Awards Banquet Uncultivated Rabbits Poetry

My Heart is Over You
By Eddy M. Gana Jr. and Stephanie Sajor
Forget the mind, it is heart over matter. It does not matter how physically strong you are because my heart is the strongest muscle in my body. Follow the leader, so I follow my heart. Into the dark or into the light, my heart leads the way. My heart is not afraid, but rather the opposite, my heart is brave. No half-heartedness, I put my whole heart into this. This, may help explain why I have a stronger heart than you. You, who had beaten my heart so much that it no longer beats anymore. You, who had scolded and yelled at my heart so much that I am not a kid at heart anymore. You, who had made my heart grow weary and tired that it can’t “skip” a beat when it sees you anymore. You threw my heart away, threw it out the door. But now, my heart is back home and stronger than ever. My heart pumps iron everyday and gets bigger and bigger. My heart is so big… that the Tin Man would be jealous. My heart is so big… that Cupid could’ve shot a billion arrows through it…blind-folded. My heart, oh my heart. Like a police officer, my life is hard on the beat, but like a drum line with no flat lines, my heart still marches hard to the beat of the drum. Rub a dub, rub a dub, Rub a da da da da dub. Like drums, clashed. Smashed. Our smashed hearts clashed, but I survived the hits. My heart had reached out to you. But, that was then, that was before. So now, no more, my sore heart soars over this beach and shore. For sure, my heart is over you.
The Rabbit Hole
By Eddy M. Gana Jr.
From rooms to stages to venues,
Uncultivated Rabbits continues to breed art
from the underground to the mainstream.
Giving life to words,
our art is neither watered-down
nor deprived of substance.
Instead, we nurture poetry out from the soils of our notebooks
to the heights of our dreams,
ready to leap from our voices to your ears.
Uncultivated Rabbits,
making more sense than coagulating flowers…
Welcome to our topsy-turvy world of performance poetry.

by Stephanie Sajor
A friend of mine once said, he would never know the struggle of a female
Because he never knew the stress of having to constantly look over his shoulder late at night
While I appreciated his attempt at understanding,
The inevitable underlying conclusion of his statement was that…
The female is always the victim
Always the damsel in distress.
The object of the male gaze.
But not tonight.

This body is not for you to fondle, stroke, or touch.
It is not here for you to silently undress with your eyes
Or for you to slyly coax into nakedness under the veil of a tampered drink.

I will not be reduced to an emo song for teenagers.
I’m going to get out of bed, open the blinds and wipe off the streaky mascara because I am not a little girl anymore.
I am a woman, standing tall, proud of who she is.
This is for the girls, ready for strip off their security blankets and lay naked in the sun.
This is your anthem.
You don’t care what the world thinks of your nude body because the earth was made in your image.
All the bumps and crevices along the surface are perfections… not flaws.
Astonished are we when we see the depths of trenches and the heights of mountains
You don’t try to fill them in, or flatten them out, or conceal them.
Why should your body, your mind, or your soul be any different?

These breasts are not 50 lb weights that pull me down
I hold them up with pride
They are the balloons that lift the house that is my body up and into the sky
For they give me the strength and the courage
The confidence that makes me a woman.

Open Your Eyes
Do you see? Do you see what she sees?
A compliment is made,
A wedding is thrown,
Dressed in honor, fair as a maid,
This married wife is a queen… united with her king at the throne.
The vows are permanent,
As if his words were ink,
A metaphor of your eye, A simile of your love, he writes about you.
I. Love. You.
Three little words, but the alphabet spells the story of how you met and first kissed.
Your love exactly translated across several languages.
Su esposo, asawa mo, onna no otto, your husband.
The time spent with him is never too long,
In heated romance, you look at him and he looks at you with a passion that singes the cold stares of strangers and disapprovers.
So much heat between your bodies,
Sweat is trickling down your cheek, your neck, your chest.
You are crying… crying in bliss.

But do you see? Do you see what I see?

An insult is made,
A fist is thrown,
Torn of honor, bare as a maid,
This married wife is a queen… divorced from her king at the throne.
The vows are broken,
As if his words were clenched fists.
A jab to your eye, an upper-cut to your love, he belittles you.
I. Love. You.
Three little words, lost to the alphabet.
You are lost in translation.
Your husband is now a has-been.
Has it been that long?
In place of heated romance, heated arguments linger and rise.
So much heat between the screams,
Tears trickling down your cheek, your neck, your chest.
You are crying… crying in misery.
Do you see? Do you see?
Open your eyes…