I am My Own Target Market

I am My Own Target Market

by Kamila More Cabisada
(January 8, 2018)

This cafe is like
Papemelroti in a cup
I am free to just breathe.
Just feel
Just be
I am reminded
I do not have to run
and run all the time
Wearing myself out
for things that are
running away too
Just as I am.

No slave to time
My quaint spot calls me
To sit, sip
My Papemelroti
in a cup

And think
and dream
of what it would
be like
To have sons
running to your tummy
To squeeze you good night
and daughters
reaching for your photograph
To hug you (sleep tight…)

The cafe started
as a kiosk, the woman said
I now dream of
kiosks and cafes
little stalls and hawkers
orange sellers and waiters
bustling about

And children running in the breeze
To mommies endlessly

I am my own target market.





This is My Altar

This is My Altar

by Kamila More Cabisada

Greenness of the forest in my head
Transports me to another time,
Another place
Neatly cut grass drenched with dew
Under my feet it tickles and calms
At the same time

Like the mountains of my childhood.

Baguio was incomparable, a mistress
Towering in beauty, holy stillness
Powerful in its subtle healing
Of ravaged souls, unquiet minds

The woods were a chapel of pristine
Delight–they still are
They surprise me with gifts wrapped in
Green and red
And ask me how I am

I say I am fine most of the time
I am at my best when He is around
He changes me.

Fire becomes rain
Black becomes white
Orange becomes blue
Rust becomes inox
Dust becomes flesh
Tears become joy.

This is my altar
My daily resting place.


(October 27, 2017)


this is my altar3 for jpg-2

Hypnotizing Chickens

Hypnotizing Chickens

by Kamila More Cabisada

How astute you are, fair clucking creature
How hard for me to chase after
The family descends at midnight tonight
You’ll be queen of my kitchen counter

You will dance, you will romp
In the sand, in the hay
In flour, in grease
In salt, in spice

You’ll be dressed in the best
Your charm put to the test
As you sit on my table tonight

What? This is a Sunday?
You must be in church, you say?
[No, you may not!]
I beg your pardon, darling sweet
There are better, brighter, hotter things
Than steeples and pews and roosters that sing

So look at me
Stare into my eyes
And come to me.

What? You must say your prayers?
Repent of your sins?
Ugh, no! Utterly morbid, my sweet
The oil in my pan will wipe your slate clean
This comes with a sure guarantee

So look at me
Stare into my eyes
And come to me.

What? So who is this Friend of yours?
You cannot stand Him up, you say?
Not even for a night with me?

I have raised you, I have kept you
Protected you, fed you
And this is how you repay me?
With abandonment? Treachery?

Look at me, I say.
Stare into my eyes.
And come to me!

But now you run, why?
Because He says you must try?
I shall break your attempt
You’ll see.

Darling friend, lovely dove
What is happening? Where are you?
I can’t see you, I can’t feel you
I am burned by this horrid Light.

Please come out. Into the darkness.
This brightness dulls my senses
It blinds me, gags me, binds me inutile
You must show yourself once more

Come out…
Into the darkness…
Show yourself…
Stare into my eyes.

And return to me.

But you will not
Since you can not
I can’t stand it —
You are free.


“Chicken on the Run” painting by Gena LaCoste

One Piece at a Time

One Piece at a Time

by Kamila More Cabisada

Sort through
Piles of discarded
Memories, leftover pain
Emptied canisters of
Bubbling laughter

Sort through
Years of tiny
Running feet in
Over-sized shoes
Grimy hands raiding
An overused ref
Makeup kits used
For watercolor art
Empty red checkbooks
Tied up with a band

Sort through
Heaps of music box dreams
Sheets, staves, notations
Audible cats
Scratching lines on the wall

Sort through tears
And dried laundry stains
And doomed coffee acid
Shards of broken glass

Sort through bits
And pieces here and there
Crawl through time
And get yourself back.

one piece at a time -zeke edit