Poetry by Riza Racho | February 14th, 2010
Ang nahigugma
Sa kamingaw mangita man
Mga paagi aron makit-an ka
Apan ikaw nanghugas na
Gipapha sa makapila
Ang kagahapon ta
Gi-pas-an ko ang imong anino
Nagsalig ko na sa anino man lang
Dili ug dili gayud ikaw hikalimtan
Apan ikaw
Daling nakalimot
nilakaw ka
nipalayo
Maayo pa ang mananap
mahibalo pang mulingi
Mutilap
Mubakho
Apan ikaw
Hingpit ang pagkalimot
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Creative Nonfiction by Riza Racho | February 7th, 2010
How do we measure success? Each has her own answer to this basic question, and each is correct. It depends, I guess, on where one is coming from, or perhaps, where one is at the time the question came. Since is no right answer to this question, there is only the supposition of its accuracy, of its veracity. From whose perspective will the assessment of such accuracy come? I guess it will be from the perspective of one who had been there.
I measure my success not in terms of how much I have in the bank—for there is not a lot there, just a few measly pesos to tide me over till the next paycheck—nor even how long I have taught in the University. To do so, I think, is inutile, for then, I am but one of the many who have given their best to honor the age-old tradition of greater service for the glory of God. I am but one of the soldiers who march to the battlefront, swinging her gun to the rhythmic cadence of inspired heroism before the guns start to mow us down. I am one of the many who may still live the ideals of a world gone awry, tenaciously holding to what could have been so that this world could become a more habitable one for those who will come after us. So, what, then, is success for me?
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Creative Nonfiction by Riza Racho | August 9th, 2009
Most of us equate coffee with age and long nights that never end; some of us place it at par with romance and falling rain, or hot sultry nights and youth, or balmy days and long forgotten echoes of old remembered loves and footsteps that ring no more, or cold afternoons and chocolate rice porridge before our old television sets and their endless reruns of movies long archived. Whatever strikes our fancy, goes; coffee on hand, it seems, is here to stay.
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