I’m going to have a dinner party and these are the people I’m planning to invite:
Beethoven and Mozart – they will provide the music, alternately, complete with orchestra or string quartet
Jamie Oliver and my Dad – Jamie will cook our five-course meal, while my Dad will be the sous-chef. My Dad would love that!
Gandhi, Martin Luther King and Ninoy Aquino – would be great to have them discuss about freedom, democracy and how to be patient
William Shakespeare and Jane Austen – William will write me a sonnet while Jane and I talk about our Mr. Darcy
Morecambe and Wise – they’ll provide the comic double act
The Katauta is an unrhymed japanese form consisting of 17 or 19 syllables. The poem is a three-lined poem the following syllable counts: 5/7/5 or 5/7/7.
The Katauta form was used for poems addressed to a lover. A single katauta is considered incomplete or a half-poem, however, a pair of katautas using the syllable count of 5,7,7 is called a sedoka.
We’re so different
You are tall and I am short
You like football, I’m not keen
I feel cold, you don’t
I eat rice, yours – potatoes
But we’re still together, right?
(c) ladyleemanila 2016
He saw his sister’s number come up on the Caller ID and wondered what today’s conspiracy theory would be.
After the hellos and how you are small talk, my sister ventured out on her rhetoric. Supply and demand regulate nothing but the temporary fluctuations of market prices. That there’s no justice in this world. Few have them all and the rest of the world in poverty, she sighed in between each theory. Life today is a great sea of bustle and activity with everyone on the move. That if we don’t follow the trends, we’re out of it. Shifting to her friend who has got engaged to a pilot and they’re getting married in the summer. Then she dropped her voice and said that the said friend is also three months pregnant. I love my sister, to be honest and she’s so funny sometimes. I roar with laughter at some of the things she said. I don’t know where she’s getting all these ideas. Like the time when we were talking about life and death. She reckoned that a revenant returned only to steal away again with another. That they came back to caused havoc. She dismissed any other arguments.
Schools’ out for summer
Playing, running and swimming
When I was young, summer was my favourite season. The sun was out, flowers bloomed and everything was bright and beautiful. It was the time we played outside all day (until our parents called us for dinner), cycled around our village, and seek our adventure in all places. We also swam in creeks and lakes, climbed trees, ate fruit we picked, played hide and seek. On other days, we played patintero (try to cross my line without letting me touch or catch you), tumbang preso (hit the can), piko (hopscotch) or luksong-tinik (lit. jump over the thorns of a plant). Sometimes we rented some bikes and circled around our neighbourhood. It was a happy childhood.
Summer is still my favourite season. I love it when we could be lazy and not do anything. Or staying in the garden and drinking some cold drinks, listening to the birds singing. I love our garden, full of lavenders, roses, dahlias, petunias, sunflowers, and the three tortoises walking around their fenced paradise half of our garden (spoiled pets!). I also love it when we cycle to different beer gardens and parks, or go to the mountains to walk or swim in the lakes.
A warm summer day
Watching the ducks in the lake
Cycling to the park
With pen and paper, I can squeeze my mind
Message in a bottle and hope they find it
With my small pen and a strip of paper
Like putting some apples in a wicker basket
I can write lists, stories, poems and musings
The stone fell into the water with a soft plop
So instead of forming dust being untouched
Why not share what’s on my mind?
Everyone does it and what’s the fuss?
In the city where everyone is welcome
For today’s prompt, I suggest a fictional story—however long or short you wish it to be—that starts with the following paragraph:
Going through the contents of my mother’s safety deposit box is a journey a child rarely, if ever, gets to take through a parent’s mind. Here she put the things she thought important and precious, neatly laid out in one, little metal box. A “strong” box, as they used to call it, tucked away in a bank vault behind multiple doors with multiple locks, combinations and passport codes, all requiring three people with three matching keys, and none of it accessible until I proffer three official forms of identification to prove I’m me. People protect the tender secrets of their hearts with less embattlements.
My first poem with my handwriting; big brother’s first pair of shoes, size 23; little sister’s tiny socks, our hair when she first cut them, our medals and ribbons, even though some of them were just for the 10th place, old passports, photographs and some other documents. Oh mother, I miss you so, your soft voice which could be loud when you wanted us to get them right, the way you brushed and braided our hair before going to school, and no matter what, you were on our side. Whatever I do, I could hear your advice that I could do it, that I am strong and that I won’t be given something I couldn’t handle. Rest in peace now, our beautiful mother.
Him Indoors and HRH the Son
they’re the driving force
that makes me wake up in the morning
and do whatever I have to do
they are the loves of my life
my inspirations, my motivators
my reasons to be here, doing whatever
my “happy place” where I’m secured
and cosy and cuddly and fun
the rest are extras
Having said that, life wouldn’t be the same
Without football – well, not for me
But for Him Indoors and HRH the son
They love it, talk about it and watch it
Go to the stadium – Ricoh and New Camp
I love going to the games with them
He was a Captain of the Ship from a Spanish lineage, tall, dark and handsome. She was a short, native Filipina, with big brown eyes, flat nose, and long wavy hair. Both young and beautiful, they fell in love and got married. Everything was rosy. They had many children. They called each other “dear” until the end of their lives. He loved reading; he wrote the meaning of some words at the side of the books he read. She was a good business woman. He died of Parkinson’s disease; she followed after 6 months, perhaps from a broken heart… My grandparents’ story.
Of all the places in the world, my favourite is my home. Where is home? Home is where Him Indoors, I and HRH the son live. It’s full of love, affection and fun. Ideally it is here in Bavaria, but it could also be anywhere. OK, HRH the son has left us but he still comes back from time to time, and he comes back with his beautiful K.
home is happy
home is cosy
home is warm
home doesn’t regret
home doesn’t mind sharing
home grows with love
it doesn’t matter
where or what is home
home is with Him Indoors
and HRH the son
our three tortoises
our flowers in the grden
things we share
experience and memories
I love our home!
Him Indoors and I
HRH the son and K
in the garden
Gin, Rex, Nik – our tortoises
flowers, herbs and trees
butterflies, hedgehogs and birds
garden full of fun
he loves gardening
I love writing and cooking
we love cycling, too