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ALBERT B. CASUGA, a Philippine-born writer, lives in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, where he continues to write poetry, fiction, and criticism after his retirement from teaching and serving as an elected member of his region's school board. He was nominated to the Mississauga Arts Council Literary Awards in 2007. A graduate of the Royal and Pontifical University of St. Thomas (now University of Santo Tomas, Manila. Literature and English, magna cum laude), he taught English and Literature (Criticism, Theory, and Creative Writing) at the Philippines' De La Salle University and San Beda College. He has authored books of poetry, short stories, literary theory and criticism. He has won awards for his works in Canada, the U.S.A., and the Philippines. His latest work, A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems was published February 2009 by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. His fiction and poetry were published by online literary journals Asia Writes and Coastal Poems recently. He was a Fellow at the 1972 Silliman University Writers Workshop, Philippines. As a journalist, he worked with the United Press International and wrote an art column for the defunct Philippines Herald.

Friday, July 6, 2012



In the cool of the morning, I cup my hands to my ears and listen to wind in the grass, the hum of insects, the distant moans of a dove.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 07-05-12

It is indelible. Her skirt billowing in the wind,
the grass grown brown in the heat of summer.
Was she miming some kind of laughter? A shriek?

She ran through the wantonly burnt bushes
downhill, lads whistling for the wind to vault
their kites, the wind rustling a murmur of grass.

He will linger on that hillock to watch a sundown
form long shadows. She will not be there again.
But the distant moan of a dove brings her back

like the hum of that giggling lass, straddling him
to coax a pledge of unfading, flaming, gripping
love though the mountains crumble over them.

They are cool mornings like these that force
quiet sounds to roar like the onset of a rainstorm,
or the echoed lovers’ moans he’d want to run from.

These quiet sounds pursue him now like hounds
scurrying for the hunt. Like ghosts of old memories.
These are the quiet sounds that have turned loud.

—Albert B. Casuga

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