you’ll cry not of tears…


you’ll cry not of tears…

And blood has started to flow …
Not the blood of those who haves
But by the deemed have-nots in society
Not the blood of the power elite
But by those of powerless common tao
With limited options in a nightmarish web
Tried to untangle, but couldn’t break free.

I should know …
Someone dear, taken in the most gruesome way
Within seconds, without compassion executed without mercy
Judged, found guilty by righteous neighbors as jury.
So do pray that your friends, co-workers and family
Flawless all, yes indeed, in the eyes of your  deity.

Because I tell you …
Those deemed guilty –  proven or not – by the non-filthy
To their sanctuary will be unleashed the ruthless, dogs of prey
And you’ll cry not of tears, but of regrets that’s aplenty
For wasn’t such a criminality partly condoned by you and me?


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: The Guilt that Haunts Me.”

I love not man the less …


Lord Byron (1788 – 1824)

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is a society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more…”

― George Gordon Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

“For the heart roars with poetry when it hits a turning point.”

I am sorry

I am sorry


by Marites Avisado-Responte

I am sorry
If I could just fill this
tiny box with a thought
I want to say…
I address it with
” I am sorry ” boldly
written down the center
where two flaps meet
so nothing is missed.
The one who delivers
should handle it firmly.

Pay attention to the
word ” fragile ” taped
across its body,
so nothing inside breaks.
When you open it, say a
little prayer so you won’t
rip tiny details of my message.
Read them by your heart
and tell me how you take it…
You said, ” Mom, you succeed in
putting the right words together.”
My soul has quieted
although outside, heavy
drops of rain are raging. 

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Guilt that Haunts Me.”


Tracing Back Remembrances



For the heart roars with poetry, when it hits a turning point…~mtg

by Marites Avisado-Responte

Are they just pieces cluttered around?
The letters in the box, the dried roses
in one of the pages of my favorite books.
They all seem, are going along with me
like waves unknowingly push the detritus
into the seashore and bring them back
again to the bosom of the ocean…

There, they float unnamed, untagged
Rain comes, shatters their wraps
Storm tears them apart, exposed
I lift every meaning of them,
cry every dent of pain,
fix every chip of attachment.
I rather, them be placed in the corner
where no one dares to visit and shove them
away to the farthest part of my drawer
and labeled, ”not significant.”

But how?
When their paces keep me up
as fast as I want to escape,
as slow as the time ticks to leave them behind…
When the red ribbon that binds them, peeks
through the whiteness of forgetting..
And here I am tracing back
what these remembrances have to say,
spreading on the table of choices,
to dwell or to let go
This, I am yet to consider…

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Stroke of Midnight.”

Strings in Life

Strings in Life

by Marites Avisado-Responte

Strings in life
Who designs them?
Who does the layout of the road?
I ask, “why I got into it?
Not my choice but my decision.
The people I am with.
They help me find the path.
Some flee. Few stay
Myself, the best company
I struggle to be wise.
I can’t help to despise.
But with bended knees
Few words ease the case.
Failures deepen my insight
Success makes sense to the fight.
Who am I to withdraw from the joy of life?
After all, I am meant to be in here…
With purpose
In His will…

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: A Brand New You, Effective Tomorrow.”