No New News At New Year

Just a stone's throw away from our porch
We hear the din coming from the corner 
Convenience store—created by the usual clique 
Of third-world louts, termagants and nosey hags
In short, the ne'er-do-well has-beens of internal 
Backwater affairs, here in this fishing village
On this our tiny tropical island called Siquijor,
"Isla del Fuego" by the Spanish Conquistadors
Of epochs past—

They all used to be celebrated for the skills 
That had somehow kept the evolutionary lifeline
Alive of a hardy brown race—still thriving in the fringes
Of urban progress. Somehow we get the feeling
That the collective trip down the abyss of perdition
Might have been caused by the grim realization
That fortune and luck now too have digital passcodes
They can only whine in silence as they guzzle down
Even the dregs of the coconut toddy now souring
With the uneventful setting and rising of the sun

When the store owner tried to shush them 
As a signal for the daily oral newsbreak
In particular the one about a young girl's 
Mysterious pregnancy—they all threw a hissy fit
As they clapped back at the rather late delivery—

"Shame on you, Gorya! Go upgrade
your ears", shouted one of the nosey termagants 
Who was there for the free booze—to the delight 
Of the audience that was now getting rowdy
Especially the hags, termagants, tired wives 
Of the men slowly dying with quiet rage—

Here comes the murmurration of ricebirds 
Hovering above a chaos of thorny thickets
I know I want no more of this sedentary rebellion
But I remember telling myself the same last year