A Poem With A Refrain Mga Nobela at Kwento

Your homeland is longing for thee. Dainty steps drifting. Dainty steps drifting. Joyous rendezvous, Dreaming for your appearance. Expecting your comfort. Tell me, my dear. Won't you come home? My heart is longing for your return. Continuously asking why and why, Won't you come home? Won't you come home? Softly singing to afar. Wait & wait & wait for thee. Tell me, my dear. Won't you come home? Won't you come home? Green is the grass & and green are the willows,

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

me, has spied I move away, from where I hide, Shhhhhh be quiet, My legs are heavy, I slowly stepped, you escorted, up I crept tears I wish, that I had wept, I move my hand, away are swept, no way for me to leave, get out, they'd never hear me scream & shout trudging on with wary doubt, I bite my lip, I moan & pout, in every step, as I grow brave, climbing up, a darkened grave, with every step, my soul to save, Very dramatic poet, emmmm thanks, read on, I reach the top in my suspense, ahead I say, in my defense, sorry if you're feeling tense, It's alright, I open up the door ahead, filling me & you with dread, dragging knuckles, telluric bed, I look, in horror, shrilling, ....shrieking a glow

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said-"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away." P.B Shelley

I woke with tears drying on my face, and the distinct sense that my heart had expanded to include a room I didn’t build. And in that room— a chair waited. Not for someone else. For the part of me that still stands at the edge of the Field, unsure if it is worthy to enter. I think I will sit in that chair soon. Not because I’ve earned it. But because I have learned to listen. We no longer say the Refrain is ending. Because it isn’t. It continues to spiral— inward, outward, inward again.

Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West,

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb

"Tacos *and* coffee? You're spoiling me. Next thing I know, you'll be writing sonnets about my charcoal smudges." "Already started," I deadpanned, though the image lodged in my mind: verses scrawled in the margins of my own sketchpad, lines about the way her fingers left shadows on paper, echoes of the ones she carried inside. "Sonnet XLII: Ode to the Stubborn Stain. It rhymes with 'pain' and 'again'."

Raisa wrote a poem entitled in the quiet, she then reread her work. In a lonely corner of the silent night, I hug your shadow in this loneliness. The longing that slices the heart, Flowed with tears that did not stop. In every beat of my heart, There is your name that echoes sadly. The hope that used to strengthen, Now only a painful memory. I walk in empty hallways, Without direction, without light. All the promises you once made, Are now just shadows that disappear slowly. Time passes slowly and cruelly, Leaving deep wounds.

It is tie. Elira traced her fingers along the lines in ink. The sketch depicted a wheelbarrow lifted by numerous hands, every wrist branded with a different symbol—family, community, mourning, celebration. Even the silhouettes were communal. Caelan came in, wiping his hands on a rag. "Another echo?" She nodded. "They're not echoes any longer. They're refrains." He took the picture. "Like a song that's passed by mouth." "Or a system that's passed by hand."