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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.

Thursday, November 15, 2012



Changes, as constant as they are intriguing,
slither through as coldly as serpents move
into crevices not unlike meandering fog.  

Inexorable patterns, they are the unchanging
streams running through the cherished fables
we tell and retell until they become a reality 

we cannot escape however sanguinely we try
to build walls to ward them off chambers
of fear housing our hapless lives. Hopeless. 

Every sunrise fades into a sundown, all lives
dwindle with discarded days, anguish turns
into ecstasy and loops around like a storm.

What grows in spring withers in summer,
then, like twigs blown off in autumn’s fall,
get buried in winter frost, a carrion of a year.  

Why struggle then for eternity? Nothing lasts.
That story about a lost paradise is still grit
for an unchanging story once upon a time. 

Could changes have been that fruit in Eden?
An apple stuck in his throat, it bobs forever
like an intruding promise that everything  

must perish even in paradise. The rot here
then is forever. Flotsam of ruined homes,
debris of broken lives, all tombs of betrayal. 

Would a morning ever come, as we sip tea,
when like a wave laving the shore, it ebbs
only to crawl back at all sunrises and sunsets,
never ceasing, never leaving, never changing?  

--- Albert B. Casuga


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