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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, May 3, 2013






A ruckus of wind behind the trees
roils the primrose trail and startles
the wayward doe. A dull grey sky
looms as a late sundown darkens
the path where we said we would be:
a rendezvous by the quiet bluffs
where we would have seen the sun
set as we always do, but the overcast
sky is a crowd of clouds now, we
could barely see the crinkled yellow
leaf float like wafted cotton to damp
rocks below, taking forever. Like us.
The autumn of our years, we whisper.
A gust whistles an eerie trace of air:
It is cold. I took time hugging you.

---Albert B. Casuga


Let this little garden host your cobbling,
lay them out in the sun. How inchoate
could words ever get when said? Not even
in sorrow or regret. Would loss shear them
of irreversible years of wanting? It is there.
It is always there. But like the mother
of pearl, you forgive that hurt to nourish
what was beautiful then and a stunning
gem now. Like these saplings pushing out
of grounds where as seeds they might
have burrowed into soil absent of tiller,
let them grow rampant. Wild and free
as the wind, they will one day grow strong
branches, refuge of the lost and the winged
warblers that will sing your hammock
songs until you drift into a quiet slumber
from which you will finally wake up to find
him there, caressing your face. Knowing.
Finding the seed that has always been there.

—Albert B. Casuga


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