Publications

01/22:POC

His Hands

Where do I even begin To fathom the intricacies of his hands? These same hands that I’ve studied, So intensely, So covertly, Under a cloak of girlish curiosity, And now, I know them better than my own? Those fingertips, That could trace for hours And still, have the strength to trace…me? Those humble hands, That don’t even recognize their ability to draw me in, With their strength and their depth. The oddity of just how…

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01/22:POC

The Third Black Renaissance

Heavy is the casted die. The great gamble of our lives. To stoke the embers of memory. And will the next century. With faith thrusted forward, To front lines blurred beyond. We march… Into unforgiving oblivion, As history echoes at our heels. And yet we know… We have trailed treachery before… And yet no more… Staunchly we trudge muddy depths. Beyond beastly breath, As toothed talons rain from wingèd wake above. To pry us from…

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01/22:POC

Page Turner

Distracted by the siren calls of stories yet to be devoured Pages long to be seduced by my eager fingers Captivated by the wonderment of What will come next Forgotten cups of tea clutter the once empty space Existing as a reminder of time passed Warm words blanket me Reassure me Solitude ceases to be a burden – Ashleigh Catibog-Abraham

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01/22:POC

Seventh Day

A cloud of freshly brewed coffee pins itself to the ceiling Demanding to be acknowledged The sizzle of butter in a hot pan waits For slices of eggy bread to be laid upon it Pellets of rain knock on the windows rhythmically Nature’s soothing metronome Hours stretch out Feeling instead like seconds Bodily instincts to rush urge themselves to slow down How wonderful to be alive When days like these exist – Ashleigh Catibog-Abraham

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01/22:POC

Mundane Dreams

The mundane hopes for a pause bring air back into my future. The life I have been acting on the last couple of years, has been a living purgatory. From my cave the sunlight seems more dense, but my will to stand up is heavier than the heat. I have learned to live alongside emptiness and pain, sadness and regret. When I look back into the eyes of excitement, all I can think of is…

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01/22:POC

Empty Canvas

This page is my blank canvas to paint Brushed with my stories of tainted love and pain Strokes remember better than me Where I’ve been, who I’ve loved, what I’ve seen Recycled relationships Recycled heart Life has a way of naturally creating art I look at my canvas Filled with rhythmic notes of jazz Images dance before my very eyes Reminding me of how I once lived my life But back then I was but…

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