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March 2011

Poetry by | April 10th, 2011

the color of blood
is black
the heart is an open book

who did you love
before we were forever entwined
   irrevocably
the color of blood is black
the heart is an open book

I cover my head with a hat
to keep my thoughts from
   spilling over

the color of blood is black
the heart is an open book


Tita Lacambra Ayala’s Collected Poems was recently published by UST Press.

City Poem

Poetry by | November 28th, 2010

The city is the loneliest
      place in the world.
It is full of people
      who do not know
      each other.

—-
The Collected Poems of Tita L. Ayala will be published by UST Press this year.

A Modern Asian Fairy Tale

Fiction by | February 8th, 2009

There was this teenaged princess from Southeast Asia who, tired of all the political maneuverings and killings and dissent and poverty unsolved by parliament, sneaked out of the country incognito by wearing a wig and a tailored suit, her crown in a hatbox as hand-carried luggage. Landed in a small Philippine airport, found a small house to stay in the middle of a coconut plantation, then walked to town to pawn her crown.

The rural atmosphere suited her needs, also it was just like home—the land, the trees, the air, the trade. Helped a farmer by burning coconut shells for charcoal, sold these to the barbecue people out in the stands at the town streets, and saved up her money so she could get back her crown.

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Love Poem Macabre

Poetry by | November 2nd, 2008

The chico brown feel and
scent and taste of you
keep me shamelessly honeyed
honeyed for hours after and
I can taste you even more
in my midmorning coffee,
even when you have been gone a week.
I taste you everywhere.

When are you returning from the
restlessness of our travels?

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Requiem for a Drummer Boy

Poetry by | February 24th, 2008

Now who will sustain the
heartbeat of the song
So intent you were at the drums
You looked like you were a master cook head down
preparing delicacies for delicate guests.
When they cut off the lid of his skull
there his brain was throbbing out a
farewell song
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When I talk

Poetry by | September 2nd, 2007

When I talk
To you and you answer
With a sigh or
Asterisk I am at
A loss

For words just
As well
And then we converse
In long
Or short
Silences and a smattering
Of footnotes

You and I
We do not talk anymore
And all our asterisks
Are turning
Into flowers.