Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Poetry By Karlo Silverio Sevilla

Karlo Sevilla is a freelance writer who lives in Quezon City, Philippines. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Philippines Graphic, Radius Lit, Yellow Chair Review, Wraith Infirmity Muses, Peacock Journal, Eternal Remedy, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, Sub-saharan Magazine, Riverfeet Press Anthology, and elsewhere. He also coaches wrestling, trains in Brazilian Luta Livre, and does volunteer work for the labor group Bukluran ng Manggagawang Pilipino (Solidarity of Filipino Workers). 

Screaming the Small Stuff 

There she goes again:
Waving and shouting,
close to frantic or frantic, 
just to hail that passenger trike,
when one passes by our street
every ten seconds! 

(As if marooned on an island, alone,
and a rare ship passes by...)

This Afternoon, I Lost the Key

Knuckles sore, skin on middle finger blistered,
and the door remains locked.

Calling, shouting out his name,
I’m annoying our elderly neighbors again,
rousing them from their afternoon nap.
Still, our door remains closed.

Is it only the voices he hears?
Or do the voices, or some (or one)
of them, command (commands) him
not to let me in?

I need to pee, I need to change.

My eyes meet the rock in our garden,
which shall soon meet the glass
of our window. 


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  2. I dig your comparison image of being marooned on an island + rare ship.