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“Dream of Knives” by Alfred A. Yuson

Last night I dreamt of a knife I had bought for my son. Of rare design, it went cheaply for its worth-- short dagger with fancily rounded pommel, and a wooden sheath which miraculously revealed other, miniature blades. Oh how pleased he would be upon my return from this journey, I thought. What rapture will surely adorn his ten-year princeling's face when he draws the gift the first time. What quivering pleasure will most certainly be unleashed. When I woke, there was no return, no journey, no gift, and no son beside me. Where do I search for this knife then, and when do I begin to draw happiness from reality, and why do I bleed so from such sharp points of dreams?

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“Holy Sonnet 10” by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

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“Problem Is” by Conchitina R. Cruz

They say poor Filipinos multiply like rabbits since they have nothing to do but fuck. Living in houses with room only for the inevitable brush of the hand against the buttock in between chores, on the way to switch channels to the daily noontime show, no money and little space lead to nowhere but to coupling. We used to joke and call our selves typical Filipinos, broke and empty-handed, when all we did was touch, and for all the movies we missed, fancy dinners we didn’t have, books we borrowed but never owned, we compensated by making love. You told me not to worry, that someday the worst would end, just a couple of right moves and it would be over. Should I have told you then we’d never been better, should I have told you then to hold your tongue, but we had no room for such words. We were rabbits, Seeking the other side, bent on Crossing the pasture.

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“Jolography” by Paolo Manalo

O, how dead you child are, whose spoiled Sportedness is being fashion showed Beautifuling as we speak -- in Cubao There is that same look: Your Crossing Ibabaw, Your Nepa Cute, Wednesdays Baclaran, "Please pass. Kindly ride on." Tonight will be us tomorrowed- Lovers of the Happy Meal and its H, Who dream of the importedness of sex as long as it's Pirated and under a hundred, who can smell A Pasig Raver in a dance club. O, the toilet Won't flush, but we are moved, doing the gerby In a plastic bag; we want to feel the grooves Of the records, we want to hear some scratch- In a breakaway movement, we're the shake To the motive of pockets, to the max. The change is all in the first jeep Of the morning's route. Rerouting This city and its heart attacks; one minute faster Than four o'clock, and the next Wave that stands out in the outdoor crowd hanging with a bunch of yo-yos- A face with an inverted cap on, wearing all Smiles the smell of foot stuck between the teeth.

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“Order for Masks” by Virginia R. Moreno

To this harlequinade

I wear black tight and fool’s cap

Billiken*, make me three bright masks

For the three tasks in my life.

Three faces to wear

One after the other

For the three men in my life.

 When my Brother comes

make me one opposite

If he is a devil, a saint

With a staff to his fork

And for his horns, a crown.

I hope for my contrast

To make nil

Our old resemblance to each other

and my twin will walk me out

Without a frown

Pretending I am another.

  When my Father comes

Make me one so like

His child once eating his white bread in trance

Philomela* before she was raped. I hope by likeness

To make him believe this is the same kind

The chaste face he made,

And my blind Lear* will walk me out

Without a word

Fearing to peer behind.

  If my lover comes,

Yes, when Seducer comes

Make for me the face

That will in color race

The carnival stars

And change in shape

Under his grasping hands.

Make it bloody

When he needs it white

Make it wicked in the dark

Let him find no old mark

Make it stone to his suave touch

This magician will walk me out

Newly loved.

Not knowing why my tantalizing face

Is strangely like the mangled parts of a face

He once wiped out.

  Make me three masks.

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“Lament for the Littlest Fellow” by Edith L. Tiempo

The littlest fellow was a marmoset.

He held the bars and blinked his old man’s eyes.

You said he knew us, and took my arms and set

My fingers around the bars, with coaxing mimicries

Of squeak and twitter.

“Now he thinks you are

Another marmoset in a cage.” A proud denial

Set you to laughing, shutting back a question far

Into my mind, something enormous and final.

The question was unasked but there is an answer.

Sometimes in your sleeping face upon the pillow,

I would catch our own little truant unaware;

He had fled from our pain and the dark room of our rage,

But I would snatch him back from yesterday and tomorrow.

You wake, and I bruise my hands on the living cage.

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“The Spouse” by Luis G. Dato

Rose in her hand, and moist eyes young with weeping, She stands upon the threshold of her house, Fragrant with scent that wakens love from sleeping, She looks far down to where her husband plows.

Her hair dishevelled in the night of passion, Her warm limbs humid with the sacred strife, What may she know but man and woman fashion Out of the clay of wrath and sorrow—Life?

She holds no joys beyond the day’s tomorrow, She finds no worlds beyond her love’s embrace; She looks upon the Form behind the furrow, Who is her Mind, her Motion, Time and Space.

O somber mystery of eyes unspeaking, O dark enigma of Life’s love forlorn; The Sphinx beside the river smiles with seeking The secret answer since the world was born.

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“Day on the Farm” by Luis G. Dato

I’ve found you fruits of sweetest taste and found you Bunches of duhat growing by the hill, I’ve bound your arms and hair with vine and bound you With rare wildflowers but you are crying still. I’ve brought you all the forest ferns and brought you Wrapped in green leaves cicadas singing sweet, I’ve caught you in my arms an hour and taught you Love’s secret where the mountain spirits meet. Your smiles have died and there is no replying To all endearment and my gifts are vain; Come with me, love, you are too old for crying, The church bells ring and I hear drops of rain.

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“Deception” by Antonino Soria de Veyra

ten floors up a lizard punctual at six o'clock crawls down stopping every now and then along the slender tree trunk and kisses the ground nitrified loam of the arboretum ten floors up

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“Moonlight on Manila Bay” by Fernando M. Maramag

A light, serene, ethereal glory rests Its beams effulgent on each crestling wave; 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 pave- All 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.

“The Sick Rose” by William Blake

O Rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

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"Lyric 17” by Jose Garcia Villa

First, a poem must be magical,

Then musical as a sea-gull. It must be a brightness moving And hold secret a bird's flowering. It must be slender as a bell, And it must hold fire as well. It must have the wisdom of bows And it must kneel like a rose. It must be able to hear The luminance of dove and deer. It must be able to hide What it seeks, like a bride. And over all I would like to hover God, smiling from the poem's cover.

“Be Beautiful, Noble Like the Antique Ant” by Jose Garcia Villa

Be beautiful, noble, like the antique ant, Who bore the storms as he bore the sun,  Wearing neither gown nor helmet, though he was archbishop and soldier: Wore only his own flesh Salute characters with gracious dignity: Though what these are is left to Your own terms. Exact: the universe is Not so small but these will be found Somewhere. Exact: they will be found Speak with great moderation: but think With great fierceness, burning passion: Though what the ant thought No annuals reveal, no his descendants Break the seal. Trace the tracelessness of the ant, Every ant has reached this perfection. As he comes, so he goes, Flowing as water flows, Essential but secret like a rose. 

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Touch Move by Peter Zaragoza Mayshle

The young lady was without a doubt beautiful land shocking it was beginning to the underneath the belt portion of Dwindle, which made him think that the young lady needs his private range, Whereas planning for her room, Diminish gave him a towel as she took her shower,he saw her excellent body she was taller that Diminish and she was inclining on the entryway of the shower room.

After taking a shower Diminish saw her bush range since the towel was as well brief to cover it up, Heasked her to urge her another towel but she demanded. The young lady took off her towel and told Diminish that for one thousand pesos he can do anything to her, Dwindle became flushed and was astounded, as he was rubbing her butt that he depicted as an “ass of sago” once he has touched it he was surprisedon how delicate

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Of fish, flies, dogs women By Timothy R. Montes

In this story my reflection is  illustrates that being in burden or hopelessness is not the conclusion of your line in life. But being dedicated, keen and brave will lead you some place to victory you don’t ordinarily expect.

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Breathe By Alessandra GL Gonzales

In this story it tells that we have to let go and forget of the past and focus on what is happening now and in the future. 

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The Use of Force by William Carlos

The story of this is shows that the doctor and a child patient who’s has been suffering from the fever for the three days. The narrator  of this story a doctor who called to check a new patient mathilda by her mother Mrs Olson.

This story seems might a little weird for me, because of what the doctor did to the child.