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Bonsai Edith Tiempo All that I love I fold over once And once again And keep in a box

Or a slit in a hollow post Or in my shoe. All that I love? Why, yes, but for the momentAnd for all time, both. Something that folds and keeps easy, Son’s note or Dad’s one gaudy tie, A roto picture of a queen, A blue Indian shawl, even A money bill. It’s utter sublimation, A feat, this heart’s control Moment to moment To scale all love down To a cupped hand’s size Till seashells are broken pieces From God’s own bright teeth, And life and love are real Things you can run and Breathless hand over To the merest child.

The silver touches of the moonlight wave The deep bare bosom that the breeze molests; While lingering whispers deepen as the wavy crests Roll with weird rhythm, now gay, now gently grave; And floods of lambent light appear the sea to paveAll cast a spell that heeds not time’s behests. Not always such the scene: the din of fight Has swelled the murmur of the peaceful air; Here East and West have oft displayed their might; Dark battle clouds have dimmed this scene so fair; Here bold Olympia, one historic night, Presaging freedom, claimed a people’s care. To My Native Land Trinidad L. Tarrosa-Subido Beloved Land, let me explain to thee Why thought of nearing death provokes a pain: ‘Tis not that I again shall never see These orient isles of kindly sun and rain; Not that the visionary spirit must Forego the wonders she had fondly schemed; Not that the flesh must soon succumb to dust, With Love’s avowals only half redeemed. O my beloved Land, whose air I breathe, Whose bounty is my daily sustenance, How sad to leave with nothing to bequeath, Thy weal to serve, thy glory to enhance;

Moonlight on Manila Bay Fernando M. Maramag A light serene, ethereal glory rests Its beams effulgent on each cresting wave;

a poem must be magical. But I—where am I bound? My garden. jolted suddenly Into the teeth of everyday people And cluttering pans of slapdash. Stalls the stupor of the previous night. do I get off at Sinai? Apocalypse awaits me: urgent my sorrow towards the undiscovered world that I roam warm responding flesh for a while shall borrow: conquistador tonight. grammarian in the morning. And it must hold fire as well. And over all I would like to hover God. It must be able to hide What it seeks like a bride. my four walls and you project strange shores upon my yearning: Atlantis? the Caribbeans? Or Cathay? Conductor.M. A dark undisciplined of clouds settled Right into the atmosphere recreating Her Monday-world. It must be slender as a bell. a ragbag Splayed off at tangents. Then musical as a seagull. And it must be able to hear The Luminance of Dove and Deer.How shameful. to dare to rest My thankless dust upon thy noble breast! Six P. Clouds of night jammed in one wicked Corner of sleep. Lyric 17 by Jose Garcia Villa First. It must be a brightness moving And hold secret a bird's flowering. ruefully architecting syllables— but in the afternoon my ivory tower falls. The clearest outglass Of grapefruit juice teetering on a silver Tray for breakfast-in-bed exigencies (Both for effect and effectivity) Is for a fact but fictive in the mind. It must have the wisdom of bows And it must kneel like a Rose. Piece by piece She puts on eight o’ clock. Montage by Ophelia Dimalanta Monday jolts and she bogs down. . Windows To the outside and flecks of faces Spring the morning clear to set her Into her old dimensions. Wandering truant like in a private region. She hoards them Like a child and triumphantly pieces Them into a total singular perspective. Which holds the moment a little longer. pillows And bedcovers in a tumble pat her In place. spreads it as a haze Enveloping her form. finally. clockpuncher tomorrow. A jewel durably ensphered in mist. Splayed-off tatters of mornings. smiling from the poem's cover. Nick Joaquin Trouvere at night. She exudes it now becomingly As she glides and putters about Alternately. perfectly Dissolved in solid tones and chromes. I take a place in the bus among people returning to love (domesticated) and the smell of onions burning and women reaping the washlines as the Angelus tolls. Old gold etched in ever-emerging shades. Images of her beautiful in blank spaces.