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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.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

GRACE IN ROSE GARDENS




GRACE IN ROSE GARDENS 


(For all the old friends. Pearl, Udet, Cesar, Paco, Bayani, Isagani...)



Why is growing old gracefully the measure
of what we look forward to when we write
each other these days? How old can we get? 

Will our little rose gardens occupy our days
like we always did,  lancing out thorns from
their trembling hands as they grew away? 

Why can’t we have them snivelling around
instead of listening to our mumbled curses
as the thorny branches whip our wrinkles? 

Where is the grace in pining at sundowns
for those shadowy remembrances when lads
were boys and lasses were screaming girls? 

When will those album pictures, grown faint
now on brittle pages, jump out of the plastic
binders racing to kiss our hands at angelus? 

Where, what sunlit places, would I see them
frolicking free from fears, writing love notes
on some clean sand before tides take them? 

Who will bring that cold glass of lemon tea
while we rock our tired backs on chairs
perched on porches made for these sunsets? 

What grace, what balm is left, growing old
and feeling gray, shall be our final measure
for how gracefully we have received the end 

of days, of answers to whispered questions
of why, when, where, and how have hearts
turned cold in old houses no longer home. 



---Albert B. Casuga
08-30-11


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