February 2008

Papa Osmubal


Papa Osmubal writes from Macau, Southern China. His work has appeared in various anthologies and publications, online and hard copy. He is a regular writer to OOV (Our Own Voice), eK! (Electronic Kabalen), Chick Flicks, and other publications.


From the sushi bar window
I can see the city outside
all drenched, mute, silent.
The rain is grey
pounding on the roofs and bridges,
draping the skyscrapers and the hills,
blinding the neon lights and the moon.
The city is waiting to sleep
as if it is meant to.
It wants to dream
as if it is entitled to.
The wind blows
bringing the memories
of bamboo and grass,
of children taming their youth in the rain.




Cain knew it through and through
God is not a veggie

His salad was snubbed
in favor of Abel's barbecue

Holding a rock and a carrot
Cain sat underneath a tree

He's had enough
he fed Abel to the vultures




our elders
believed (and told
us) the gods
spoke to them
and they etched
their voice
in rocks
and in our



Papa Osmubal: Poetry
Copyright ©2008 The Cortland Review Issue 38The Cortland Review