Another Morning

Another Morning Compiled by: Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos

Another Morning Compiled by: Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos

Published by Lulu.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used in any manner

whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of

brief quotations in articles and reviews.

First printing, December 2006

Presented To: ______________________________________

Presented By: _____________________________________

Date: ___________________________________________

To all the brave fighters and survivors of the great battle, may you all be an inspiration and symbol of hope and most especially to all who courageously fought but lost, may we all someday meet and be

together again in God’s wonderful place.

Introduction Finding out that my Grandpa has lung cancer stage III was the most unforgettable thing

in my life. All the wonderful things we’ve shared suddenly flashed back inside my head.

Then an idea came to me which until now I still don’t how I was able to make it. I wrote

a book about him. It was all about his childhood days, his happy-go-lucky teenage

moments to settling down and having wonderful six children up to the stormy day we

found out he has cancer. Little by little, I wrote it as his days with us swiftly passed by.

Then I asked myself one night while doing the book the question I think every writer ask

themselves. How will I end it? Will it be a happy ending? The answer finally came to me

when he asks about it one afternoon. So I ended it up in a way that only those wonderful

memories will be in stored.

Grandpa was still able to read it a week before he passed away. It was late when he called

me and he was crying. He said that it was the most beautiful gift he ever had in his life.

He also said that he was surprised to find out that he has been my night light all my life.

The day of his burial, Grandma asked me to put up the last poem in the book inside the

casket lid. Everyone who came to pay respect read it and couldn’t help but cry. It was the

only thing Grandma allowed to put inside Grandpa’s casket, no flowers, no pictures, only

my poem. The burial was the loneliest moment of our lives for Grandpa was the gentlest

and kindest person we all known. He was always there whenever we need him. He was

truly our night light.

But before his last days, I was planning of writing this anthology. When God finally gave

him his wings, I started to put this idea behind my head, thinking it might only bring back

sad and painful things not just for me but also for those who will contribute to the

anthology. So, I put down my pen and said that not now. But the next morning when I

opened my emails, I saw the first submitted poems for the anthology. I read it and

realized that Grandpa must have sent that poem because after I’m done with it, I decided

that I must continue writing the book. I owe it to him and most of all to all who still

bravely fighting the battle and to all who lost it. And in my heart I’m sure Grandpa

wanted me to finish it too.

So, here you are, the book written with love and comes from the heart. It may bring back

sad memories of pain and struggles but at the end you’ll find the peace in every one’s

heart and soul as we all continue to take our journey with faith and hope, hand in hand.

Trials teach us what we are; they dig up theTrials teach us what we are; they dig up theTrials teach us what we are; they dig up theTrials teach us what we are; they dig up the soil, and let us see what we are made of.soil, and let us see what we are made of.soil, and let us see what we are made of.soil, and let us see what we are made of.

Charles Haddon Spurgeon

My Pain and Battle

ICUICUICUICU

she fights hard

never giving up

her pain is my own

the pleading look in her eyes

pinning me easily

this war of attrition will end

but never soon enough

acres of life having been sold off

to the lowest bidder

'God never gives us anything

we cannot bear'

these are words my mother

told me when I was old enough

to appreciate the truth

'the lessons learned are what counts'

I wonder if these angry bees

buzz around her mind

like they do mine

there is no honey

only catacombs of pain

and the occasional sting --

emphatic proof that as bad

as things are

they will get worse

will I be as brave

as strong as enduring

as she?

cancer has stolen her youth

leaving a stranger behind

but when I look into her eyes

the one I see

sets us both free

© by Trish Shields

© Geert Verbeke

modern day warriormodern day warriormodern day warriormodern day warrior

she's a strong woman

quiet yet determined

strict yet fair

she has a little more padding

than she'd like and

gets more tired

than she'd like to admit

her ready smile and laughter

greets friends and family

candy stripers and doctors alike

after carefully attending to her hair

making sure the fit is tight

and secured

she begins her day

after taking in a granddaughter

treating her like the fifth child she never had

her days are filled with the usual battles

- twenty-something can be difficult

at a point where retirement should

have been enjoyed

travel to distant hot climes investigated

the pitter patter of young grandchildren endured

she faces

C125 tests that shows her cancer

thriving in spite of the endless bouts

of chemo

she soldiers on

trying not to dwell on things too long

trying hard to be strong

consoling her children

that stand by with stricken looks

they try not to add to her grief

showing a game face to each other

plastering a smile on before each visit

when all they want to do is rail

at the heavens - wishing to be carefree

young children once more

she sleeps in a chair now

her back paining her these days

but she'll be awake early to care for her family

making sure they take their vitamins

and plan for the future

© by Trish Shields

Left UnsaidLeft UnsaidLeft UnsaidLeft Unsaid

as I entered his room

he focused upon me

silently begging me not to ask

of his absent roommate

empty bed freshly made

bedside table neat

surrounding area cleared

of anything personal

in that part of the nursing home

where people go missing

© by Carl Palmer

© Geert Verbeke

Dream in her eyesDream in her eyesDream in her eyesDream in her eyes (For Aundrea Temple)

she keeps her eyes closed

touching her way to the bathroom

not turning on the light

she flushes washes her hands

touches her way back to bed

keeping safe the dream in her eyes

© by Carl Palmer

© Geert Verbeke

3 haiku dedicated to Barbara Kluft3 haiku dedicated to Barbara Kluft3 haiku dedicated to Barbara Kluft3 haiku dedicated to Barbara Kluft

the constant care and your lancinating pain

a Buddha smile

she unpack her bags - on the hospital bed

Agatha Christie

Barbara has a fit of the giggles

into a fidget

© by Geert Verbeke

© Geert Verbeke

Sisu Sisu Sisu Sisu A Finnish word, “sisu” is hard to fully translate

into English, but means a kind of stubborn

courage even in the face of extreme hardship.

I

She stands, fully

naked, full front

in front of the full length mirror.

We see five tattoos of cats

scattered on her body.

The gel in her bleached tipped,

hand-combed hair is still damp.

Raising her hands to the edge of her jawbone

she traces its line from each side

then to the middle

where meeting hands suggest prayer.

II

Her hands lower,

caress her collar bone, her breasts.

Gently she cups and lifts both breasts

as the nipples harden and rise.

With wistful smile she murmurs

“My perky little girls.”

Salty diamonds trace down her cheeks

as she releases her pride and traces

down her belly to her soft triangle.

Now she sobs,

“God, O God, will I ever have children?”

III

After a pause

she wipes her tears

on the backs of her hands,

squares her shoulders and dresses to go

for more chemo.

The cancer, back again

for a fourth time,

has moved the battle from breast

to bones and now to liver.

Armed with faith and courage

she delivers herself to tubes and flow.

IV

Like museum quality ivory,

her skin is mellow yellow,

stretched taut over delicate bones,

already the carved mask of death.

Her eyes are closed and her body still

except for the terrible gulps

that bring air to her ravaged lungs.

Her body is still like desert hills

that have an inner

secret that allows them

to spring to life in April rains.

V

We turn her hands palm up

for the anointing oil freely mixed with our tears

Fr. Steve gentles her forehead with his hand,

like calming a fevered child into sleep.

We pray and sing and tell

her of our love and commend her to God.

For five more hours she lingers

and then midnight comes.

Soft transformation, such a smile she has

her release.

Our dear Lori rests in peace.

© by Maggie Kelly

No Need No Need No Need No Need forforforfor Words Words Words Words (For my Grandpa Jorge P. Causing who has lung cancer stage III)

Today we visit him

with my kids,

walking on his way home

after church service,

smile touched his pale face.

“I thought you’d never come.”

He beamed.

Into his bony arms

he took my son.

Laughter escapes his lips

“Hello, my great grandson.”

He chuckled.

Tears brimmed my eyes,

I turned away.

Time to go,

he held my kids, then

kissed their small heads.

“You will visit me again, okay?”

Then he looked at me,

no words

just his eyes speaking,

‘I’m grateful you came.’

© by Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos

Theresa's SongTheresa's SongTheresa's SongTheresa's Song (Dedicated to the special kind of love Theresa and Dave have)

Lord, how I do love the man,

this David of mine,

whose hand is just the right size

to comfort when I grieve

any small loss in the day

or to stroke and seek out

my most secret desires.

We are so different and yet

create completion in our

steadfast, mutual commitment.

Lord, how I do love the man

who now is my shadow life

lived among tubes and shunts and pics

in corridors rustling with purpose,

afraid to lose him yet

afraid he will overstay

beyond the point of pain

that neither of us can bear to share

lest we become

howling wolves in winter forest.

© by Maggie Kelly

I SEE SUNLIGHT THROUGH GREEN LEAVESI SEE SUNLIGHT THROUGH GREEN LEAVESI SEE SUNLIGHT THROUGH GREEN LEAVESI SEE SUNLIGHT THROUGH GREEN LEAVES (For Rich Frishholz and he had throat cancer – he is halfway into the three-

year period they gave him after which there is a 90% chance of remaining

cancer free)

I See Sunlight through Green Leaves and...

It reminds me of my

Friend who just told me

He has three more days of

Radiation left and

Hopes the cancer in his aching

Throat doesn't return

This termination of treatments was

Just in time because he is unable to

Taste anything, his dry tongue sticks

To his teeth and his neck is

Brown as if it had been

Turned on a barbeque spit from the daily

Bombardment of a life/death ray

Now getting on with life

LIFE! A house to build

Sky full of stars to stare at

His children to kiss

A lover to meet

Death can wait

Sun can pour through green leaves

Radiate through red flower pedals

© by Jim Teeters (This poem will also appear in the Spring/Summer 2007 issue of Nisqually

Delta Review)

life supportlife supportlife supportlife support (I would like to dedicate these writings to my mother Freda, survivor of

breast cancer...and to Ginger, in the midst of breast cancer, her brother bob

(both the subject of the poem) and their sister mike and our dear friend

Marge who lost the fight in Dec 2005...)

I

he stands in the background,

hears the doctor’s words

not quite believing...

not quite understanding

...what good is the strength of a man

against words that sound so final

he stands in the background

hands in his pockets, watches, listens

out of place in this room of women

...what good is the strength of a man

in this sea of pain?

he stands in the background

swallowing hard

eyes blink away tears

being as strong as he can...

a smile masks his fear.

life support

II

front and center

...center of attention

attention she doesn’t want.

words from the doctor’s mouth

numbing, shocking, yet expected

déjà vu

already given up

half her badge of womanhood

now the beast demands the other.

mind reeling

sitting amongst family

the words echo

off the looks on their faces

she searches, heart quickening

until her eyes settle on those of her brother’s

standing in the back, smiling for her...

she breathes again.

© by Rose Matlock

Disaster AvertedDisaster AvertedDisaster AvertedDisaster Averted

It could be

Tarot card or

Pathology

report.

You total the car:

walk away

with a headache

and a story.

Mind blank,

bluebook fills

the little desk:

somehow you pass

the final.

Surgery reveals

a contained

tumor:

you promise

to be kind,

eat vegetables,

meditate.

© by Carol Dorf

The Sand ResearcherThe Sand ResearcherThe Sand ResearcherThe Sand Researcher (For my daughter)

I would protect you from the book of knowledge

But your questions drive me on

Here’s the sampling of the varieties of infinity:

Grains of sand upon any beach

Krill floating at the edge of the continental shelf

The rational numbers between 0 and 1, say,

or between 45 and 46

Our friend is dying, geometric multiplications of cells

filling the interstices between lung and chest wall

I map coastlines where infinite perimeter

encompasses finite area

The multitude of ways death presents itself

when we believe we are just waiting for the time

between spring break and summer vacation

Integers step at their measured

Intervals into the future

I try to promise I won’t die

How much a sin, false reassurance

Small child, you already know the futures

that open up after each decisions

and you beg me to decide

I draw a power series for you

snowflake against a dark background,

perimeter expanding with each iteration

The infinite ways each death shocks us,

area bound by the limit.

At the beach you collect

sea glass, brush aside grains of sand

You want objects that can be counted

(This was written, in part, for a friend Jerry Shorer who died of lung

cancer(and obviously I was also thinking of my own/my husbands

mortality).

*First published in Cloud View Poets anthology,

© by Carol Dorf

MY FATHER’S SISTER 1942MY FATHER’S SISTER 1942MY FATHER’S SISTER 1942MY FATHER’S SISTER 1942 (My Aunt Lottie died in Hewitt, Minnesota in 1942 from breast cancer. At

that time nobody spoke about cancer or women’s breast. I still grieve for

her)

In Aunt Lottie’s house nothing hid,

not even Cousin Viola who smiled down

from a picture on the wall.

Viola- eighteen when the brain tumor

drove her crazy and she climbed to the rooftop,

hammer in hand, threatening to kill everyone.

Nothing hid in Aunt Lottie’s house.

No spider hurried to spin in a corner.

Dust dared not settle on stiff doilies.

Sometimes sunlight ventured

through a window onto a braided rug

where Aunt Lottie had me stand

exactly center and sing Red Wing.

The notes hung like icicles.

Once she allowed me

to see her loosen her hairpins

as she sat in a straight-backed chair.

Her brown hair tumbled down and down

until it touched the floor.

It flowed and rippled like waves

in a lake fingering for the shore.

Her dark dress hung to her ankles,

hugged her wrists and throat,

covered the lump that grew on her breast

until the smell from the oozing sore drove

Uncle Jim to damn modesty and call a doctor.

Aunt Lottie’s hair brushed the floor.

© by Amelia Haller

EARTHEARTHEARTHEARTH

The vivid earth is vital green

With grass and trees that touch the azure sky,

And gulls in zeal from sea to shore careen

With ringing, revibrating, stirring cries.

Reforming western winds recalls the waves

A rolling cadenza of unity

As now I hold the hand that fast engraves

The living earth with all its amity.

From out of agony I cling to life,

Each scene cut deep by fate’s exacting knife.

A leaf, a love, no more to be a part

Of common things that consummate my heart.

I knew somewhere, sometime I’d have to leave.

I didn’t know so much for earth I’d grieve.

(I wrote this sonnet one day before my surgery. The sun was shining on

beautiful Wapato Hill. I felt as if I would never see my family or that hill

again)

© by Amelia Haller

Family History Deja vuFamily History Deja vuFamily History Deja vuFamily History Deja vu

If Mommy only knew all that occurred,

She would turn over in her grave.

She’d question and explore the said misdeed

to figure why anyone would behave

that way to their sibling, their own blood,

their family. It would cause Mom great pain,

release memories, an entire flood

of them reminding her of the campaign

her family led against her when they

declared her dead, and sat Shiva for her

forsaking her, long before the day

when she lay in the funeral parlor

dead, having been ravaged by the cancer

which destroyed and took her away.

Then - her family came to see her.

They should have been ashamed to come that day.

Her family disowned her when she married Dad

who, although he was Jewish too, had been married

before with a son, then divorced. Her family had

no tolerance of this, being orthodox, and such

... thus they, considered her Dead!

My mother suffered so much from her illness

and trying to raise us four children.

She did the best she could under her duress.

She’d wonder what could make this occur again.

that now, I, the youngest am forsaken

by two of my sisters, one who just passed on

ravaged too, by the cancer that has overtaken

and polluted my family’s gene pool,

... oh sorrows, please be gone

I am the lone survivor, who, as of yet

have not fallen prey to the horrific scourge

I live under the fear and the threat

of cancerous death and pray to emerge

safely through the onslaught and expulsion

from family that my mother lived through

and wonder why all this must be redone

and why, even dialogue on this, is taboo.

© Joy Leftow

(In my family, at this point I am the only one who has not had cancer, except for my

father -- who was a frustrated artist and musician -- but was forced to work.

My mother, and 2 sisters had cancer. My mother survived long enough to see me, the

youngest, reach 17. She had breast cancer since my birth. One sister had breast cancer

and survived, thank god, and the other succumbed to colon cancer. She couldn't bear the

treatment)

On His SickbedOn His SickbedOn His SickbedOn His Sickbed (For my Grandpa Jorge P. Causing who has lung cancer stage III)

Dark circles

under his eyes-

sleepless nights,

pain was his only

companion.

“Don’t try to move me,

please, don’t try.”

He cried.

Dizziness, nausea

visit him at day.

“When will this end?”

“God, are you there?”


CancerCancerCancerCancer

A slow death

creeps up my veins

invades my bones

steals into the sanctum

of my body.

There is a name

which men have given

this malady

but the namelessness

of its pain

is infinite and full,

unknowable and certain,

and as the black dust

takes root

and branches

into an infernal tree

clouds of sorrow

gather above me

as thick

as a nest of maggots.

© by Ella Wagemakers

HaikHaikHaikHaikuuuu

dandelions seeds

great grandmother's hands

full of hair

© by Dustin Neal

PahimakasPahimakasPahimakasPahimakas sa talang nagniningas sa talang nagniningas sa talang nagniningas sa talang nagniningas (Filipino Version Only)

- Si Tinay ang aming pangalawang Ina.

Marahil namanhid na ako sa dagok (o biyaya?) ng tadhana kay Tinay

Di na ako nabalisa, gaya nang una niyang isuko ang katawan.

Sa talim ng pantistis, sa bagsik ng likidong sandaling humele

Sa bagabag niyang isipan. Mapayapa ko nang natanggap

Ang hatol ng pagsuko: Multiple bone metastases. Multiple myoma,

Fourth stage breast cancer. Ito na marahil ang balato niya

Sa Panginoong buong buhay niyang pinagsilbihan,

Para kami ay iadya sa lahat ng masasama.

Natinag ba minsan ang kanyang pananampalataya?

Sa mga gabing nanunuot ang kirot sa kanyang dibdib,

Gaya ng mga gabing mag-isa niyang nilalakbay,

Ang makitid at madilim na pagitan ng dapithapon

At bukang-liwayway? Narinig kaya ng kanyang Maylikha,

Ang daing at pagsusumamo, habang gumuguhit ng pinong-pino,

Sa bawat himaymay at laman ang walang patawad na hapdi?

Siguro ito na ang balato niya sa Maylikha,

Wala mang dumaloy na gatas sa kanyang dibdib, binusog

Naman niya kami ng walang mapagsidlan na aruga.

Walang man sumupling na buhay sa kanyang sinapupunan,

Dinugtungan naman niya ang aming mga hininga.

Marahil nga, ito na ang huling pagbuhos niya ng pagkalinga,

Karugtong ng mga di masukat na petisyon at debosyon,

Mga dalanging namutawi sa mga labi ng naninilaw nang pahina ng nobena,

At mga pintig ng butil ng Santo Rosario; sa mga dalit at awit

Na inialay sa Santa Misa; sa mga ipinasa Diyos na bigat at pasanin,

Kapalit ng mga 'di mabilang na hakbang sa mga prusisyon,

Sa tiniklop na tuhod ng pagsamo sa harap ng Sakristiya,

Sa mga bendito at debosyon sa Ina ng Awa.

Minsan, isang gabi, sa kanyang himlayang isang dipa na lang ang layo

Sa Paraisong pangako, inabutan ko si Tinay umaawit ng pagsamo.

Matingkad pa rin ang timbre ng kanyang boses, matayog, malamyos,

May hatid na halina: Luwalhati sa Ama, Anak at Espiritu Santo!

Si Tinay, isa nang ganap naming anghel dela guwardiya.

© by Gerry S. Rubio

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Si Tinay - Eugenia Talla Sorra, ay kapatid ng aming ina. Sa gulang sa 63, iginugupo ang

kanyang mortal na katawan ng sakit na kanser. Kumalat na ang carcinoma sa kanyang

kaliwang dibdid. Lukob na rin ang kanyang buto pati ovary ng nakamamatay na cancer

cells. Hindi namin malaman kung ito ay himala - di man lang nalagas ang buhok niya sa

pinagdaanang chemotheraphy sessions. Bakas pa rin sa mukha niya ang dating sigla.

Parang walang nagbago, maliban sa katawang nakaratay. Matapos ang mastectomy, di na

nagdesisyon ang kanyang mga doktor na operahan ang kanyang spine at ovary. Mas lalo

daw makakasama sa kanya.

Di nag asawa si Tinay. Subalit mahigit kaming 16 na direktang pamangkin niya ang

itinuturing niyang anak, kasama pa ang sobra sa 20ng apo. Siya ay dating Food Service

Attendant ng isang government hospital dito sa amin. At isa sa mga masigasig na

tagapagtaguyod ng Anawim Covenant Community. Siyangan pala, isinilang siya sa

panahon ng Kapaskuhan, December 25, sa taon ng ikalawang digmaang pandaigdig.

Tatlong buwan matapos ko itong gawin, tuluyan nang namaalam si Tinay.

Life Is To Be With YouLife Is To Be With YouLife Is To Be With YouLife Is To Be With You

Sometimes life is like a road whose Exit signs we sometimes miss.

We are compelled to drive ahead for the nearest exit.

Sometimes we think that that Exit is the one, only to head back to the

highway.

Now we are lost, the diner along the way is the next best stop.

Sometimes life is like a diner's place where we can slow down our pace,

look at our watch and observe the lengthening shadow on the ground.

Sometimes life is like an unconsulted map, always driving in a hurry,

wasting gas and time, only to pull over by the service road, to finally read

the map.

Sometimes life is just about moving on past the roads,

Past the exits we went through, the diner or service road where we once

stopped.

Often times life is just about being here, now, where ever it is.

Forget about the spent gas or the missed exits.

To me, life, is to be with you, anywhere you choose to be.

It’s OK to miss the exits, waste the gas, and stopping by service roads.

© by Joel Josol

TenderTenderTenderTender

tears…

when they roll down

your lovely face

sends

alarm bells in me

my blood rushing

like warm liquid in my veins

bowed head…

your lovely head

your silky black hair

beautiful like cascading waterfall

are lost in your gloom

my heart sighs

silently

sobs…

when you groan

like a fatally wounded soldier,

you fight fiercely back

i am here

find comfort in my arms

find strength in my tenderness

trembling hands…

your soft pale hands

though weak and in pain

doesn’t diminish their pleasure when held

i will be here

tap the strength in my hands,

to wipe away the tears .

© by Joel Josol

An ActorAn ActorAn ActorAn Actor

Raindrops on the

Window sill

Like tears I tried to

Hide.

Chemo today then

Radiation tomorrow-

Another pain, another pain.

‘Quick! Mom’s coming.’

Shed those tears

Need to be brave, don’t want her to

See me cry.

Kisses on my burning forehead,

I smiled.

“don’t worry, Mama,

I’m fine.”

Liar!

Can’t wait to get home…

© by Martin Velasquez

Needs Needs Needs Needs totototo Hurry Up Hurry Up Hurry Up Hurry Up (For my Grandpa Jorge P. Causing who has lung cancer stage III)

Today…

I’m going to finish my breakfast

Take medications

Do some paperwork from church

Watch a noon time show

Eat a hearty lunch

Rest

Take a long bath

Have a conversation with my wife

Take morphine

Tomorrow…

I will go to church early in the morning

Have breakfast with my wife

Call my daughter and ask if she and her family will visit me

Request a festive lunch

Take medications

Take a nap

Take a bath

Talk to God

Wait for my great grandson

Hurry up, hurry up, before the grinding pain starts again.


Para Kay MamaPara Kay MamaPara Kay MamaPara Kay Mama

Lumuha si mama

Ng nalaman-

Leukemia.

Umiyak din ako

Ayokong Makita si mama na malungkot

“May pag-asa pa ba?”

tanong ni mama.

Chemo ngayon,

Radiation sa isang linggo.

Masakit daw yon,

Bahala na…

Titiisin ko na lang

Para kay mama.

© by Jeremy Tolentino

For MamaFor MamaFor MamaFor Mama

(Translated by Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos)

Mama cried

When she found out-

Leakumia.

I cried too

For I hate to see her sad.

“Is there hope?”

Mama sobbed.

Chemo today

Radiation next week.

They say it’s painful,

We’ll see…

I’ll endure everything,

Anything,

For Mama.

Visiting hour.Visiting hour.Visiting hour.Visiting hour. (For my brother Dr. Amitava Chakrabarti who has lung cancer)

The gulmohur peeps inquisitively in at the window.

One minimises my ailment; another derives pleasure

From recounting horrendous illnesses and repulsive deaths.

Some arrive soon as visiting hours start, and

After a most sociable evening chatting with other visitors,

Are shooed out by the night nurse on her rounds.

A few come merely from a sense of duty:

After a desultory exchange of words, they consult their watches,

Calculating how soon they may decently leave.

I am glad to see them all,

For they reach to me the air of the outside world.

After a couple of weeks, my visitors stop coming.

Life continues for others, as I lie abed

© by Sunipa Basu

JUSTJUSTJUSTJUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED: WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED: WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED: WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED: (For my brother Dr. Amitava Chakrabarti who has lung cancer)

The doctor is brassily optimistic.

Nothing to worry, just a new little shadow on the right

We’ve been expecting it, you know,

Why else would we check every so often?

Just a couple more chemo, a session or two with the radiologist…

You know what to expect, you’re a veteran now!

So come along tomorrow morning.

Of course, you are free to choose

To take treatment,

Or not.

But what I say is,

Why leave just a little defect lurking about inside?

See you tomorrow, then.

Patient departs, doctor meets his junior’s eyes,

And writes on patient’s card, “Stage IV! Prognosis – ”

© by Sunipa Basu

ENDURINGENDURINGENDURINGENDURING (For my brother Dr. Amitava Chakrabarti who has lung cancer)

In my pantheon of heroes he resides,

The man

Who keeps the battle going by enduring.

It tears me up to see him so endure.

But I only hope,

He endures and endures and endures….

© by Sunipa Basu

On Our Way HomeOn Our Way HomeOn Our Way HomeOn Our Way Home (For my loving Grandpa Jorge P. Causing)

My love and thoughts

now I’ve put down to words-

things I didn’t say nor

show

that only God knows how much

I care.

If only I could give my life

to see him strong,

laughing again,

I’d be more than happy

to do it

but we have our own journey-

a narrow path towards

our way home.

And if God, yes, if

He will send His angel

someday

and give him his wings,

I will accept it

though

my heart will weep,

my soul will grieve

for my night light will

be gone

but I will hold on to

God’s promise

that someday

my night light and I

will meet again,

laugh together again,

share stories again

and there will be

no more pain,

no more tears,

no more goodbyes-

someday in

heavens abound.


• This poem also appeared in my book with the same title, On Our way

Home. This was also the poem my Grandpa asked me to put inside Grandpa’s

casket.

“Grandpa, I can’t wait to see you again.”

Another Morning

Hope is like a bird that senses the dawn and carefully starts to sing Hope is like a bird that senses the dawn and carefully starts to sing Hope is like a bird that senses the dawn and carefully starts to sing Hope is like a bird that senses the dawn and carefully starts to sing while it is still dark. while it is still dark. while it is still dark. while it is still dark. - Anonymous

j

EmiEmiEmiEmikokokoko (For my Emiko Kruckner, my aunt, had died of lung cancer)

There's no denying it now;

She knows she's dying.

Her body, once vibrant,

Has gone old and frail.

She curses the disease

That inhabits her body,

Slowly choking the very

Life out of her.

Her thoughts go to her son,

Her only child who's now a grown man.

She sighs heavily, knowing

She'll never see his first born,

Or the marriage he'll one day enter.

A tear trickles down her cheek

As her body slips into an eternal sleep.

© by Robin M. Buehler

ANOTHER MORNING (2 haiku dedicated to Yannoulah):ANOTHER MORNING (2 haiku dedicated to Yannoulah):ANOTHER MORNING (2 haiku dedicated to Yannoulah):ANOTHER MORNING (2 haiku dedicated to Yannoulah):

flowering orchard with access for wheelchairs

day of thanksgiving

giving each other a meaningful glance

without comment

© by Geert Verbeke

To a Grieving HusbandTo a Grieving HusbandTo a Grieving HusbandTo a Grieving Husband

She will return

Having lived the joys and agonies,

ecstasies and sorrows of this life -

to do better the next time around.

Will her passing make you a better person,

as her presence did, by your side?

Her school is in recess for now,

for she has passed, though our examination is still to come.

She will return.

The memory will never fade, but the pain will ease.

© by Dr. Bob Rich

Dream weaverDream weaverDream weaverDream weaver

I will weave you a dream in your sleep

A dream no one can take:

Like the greens, touched by the morning mist,

Like the flowers, kissed by the humming bird,

Like the waves, caressed by the fleeting sand.

Like you and me in the footsteps of twilight.

I can never weave you a dream, while

Grief, like thief, shadows

Despair, like shackles, binds

Gloom, like prison, enslaves.

For dreams, unbroken, are like womb:

A refuge of the soul, forsaken

Gently, your dream, I will weave,

Braided with unending solace

Stitched with tranquil consolation

Spindled with, sweet gentle whisper.

For while you are asleep, only while you are asleep,

Find bliss, I can. Then I weep.

© by Rodrigo G. Langit Jr.

AcceptanceAcceptanceAcceptanceAcceptance

Purest

Sweetest

Calmness

Madness

Wear I, the purest, and sweetest of smile

Veiling my calmness; madness, my denial

© by Rodrigo G. Langit Jr.

ILAW NG TAHANANILAW NG TAHANANILAW NG TAHANANILAW NG TAHANAN

(In Filipino Version Only)

Sa tuwing bubuksan ko’y lumiliwanag

Kahit ang aking isipan

At kasuluksulukan ng aming payak na tahanan.

Malaya at matapang kong nagagawa lahat ng naisin.

Liwanag nito’y parang pag-asang dumadaloy sa aking dugo,

na bumubusog sa aking sikmura’t pangarap.

Ngayon, walang ilaw sa bahay,

Ang liwanag ay nagpaalam na.

Hirap akong gumalaw sa dilim.

Ang paligid, waring puno ng dumi’t panganib

Na nakaabat sa amin.

Sa gabi, naiisip ko ang aming ilaw,

At naaalala kong di pa man lumulubog ang araw,

Sa akin na ipinapasa ang kanyang tanglaw...

© by Maria Soledad B. Corong

HaikuHaikuHaikuHaiku (Dedicated to Ileta Wynell Wilson)

autumn moon . . .

a tumor sleeping

in my wife's chest

© By Robert Wilson

Celestial WarningCelestial WarningCelestial WarningCelestial Warning

Written for Matt's funeral service

in celebration of his sense of humor, both enduring and endearing

(Dedicated to the memory of Matthew Dean Stickler who lived a year longer

than they thought, who fought the good fight with humor and grace.

Although the cells traveled from his neck to his brain to his liver, no test

could determine what kind of cancer he had.)

Beware, ye angels of heaven.

There comes one to be among you

who will not be content

to hover in helpful pose

nor want wings and a white robe

which would get in his way

as he examines the mechanics

of weather systems and cloud formations.

Be selective in what you offer him,

for he’s tasted a ’62 Chateau Lafitte Rothschild,

and would desire yet a fuller nose

should there be a nectar of the gods.

Not a novice at flying

he will probably race the cosmic plane

full tilt around the orbits

learning all the new, no-gravity rules.

He will paint your heavenly pavilions,

mow your meadows’ sweet grasses

and teach the children among you,

in classes, to ski the celestial slopes.

You may occasionally hear

the mighty rattle of his snore

or the giant echo of a guffaw

exploding from some new delight.

But . . .

be careful in befriending him

for he keeps all attachments

long and dear.

© by Maggie Kelly

DavidDavidDavidDavid (Dedicated to my cousin David Bruce Musikant, who died in September of

2004 at the age of 37 with Brain Cancer.)

a kind, keen citizen,

future mayor, and

mentor—

to anyone in his site,

with a perseverance

unmatchable

never wanting pity because

of his disability.

Garlic, sushi, ice cream, pizza

music discussions

over The Who, Marley, AC/DC,

Bruce, Floyd, Zeppelin, RHCP

or how much you disliked the Allmans.

Dave, bring

me more encouraging,

inspiring words

this way, the world and I become better people.

Dave, remember

we have a trip to San Diego

and I don't expect to go alone.

Remain in my heart as the Atlas of all my cousins.

© by Lori Michael

When When When When thethethethe Rain Starts To Fall Rain Starts To Fall Rain Starts To Fall Rain Starts To Fall (For my Grandpa Jorge P. Causing who has lung cancer stage III. I wrote

this beside him on his hospital bed on September 3, 2006 at exactly 10:30

AM)

Dark skies above

smell of rain in the air,

I looked deep into your eyes

but you seem so far away.

I leaned down and kissed your

hollowed cheek

but you turned away-

I wonder if you still

recognize me.

Tears started to fall

For I feel now is the time,

breath shallow and yet still

wants to fight.

I wanted to take you into my arms

for I don’t want you to go

but you suffered enough,

you cried enough.

I don’t want to leave your side

nor take my eyes away from you

for in my heart I know

you’ll be saying goodbye now.


FRUSTRATIONFRUSTRATIONFRUSTRATIONFRUSTRATION

I count the stars, it’s late so soon

And followed a shooting star.

I reached the sky,

I reached the moon,

I reached the rainbow far.

I count the chicks before the eggs,

I wear a crown inside my head,

I used my eye

Instead of legs,

Slept on roses of bed.

I shut my eyes before I read,

I smell some scent ‘til my heart pleads,

I plant the trunk

Instead of seed,

Until my mind sore and bleeds.

I lost the race before start,

I had it all but then had none,

I reached my rank

With open heart,

But all my dreams are gone…

Gone…

© by Ma. Soledad B. Corong

THE BOATTHE BOATTHE BOATTHE BOAT (I dedicate this poem to nieces, Shirley Lundgren and Sylvia Stenzel. Both

of these courageous women have survived breast cancer.)

the miniature boat fills my hands

as I place it in the rolling sea

invisible you come out of nowhere

press your guiding hands on mine

the boat expands to reality

slapping water rocks its sides

brilliant blue waves leap

and hurry to meet us

through white crested angry swells

that seem to reach forever

the boat sails to a steady shore

safely within loving hands

© by Amelia Haller

DAPITHAPONDAPITHAPONDAPITHAPONDAPITHAPON

(Filipino Version Only)

Ang kulay mo’y nag-aagaw na

Pula , dilaw, at asul, Unti-unting lumilisan ang liwanag,

Mga dahon ay kumakaway at Sinasambit ng hangin ang

Iyong pagbalik.

Di magtatagal at didilim, Ang dating liwanag ay lalamlam,

Ngunit may kislap ng lunggati Na tatanod sa lahat.

Sa oras na ito, ang mga ala-ala

Ay mananahan, Luha at tuwa ay patuloy na sisiklot

Sa aking damdamin, Kasabay na maglalamay ang

mga kulisap, Habang ang mga dahon ay Tiklop na mahihimbing.

Sa umaga, masaya silang gigising Upang salubungin ng mga yakap

Ang darating na liwanag, Buong lapad ang kanilang pagtanggap

Habang ang hangin ay umaawit ng lambing.

Pagkat ikaw, ang dapithapon na namaalam Ay papalitan ng bukang-liwayway.

© by Ma. Soledad B. Corong

It's On MeIt's On MeIt's On MeIt's On Me (Dedicated very lovingly to my Grandpa Buss.)

Sunny morning and I crawl out of bed,

so many silly thoughts that bounce in my head

will I be late….?

after work, have a date

is she Ms. Right? I’ll just have to wait

And then dear sir you pop in to say hello.

I give you a hug and a firm handshake

the same solid shake

that when I was young would make my hand ache

I’m not so sure what to say

How have you been?

How’s the weather down there?

Awkward silly questions just to fill the air

And you smile and say, “I’m doin’ fine, and the weathers the same.”

“How are you JP and how are the dames?

“Oh they come and they go, Grandpa, they come and they go”

“Some are too fast and some are too slow,

no keepers like Grandma but I’m sure she’ll eventually show!”

And then all of a sudden we were no longer there

I’m on a pullout with Chris and you’re standing there

not positioned on the floor but directly on the bed

you’re looking fierce and we’re full of dread

“SLOWLY I TURN” you say with a stare

your hair in two horns, well what was left up there!

And we are giddy afraid, not actually scared,

like when a kitten pounces from a spot when you knew he was there.

Now I flash forward to a wooden stand

just one little shop in a very big land

Little guys like ice cream and Grandpas do too

So it only made sense that you took us with you

I can’t remember what Chris ordered and I wish that I did

But I sure remember what I ordered and I bet you do too

Chocolate chip mint, or was it Mint chocolate chip?

Only that cranky lady apparently knew

You should know to this day how much that still means

just two boys…

their Grandpa……

and some melty ice cream.

Now flash forward just a couple days more

to those two boys their Grandpa

and some big box store

You were told not to spoil us

but what did you care

Grandpa’s have powers that mommies don’t dare

“You shouldn’t have done that!”

she said with a smile

“Oh they were with Grandpa and were mine for a while.”

you said so gracefully as you returned her the smile

Now fast forward through nights and through days

time as we grow becomes a trap ridden maze

So I thought and I thought

and then a few words rang through

they were so simple and beautiful

Here they are and you’ll agree

Here they are and you’ll see

Grandpa I love you with all my heart

and all the light in my soul

which for you, stretches out to the farthest shining sea

and Grandpa the next time we meet……

I promise….

The Ice Cream's on me

© by John Donelly

Turkey DayTurkey DayTurkey DayTurkey Day (Dedicated to my mother, Beverly Michael, who died in August of 2003 at

the age of 58 with Ovarian and Brain Cancer.)

Thanksgiving was odd this year

with you over the river.

I spoiled the boys with French toast

and Canadian bacon

as the parade strutted through

Herald Square.

Remember when we used to go?

I cried like a baby when

Santa left.

Turkey time

a long with the extras,

only using the recipes

you taught me. Your spirit

was in the food, while

you reside at Columbia Presbyterian.

© by Lori Michael

Heaven Weep

Heave

Heaven WeepHeaven WeepHeaven WeepHeaven Weep (For my Grandpa Jorge P. Causing who died of lung cancer on September 3,

2006 at exactly 12:15 pm)

Cold and numb

was how I’ve felt

when I saw you laying under

those white sheet.

I softly kissed your forehead

but you didn’t move.

I waited for your smile

but only the emptiness in your eyes

I saw.

I started to shake,

tears trickled down my cheeks

I called out your name

but no answers came.

I took you into my arms,

buried my nose on your shirt-

smell of pain still lingered

even it already won.

Then someone came in

‘said they have to take you away now.

Away.

That dreadful word.

I called your name again

and that’s when the

heaven starts to weep.


He Came to say GoodbyeHe Came to say GoodbyeHe Came to say GoodbyeHe Came to say Goodbye

Rain still pouring outside

just as my heart and soul

were weeping.

How I wanted to see you once more,

I even asked God

why He took you so soon.

tears swelled my eyes,

I noticed something,

something that made my son giggled.

I wiped my eyes and saw it.

Gliding, sliding

above us,

smell of familiar lemon-scent pomade

lingers.

A sudden feeling of peace

enveloped my heart

as me and my son watched

it,

the blue butterfly

flew away.

© by Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This what really happened the next day after Grandpa passed away. I was with my 7

month old son in our living room when I saw this blue butterfly flying above us. I

couldn’t help myself but cry because I started to smell his pomade. I immediately call my

mom to let her know the incident and when I finished telling her about it, she too burst

into tears. Mom said that Grandpa was wearing his white suit and one of his favorite blue

tie as his burial clothes.

Missing You (Haiku)Missing You (Haiku)Missing You (Haiku)Missing You (Haiku)

(For Grandpa Jorge P. Causing, I miss him so much)

missing you-

snowflake brushed my

shoulder

carols

without you-

silent night

winter’s here

you’re gone-

bitter cold

snowball

I threw it to

no one

snow angel

outside my bedroom window-

that you Grandpa?


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- These haiku will also appear at Canadian Zen Haiku Winter 2006 print issue

We May WeepWe May WeepWe May WeepWe May Weep (For my son, Jeff Virtue, who was also a writer and now in the good hands

of our wonderful Maker)

We may weep

But not as one

Without hope

We may weep

When the heaviness

Bears down

And there appears to be

No one

To hold us up

To lay hold of our hand

Or offer us an arm

No comfort in sight

We may weep

When all the world

Is thrashing about

Trying desperately

To crush us

To humiliate us

To plummet us down

We may weep

When all strength

Is evaporated

When we are threadbare

Of soul

And nothing stands nearby

To support us

To hold us

We may weep

But only for a moment

Only for a fleeting moment

Because we know

Joy comes in the morning

Tears and sorrow

Pass away

Joy bounds in the soul

Along with mercy and grace

To support and hold us

To lift us up

And strengthen us

To be our comfort

And the strong arm

When all else fails

Because hope had not left us alone

Hope stood in the shadows

For a little while

Lighting the candle

While we stumbled

Into the room

Of afflictions

There she stood

As an anchor for our soul.

© Crystal Blanchard

No MoreNo MoreNo MoreNo More

no more silly jokes in the old house…

no more old songs in the morning…

no more lemon-scented pomade in the hall…

no more sound of snoring in the couch…

no more coffee stain on the table…

no more late night movies…

no more peanut shells on the floor…

no more questions like how are you, how’s your day, and do you still pray…

no more long talks over the phone…

no more check-ups…

no more high fever…

no more tears from the unbearable pain…

no more sufferings…

no more, no more.

only peace and hope that

someday

Grandpa and I will meet again.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I can’t wait for that day, Grandpa.

Rush of LifeRush of LifeRush of LifeRush of Life

Take time to listen

To the chirping of little birds

In the morning,

Watch patiently the dew

Gliding on the blades of leaves,

Hold on a little to the warmth

of a child's embrace ...

For life

Isn't realy about rushing

From one calendar item to another.

It isn’t money that can be saved

And later spend.

The birds’ little feet may stand

On a dilapidated window,

Or the blades of grass grow

Beside a garbage dump,

Or a beautiful child

Falls ill-

Choose to see the beautiful, the good.

So-

Give out your smiles generously

Even to strangers,

Hug your friends

And hug them warmly, tight.

Say your “I love you”s

Often, and while you can-

For in the rush of life

Things do change abruptly.

© by Joel Josol

In HeavenIn HeavenIn HeavenIn Heaven

since you’ve been gone

my days were not the same,

lonely nights were my friend

as I tried to call your name.

I missed the sound of your laughter,

the way you combed your hair-

things I loved the most

but truth I couldn’t bear.

each time I looked at your picture

I couldn’t hold back my tears

for I remember our memories

those wonderful, beautiful years.

oh, how I wished you’re still here

to teach me your wondrous ways

how I longed to see you again,

and to touch your lovely face.

but the great battle was over

and God gave you your wings.

you are now up there in heaven,

together with the Almighty King.

eased away by a powerful hand

all your pain and strife

wearing now a white robe

and granted an enternal life.

so forgive me please

if from time to time youi’ll see me cry.

I will fight this sadness

yes, in my soul I will try.

oh, Grandpa, I love you so

and in my heart it will always be

someday we will meet again

in heaven you will wait for me.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In remenbrace of my Grandpa Jorge P. Causing who bravely fought but lost the battle to

lung cancer. He finally meet our dear Lord on September 3, 2006 at exactly 12:15 pm.

“Grandpa, you will always be my night light.”

About the CAbout the CAbout the CAbout the Contributorsontributorsontributorsontributors

Trish Shields resides with her partner and three children on Vancouver

Island. She has studied creative writing under Matt Hughes, Canadian

author of 'Fools Errant' and 'Fool Me Twice'. She also studied creative

writing at the Algonquin College in Ottawa, Ontario.

'Soul Speak', a book of poetry published by Troubadour Books was

nominated for a Lambda Literary Award in 2001. Trish’s first fictional

novel, ‘Inferno’ is published by Baycrest Books. She has poetry and short

stories published internationally. Other publications include Regina Weese's

'Elan' anthology, 'The Taj Mahal Review' and 'Washing the Color of Water

Golden' by Sun Rising Poetry Press.

Geert Verbeke was born in Kortrijk, Flanders (Europe) on 31 May 1948.

Author of poetry, novels, meditations & fairy tales. Writes haiku since 1968.

Wrote 5 books about Singing Bowls. Free thinker & liberal democrate.

Recorded 11 cd's with Singing Bowls. Was volunteer in terminal care.

Expert in Creative

ProblemSolving.http://users.skynet.be/geert.verbeke.bowls

Carl Palmer is a volunteer with The Franciscan Hospice in University

Place,

WA. He is the author of "Telling Stories", poetry and flash fiction

from his

appearances at open mic events. Carl is presently compiling stories of

dementia and Alzheimers for an upcoming collection, "dis-remembering"

to be

distributed in rest home facilities and organizations around the Puget

Sound

region of the Pacific Northwest.

Maggie Kelly lives in Washington State where she is active in the world of

poetry. She belongs to three writing groups, one reading group, and

currently edits the newsletter for the Washington Poets’ Association. A

former classroom English teacher, she currently writes for a small, monthly

newspaper. She has six friends, including her sister, who are breast cancer

survivors, all having passed the five-year mark. She is grateful to still have

their company but regrets her losses, especially of her husband who is fondly

remembered in one of her poems here.

Jim Teeters is a retired social worker and member of the Striped Water Poets

of

Auburn, Washington. He is a reader in local open mikes and facilitates

poetry writing in a workshop titled "My Goldfish Stole the Moon" for

children and parents. He has published poems in Hiram Poetry Review,

Northwest Renaissance Poets, Nisqually Delta Review, and some Quaker

publications.

Rose Matlock Long lives in Tacoma, Washington and work in a day

surgerydepartment. She have two grown children and two grandchildren

who are very cool.

Carol Dorf is a endometrial cancer survivor and lives in California. Her

poetry has been published in a number of journals including Feminist

Studies, Runes, NewVerseNews, Home Planet News, and the NeoVictorian.

Amelia Haller was diagnosed with cervical cancer in 1964. She had eight

children whose ages ran from 6 months to eighteen years. She was

devastated and worried day and night. Who will raise her kids and why am

she’s dying at the young age of thirty seven? Her doctor gave her a little

encouragement. She had her uterus removed, and watched for the return of

cancer for the rest of her life. She will be 79 in October. She thanks God it

has never returned.

Joy Leftow focuses a new light on the wacky, humorous and sometimes

painful adventure of life in the big apple. When she is not busy doing cat and

people rescues, or following up on these labors of love, she works her 9 to 5,

cleans house and still finds time to be a wife, mother and friend. When her

inner muse appears on its own time to share wits of design, Joy writes and

gets her work published.

Joy’s poetry has been published in over 22 anthologies, both online and

paper. In the past year, she performed on Rockland internet radio show,

“Cool on the Groove”, several times, and was a guest on Jazz Poetry Cafe

twice. She was interviewed on The TV show, the New Yorkers, and will be

on the radio show for teachers and writers; Everything Goes on WNYE- FM

at 91.5. Her new book from Big Foot Press, A Spot Of Bleach and Other

Poems & Prose, is available at Amazon.com. and is available today.

Ella Wagemakers was born in the Philippines in 1961. Emigrated to The

Netherlands in December 1988. Married Dutch husband in 1989. Became a

Dutch citizen in 1993. Obtained Master's Degree in Education from Tilburg

in 2003. Full-time English teacher at the Dutch Police Academy in

Apeldoorn and Rotterdam. Coming out with first poetry collection in the

spring of 2007.

Dustin Neal is the editor of Clouds Peak, and online haiku and senryu

journal. Dustin's work can be found in Haiku Harvest, White Lotus, The

Heron's Nest, Triptych Haiku, Lynx, Nisqually Delta Review, Presence,

Tinywords, Frogpond, Wisteria, Clouds Peak, Moonset, Simply Haiku,

Roadrunner, Paper Wasp, Fire Pearls Tanka Anthology, Autumn Leaves,

Acorn, Modern English Tanka, and Contemporary Haibun Online.

Martin Velasquez is a college student who lives in Baguio City, Philippines

with his mom. He’s been fighting cancer for a year now.

Jeremy Tolentino, 10 years old, lives in Manila, Philippines with his parents.

Though leukemia starts to enslaves his body, he doesn’t let it takes over his

childhood dreams.

Gerry S. Rubio

- From the Island province of Catanduanes

- Currently completing his Master of Development Communication degree

at the UP Open University

- Current job - Public Relations Officer III of a state-owned higher education

institution.

- Organized scholastic journalism seminars and competitions in the regional

(Bicol Region) level - President of the Bicol Association of Tertiary School

Publication

Advisers and Director of the Association of Luzonwide Tertiary Publication

Advisers

- Interests - poetry writing, photojournalism, informal essays.

- website - www.tabulas.com/~sketches

Sunipa Basu is a writer, journalist and a theatre person who lives in India.

She gave up a job as divisional manager in an insurance company to

concentrate on creative writing and theatre. Published articles and reviews in

major national papers, a book of short stories, wrote monographs, and

research papers. Current projects include a novel a book on theatrical make-

up..

Robin M. Buehler is a journalist in the USA. She's had poetry, prose and

photography published in both print and online publications

Dr Bob Rich is a psychologist, award-winning writer and professional

Editor who lives in Australia. He is the editor and main author of 'Cancer: A

personal

challenge', the book for you if you want to reduce your chances of

developing cancer; are caring for someone who is battling cancer, and above

all, if your body is the battleground. http://bobswriting.com

The poet, Rodrigo G. Langit, Jr. 37 years old, hails from Manila, is a teacher

by profession. He currently teaches at a private and exclusive school for

boys, PAREF-Southridge School in Muntinlupa. He has been in the teaching

profession for 15 years and like a butterfly, is trying to find his cocoon.

Crystal Blanchard is wife to Greg and mom to 11 children. Two of her sons

passed away: One while she was in her 20’s and the other three years ago.

Both times were experiences for growing in the midst of life’s pains because

out of them she realized each moment matters as you cherish the ones you

love and hold them dear. She currently writes from her homestead in east

Texas, home schools the two remaining children at home (Alex, 15 years old

and Faith, 17 years old), communicates with her grown children scattered

about the globe, and prays without ceasing for her 11 grandchildren.

Additionally, she manages a wellness clinic helping individuals in her rural

community as needs arise.

Amelia Haller lives in Tacoma, Washington. She was born on a farm in

Todd county, Minnesota. When Amelia was almost fifteen, her family

moved to Washington. Her work often reflects life on a farm. She is the

author of eight books. Amelia earned a BA in creative arts and an ALA in

liberal arts. She taught poetry and creative writing in numerous places

including The Evergreen State College, Tacoma Community College, and

the Tacoma Metropolitan Park Department. Her poem, A Child Believes, is

sandblasted in the sidewalk at Point Defiant Park. Another poem,

Dedication, was requested to be part of an art area. Written in calligraphy,

the poem is burnt into three glass panels and creates a huge widescreen at

the Union Station Streetcar stop in downtown Tacoma. This 51 line poem

honors the diverse people who made and still make Tacoma a fascinating

city. She was told that the widescreen is vandal proof and will last at least

100 years. Amelia was requested to read her poem, Dedication, at the

groundbreaking for the new Chinese Reconciliation Park by Commencement

Bay, Tacoma.

Ma. Soledad B. Corong is stage actress, cultural worker, advocacy speaker,

stage manager, production manager, and independent filmmaker

Graduate of AB Journalism at UST Batch 1996

Robert Wilson is the owner/Managing editor of Simply Haiku

(www.simplyhaiku.com), a magazine columnist, educator, and author

of Tanka Fields and Vietnam Ruminations. He is married to a Filipina. They

live with their children in the Philippines and in the U.S.

John Donnelly a proud native of northern New Jersey has been writing short

stories and poems since he was about 7. He believes that nothing is more

powerful than the written word and believes that words were not created for

the purpose of excluding rather for the purpose of including all. His poem

"It's On Me" is dedicated very lovingly to his Grandpa Buss.

Lori Michael has a Bachelor's of Art degree in English Writing from

William Paterson University of New Jersey. I currently live in New Jersey

after living for a year in Yeong-ju Si, Republic of South Korea. My poems

are my reflections of my love and memories of my late mother, Beverly

Michael and first cousin David Bruce Musikant. Both my cousin and mother

inspired one another with their illnesses. They never felt sorry for

themselves, or felt like a burden to anyone. Instead, they will always remain

as the most positive people in my life. My mom fought her Cancer for 4

years and continued to be as warm and energetic as possible; while, my

cousin fought his Cancer for 8 years. Upon his diagnosis, he became a

Motivational Speaker. He even ran for Mayor of Bogotá, NJ as a write-in

Independent candidate.

Joel Josol was born and raised in Manila when the Beatles became a hit, in a

dysfunctional family distorted by the American dream, at a time before

Kennedy was assassinated. Grew up during angry times of martial law and a

full adult by the time Ninoy Aquino fell on the tarmac. Found peace in God

and love and poetry. Trained as a computer professional, self-educated in the

visual arts and poetry, a husband to a lovely wife, and two beautiful

daughters.

About the AuthorAbout the AuthorAbout the AuthorAbout the Author

Lanie Shanzyra P. Rebancos is a Filipino reviewer, poet and author of A

Place I Called My Own (Compilation of Philippines Haiga) and On Our

Way Home. Born in the Philippines on December 21, 1979, she started

writing school plays and poems at second grade and was able to publish her

first article and short story on junior high. When she started college she set

her pen aside for awhile but when she finally settled down, her heart and

soul once again opened up in writing. Since then she joined in different

email group list of writers and poets like the Writing Road where she got her

first novel review, the Canadian Zen Haiku where she had her first haiku

published, and Brownsong. Most of her poems and short stories had been

published in different literary journals and anthology both in print and online

and even won as honorable mention on one of the haiku contest in England.

Lanie is now residing in the Philippines together with her loving family and

friends. She is now planning her fourth book.

Documents

Another Morning