops
On the brown bare crowd slow-passing,
The crowd of the open shops.
We move on over the bridges
With their straight-hewn blocks of stone,
And their quaint grey animal figures,
And the booths the hucksters own.
Behind a linen awning
Sits an ancient wight half-dead,
And a little dear of a girl is
Examining — his head.
On a bended bamboo shouldered,
Bearing a block of stone,
Two worn-out Coolies half-naked
Utter their grunting groan.
Children, almond-eyed beauties,
Impossibly mangy curs,
Take part in the motley stream of
Insouciant passengers.
This is the Dream, the Vision
That comes to me and greets —
The Vision of Retribution
In the labyrinthine streets.
III
'Caste'
These Chinese toil, and yet they do not starve,
And they obey, and yet they are not slaves.
It is the 'free-born' fuddled Englishmen
Who grovel rotting in their living graves.
These Chinese do not fawn with servile lips;
They lift up equal eyes that ask and scan.
Their degradation has escaped at least
That choicest curse of all — the Gentleman!
IV
Over the Samovar
(Foo-chow)
'Yes, I used always to think
That you Russians knew
How to make the good drink
As none others do.
'And I thought moreover,
(Not with the epicures),
You might search the world over
For such Women as yours.
'In both these matters now
I perceive I was right,
And I really can't tell you how
Much I delight
'In my third (Thanks, another cup!)
Idea of the fun,
When your Country gets up
And follows the sun!
'And just as in Europe, see,
There's a Conqueror Nation,
So why not in Asia be
A like jubilation?
'Taught as well as organized,
The eternal Coolie,
From being robbed and despised,
Takes to cutting throats duly!
'But — please, don't be flurried;
For I daresay by then
You'll be comfortably buried,
Ladies and gentlemen!
'No more, thanks! I must be going!
I'm so glad to have made this
Opportunity of knowing
Some more Russian ladies!'
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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The Frog Prince
Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out
of the sky like rain.
Frogs arrive
With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.
My guilts are what
we catalogue.
I’ll take a knife
and chop up frog.
Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father’s genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.
The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off
like a light bulb.
At the sight of him
the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he’s an apple
and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog
the touch-me-nots explode
like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.
Mr. Poison
is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.
Mama Brundig,
he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ
for a souvenir.
Frog has boil disease
and a bellyful of parasites.
He says: Kiss me. Kiss me.
And the ground soils itself.
Why
should a certain
quite adorable princess
be walking in her garden
at such a time
and toss her golden ball
up like a bubble
and drop it into the well?
It was ordained.
Just as the fates deal out
the plague with a tarot card.
Just as the Supreme Being drills
holes in our skulls to let
the Boston Symphony through.
But I digress.
A loss has taken place.
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron pot
into the bottom of the well.
Lost, she said,
my moon, my butter calf,
my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
Obviously it was more than a ball.
Balls such as these are not
for sale in Au Bon Marché.
I took the moon, she said,
between my teeth
and now it is gone
and I am lost forever.
A thief had robbed by day.
Suddenly the well grew
thick and boiling
and a frog appeared.
His eyes bulged like two peas
and his body was trussed into place.
Do not be afraid, Princess,
he said, I am not a vagabond,
a cattle farmer, a shepherd,
a doorkeeper, a postman
or a laborer.
I come to you as a tradesman.
I have something to sell.
Your ball, he said,
for just three things.
Let me eat from your plate.
Let me drink from your cup.
Let me sleep in your bed.
She thought, Old Waddler,
those three you will never do,
but she made the promises
with hopes for her ball once more.
He brought it up in his mouth
like a tricky old dog
and she ran back to the castle
leaving the frog quite alone.
That evening at dinner time
a knock was heard on the castle door
and a voice demanded:
King’s youngest daughter,
let me in. You promised;
now open to me.
I have left the skunk cabbage
and the eels to live with you.
The kind then heard her promise
and forced her to comply.
The frog first sat on her lap.
He was as awful as an undertaker.
Next he was at her plate
looking over her bacon
and calves’ liver.
We will eat in tandem,
he said gleefully.
Her fork trembled
as if a small machine
had entered her.
He sat upon the liver
and partook like a gourmet.
The princess choked
as if she were eating a puppy.
From her cup he drank.
It wasn’t exactly hygienic.
From her cup she drank
as if it were Socrates’ hemlock.
Next came the bed.
The silky royal bed.
Ah! The penultimate hour!
There was the pillow
with the princess breathing
and there was the sinuous frog
riding up and down beside her.
I have been lost in a river
of shut doors, he said,
and I have made my way over
the wet stones to live with you.
She woke up aghast.
I suffer for birds and fireflies
but not frogs, she said,
and threw him across the room.
Kaboom!
Like a genie coming out of a samovar,
a handsome prince arose in the
corner of her bedroom.
He had kind eyes and hands
and was a friend of sorrow.
Thus they were married.
After all he had compromised her.
He hired a night watchman
so that no one could enter the chamber
and he had the well
boarded over so that
never again would she lose her ball,
that moon, that Krishna hair,
that blind poppy, that innocent globe,
that madonna womb.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The March of Ivan
Are you coming, Ivan, coming?—Ah, the ways are long and slow,
In the vast land that we know not—and we never sought to know.
We are watching through the daybreak, when the anxious night is done,
For the dots upon the skyline—black against the rising sun;
We are watching through the morning haze, and waiting through the night,
For the long, dark, distant columns that proclaim the Muscovite!
Are you coming, Ivan, coming? (Oh! the world is growing gray
With the terror of the future and the madness of to-day!)
Are you marching, Ivan—forward? (Oh! the world is dark’ning fast,
For the crimes of greater nations ’gainst the small ones in the past.)
Yours, in part, to make atonement, so remember what you are!
Ivan! Sing!—“The Slav is coming! On for Russia and the Czar!”
Ivan’s Song
“Yes, I’m coming, Ivan, coming—I am marching out again
On the weary roads of Russia, past the forest, marsh and plain;
Past the field and past the village, in the shine and in the rain—
By the cart-rut and the grass-track and the jolting cattle-train.
(And, maybe, some gleam of glory penetrates my sluggish brain)
I am marching out for Russia, and for Europe and for you—
But, maybe, I’m mainly marching just because they told me to.
“I have marched to many frontiers, in the pregnant days gone by,
When they told us where to march to, but they did not tell us why.
And they showed us whom to fight with, and they told us where to die.
I have seen our grey battalions to their Heaven—or Hades—hurled—
’Twas enough it was for Russia!—what cared we about the world?
“Did one moan of Ivan’s mother penetrate to other lands?
Did one prayer of Ivan’s father—with his old and knotted hands?
Did one sob from Ivan’s sweetheart, or one cry from Ivan’s wife?
Or a wail from Ivan’s children, for the loss of Ivan’s life?
Marching with the Wolf of Hunger—marching with the Bear of Strength!
We have marched for many winters—but the end is near at length!
“’Tis a long, long march from Plevna, when the Bear went to his den.
It is far from the Crimea; Oh! you did not want us then!
From the shambles of Port Arthur, ’twas a weary way and slow—
And our track was always dotted with the black dots on the snow.
By black dots and crimson splashes you may trace poor Ivan’s track—
And I think that Ivan’s banner should be red, and white and black.
“Ne’er was Present-blinded tyrant who learnt wisdom from the Past,
And there’s one forgot the errand that brought Ivan this way last!
‘To the frontier, and no further’ seemed our motto and our vow,
Since we marched from burning Moscow—but we’re marching further now!
Neighbour’s burning house—or city!—they are easy to forget;
But we lit a light for Europe that shall be rekindled yet!
“Never song of Ivan’s valour, or of ‘Russia’s Flag Unfurled!’
Or the Iron Cross of Russia, penetrates the Outer World.
Ye! who civilise and peddle, ye who hesitate and lag,
Never heard the Russian March and never saw the Russian flag!
You have called on us to save you, never saying why, or how,
But the samovar is boiling! and you’ll hear and see us now.
“From our garrets and our cellars—from the little all we had—
Where the winter brings the sleigh-bells to the streets of Petrograd;
From our huts and from our hutches—from wherever we may be—
From our goat’s-flesh and our mare’s milk and our black unsweetened tea,
From the silence of Siberia, and the strange, snow-deadened streets—
From the blazing banks of Jordan, where we dip our winding-sheets.
From our black bread and our vodka—asking naught, and undismayed—
From our never-empty cradles!—we are coming to your aid.
“Oh, we leave no bands behind us, blaring tunes of Tyranny,
And we wave no swords above us, yelling songs of Liberty;
And no blatant voice of ruler, as we tramp through dry and wet,
Blares: ‘Remember You are Russians!’—we’re not likely to forget.
There are some who have forgotten—merely men, like you and me—
And one object of our marching is to jog their memory.
“You shall hear us, you shall see us—save the dead and deaf and blind—
While the armour of our winter hardens thick and fast behind.
We are marching, we are coming, and we are not on the sea—
You shall see us on the furthest frontier of our enemy!
And while you fix up your frontiers, and remember what you are,
We shall march with Peace for Europe!—back to Russia and the Czar.”
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hi Tech
Salamat na lamang sa high technology
Na kahit huli na'y umabot pa kami
Kaming 'pinanganak noong ninteeen thirty's
At swerteng narating ang idad seventies
Ang tula na ito nang aking sulatin
Sign pen ang ginamit, substitute ay ballpen
Final draft, tinapos sa aking computer
Malinis na kopya'y ginawa sa printer
Extra copy nito'y puwedeng ipadala
Attachment sa email, by fax at meron pa
Surface mail at airmail, kundi kuntento ka
By Fedex, LBC, hari ng padala
Ang maraming kopya, paano gagawin
Noon ay photostat, masyadong maitim
O kaya'y mimeograph, a very messy thing
Tinta'y kumakalat sa pag-i-stencil
Ngayon nama'y xerox, pagkopya'y matulin
Kung ang tulang ito'y noon ko sinulat
Ako'y mayayamot, at iyon ay tiyak
Kung kailan ako ay nagmamadali
Ang lapis na gamit, saka mababali
Gamit na fountain pen, tinta'y umaagas
Kundi nagtatae, penpoint ay matalas
Sa aking 'cocomband', kakamot, kakaskas
Noong bata kami, ay wala pang cellphone
Telepono'y mayaman lang ang mayroon
Lihim na pag-ibig, hindi maite-text
Tulay o messenger, kelangang gumamit
Resultang madalas, sulat maintercept
Ng tatay o nanay na napakahigpit
O kaya'y si darleng, sa 'tulay' kumabet
Kapag ang wagas na pag-ibig na iyo
Ay sa kaprasong papel pa isusulat mo
Sa post o koreo padadaanin pa
Bago ka masagot, kayo'y matanda na
Walang mega taksing kung tawagi'y FX
Magtitiyaga ka lang sa PUJ na dyip
'God Knows Hudas Not Pay', paskel, nakadikit
'Upong Diyes lamang po', laging sinasambit
Ng tsuper na kundi mabait-masungit
Mga bata noon, hilig ay mangisda
'Fighting fish' naman ang sa mga matanda
Gamit ay projector aka aparato
At maputing telon na para sa porno
bomba, at iba pa na very lewd na show
Hindi siya nagtagal, mayroong sumulpot
Modernong betamax siya ay pinatos
Noon akala ko'y betamax na'y hanep
Wala nang tatalo at siya nang ultimate
Sinipa pa rin siya ng kanyang kapatid
Better resolution, tawag ay VHS
Ang pamilya ng tape, nangawala na rin
Dahil nabubuhol, tape ay 'kinakain'
Compact disc, video disc na ay nagsidating
DVD na ngayon kung sila'y tawagin
Meron pa kayang sa kanila'y tatalo
Let us just wait and see, maghintay pa tayo
Ang inabutan ko na aming turntable
Hindi de koryente, hindi reliable
Nagboboses chipmunk, kung minsan ay bulol
Ito ay de susi, subalit portable
Mabuti sa wala no'ng aming panahon
Salamat later on, kami'y nakabili
Ng noon ay sikat, ang high fidelity
Malapad ang plaka, speed ay 33
Long playing record na palayaw ay L. P.
Ang juke box din noon ay sikat na sikat
Ang bawat restaurant, meron yata lahat
Sa loob ng juke box ay nakahilera
Ang mga plaka ng sari-saring kanta
Kapag ang pamagat ay iyong pinindot
Plaka ay bubukod at saka iikot
Ang iyong peborit na kanta'y tutugtog
Mga nakikinig, napapaindayog
Ang juke box na sikat, naglaho't umalis
Casette na multiplex naman ang pumalit
Minus-1, sing-along, mga sumikat pa
Puwede mong alisan ng lyrics ang kanta
Ang background na lamang ang siyang matitira
Ang orig na artist ay 'out', ikaw ang 'in'
Sa accompaniment, ikaw na'ng sasaliw
Hindi natagalan, siya ay phased out na rin
Karaoke naman ang siyang naghari
Hindi rin nagtagal, narito sandali
Magic Sing ang gamit, videoke'y dumatal
Ng singer at audience pinapalakpakan
Wireless na microphone at siya pang selector
Hindi na kelangan pa ang operator
Ito ay fiesta para sa propessionals
At amateurs na nagsisimula pa lang
Kasama din dito ang frustrated singers
Nagpupumilit na sila ay mapansin
Kanta'y kinakaya kahit na baluktot
Masakit sa tenga, parang sinusundot
Transistor radio kong ipinagmayabang
Kahon ng sapatos, gano'n kalaki 'lang'
Ang tape recorder na una kong ginamit
Kahon ng typewriter, iyon ang kawangis
Ay mayabang na ko at lagi kong bitbit
Sila'y lumiit pa't hindi natagalan
Pinagsama sila at naging two in one
Laging nakasukbit, tinawag na walkman
O kaya ay cassette, kay sarap pakinggan
Ang tape ay nawala, CD ang pumalit
Sila'y wala na rin, sila'y na-obsolete
Ng iPod na modern, totoong maliit
MP3 at flash drive na rin ay dumating
Hindi ko malaman kung ano ang alin
Kahit ako'y takot, merong technophobia
Sa YouTube ay nakikinig ng musika
Naki-high tech na rin, kahit matanda na
May earphone sa tenga, may cellphone sa bulsa
Kung ako'y maglakad, paindak-indak pa
Cellphone ko ay high tech, may features pang iba
And just to name a few, internet, camera
Meron akong textmates, hindi chicks, 'Ay sayang! '
Kundi mga tulad kong matanda't gurang
poem by Pacific Hernandez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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