The Meaning of Love

When you love, know where you stand,
Don’t assume or demand a hand.
For if they choose to let you go,
You’ll find the strength to heal and grow.

Joy leads to love, deep and true,
A spark that shines in all you do.
Yet joy alone is not enough,
Without contentment, love is tough.

Delight needs meaning, hearts need grace,
To fill the empty, silent space.
To love oneself, a vital start,
For love begins within the heart.

Value gives love its worth and light,
Meaning makes it burn so bright.
Implications weave the tale,
A human truth that will not fail.

Love surrounds, it’s everywhere,

In whispered words or tender care.

If one feels none, no heart’s been won—

Are they still human, or are they none?

THREATENED BY AI POTENTIAL USE: BLESSING AND A CURSE FOR THE PAST, A STATUS QUO OF PROMISE AND DREAD

JOE VINCENT DELUAO, PhD. 

In a world where AI dominates the global technological sphere, one must ask themselves, “What can it do for us? In the 21st century, AI is everywhere, both consciously and unconsciously. AI performs most everyday tasks involving technology, including transferring emails, accessing calls, and managing the algorithms of most social media platforms, among others. Even machines can run AI, as most automated machines require a language to work. Artificial Intelligence (AI) has become ubiquitous and unavoidable, and its capabilities are now genuinely answering the more important question: What is it not capable of doing for us? What is it not capable of doing for us?

What does it mean to be human these days? Now that AI can do everything humans do, what's left for humanity? The basic thing that a human possesses is a soul. In a world where AI is capable of copying and learning anything a human can, it lacks the free will and soulful ability to be creative on its own. AI art and works have posed a significant threat to society, raising the possibility that AI will soon replace human workers in the fields of writing and artistry. While it's true that major companies have been using AI in marketing and editing services, society has viewed this as low-quality, artificial, and lacking in life and creativity, even criticizing their choices.

There is now a collective notion in society that AI is destroying the past while also being the hope of the future. Currently, AI is not only assisting students with their homework, but also providing them with convenient access to information and services. Art uses AI to raise awareness about ethical frameworks and copyright usage. In the present, AI holds promise as a tool that can benefit us if used responsibly, but it also has the potential to destroy us if misused.

Sana ang Lahat ay Tulad ng Isang Bata

ni Globert G. Cuenca

Sana ang lahat ay tulad ng bata,
Puno ng tawa, walang alalahanin sa mata.
Maliit na bagay, ligaya'y sapat,
Pag-asa sa mundo'y hindi kumukupas.

Sana ang lahat ay may pusong dalisay,
Walang galit, walang hangaring masakim.
Madaling magpatawad, laging handang ngumiti,
Pagmamahal sa kapwa'y likas na mithi.

Sana ang lahat ay may galak sa ulan,
Sumasayaw sa patak, walang alinlangan.
Hindi takot madapa, handang bumangon muli,
Sa bawat pagkabigo, may tuwang sumasali.

Sana ang mundo'y maging parang sila,
Puno ng kulay, ng musika at saya.
Kung bawat isa'y may pusong musmos pa,
Tunay na payapa ang mundong likha.

KINSE

Gng. Quinnette Garraez-Gozo

(Ang taon ng pagmamahal,pagkatuto,pagsubok,pagtitimpi at pagkabulag)

Una ang pagmamahal sa tungkulin umaapaw

Puno ng init at pangangarap araw-araw

Dalawang buwan palang pagkatuto ko’y yumabong

Sa Bagumbong high ito’y umusbong

Tatlong ulit mang pagsubok yan?

Kay mam Emma P gumaan

Kwarto kanto man ang maubos sa byahe balewala

Mga kasama ko naman lahat nakakatuwa

Limang libong saya kulang sa dami ng kaalamang nakuha

Anim na milya pa nga ang narating 

Nakuha na permanent item

Pitong ulit ko mang isipin ako ay muling nagbalik sa tahanan namin

Pangarap Village na kinatakutan kailangan harapin

Walong sibat sakin pilit itinarak

Ganun pala ? kapag nais kang itulak

Abutin man ng siyam-siyam

Pagtitiis ko’y napalitan ng poot at suklam

Sampung ulit ang sakit noong anak ko’y

Namatay sa sinapupunan

Sa mundong ito, uso pala ang onsehan!

Labing dalawang buwan nais ko na tapusin nang agaran

Mabigat na desisyong nais gawin

 ikalabing tatlong pahinang pagkabulag sa sinumpaang tungkulin

Isa lang ang tiyak ko sa katorseng bigat ng dalahin

Tiyak ako ay hindi kailan man bugok sa kinseng taon 

Sa DepEd tapat na naglilingkod sa Panginoon.

In the small coastal town of San Aurelio, news traveled faster than the wind.

A single comment at the market could reach the school before noon, the municipal hall by afternoon, and every household before dinner. By the next morning, the original message was often unrecognizable.

People in San Aurelio spoke constantly, but they did not always communicate.

Among them was seventeen-year-old Lira Mendoza, editor of the school paper and the daughter of a fisherman. Lira loved words. She wrote poems, feature articles, and short stories in a notebook she carried everywhere. Her teachers praised her for expressing ideas clearly on paper.

At home, however, she rarely spoke about what she felt.

Her father, Mang Andres, was a quiet man who left for the sea before sunrise and returned late in the afternoon. Since Lira’s mother died five years earlier, father and daughter had learned to live around each other’s silence.

“Did you eat?” Mang Andres would ask.

“Yes,” Lira would answer.

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

That was usually the extent of their conversations.

One Monday morning, their principal announced that the municipality planned to relocate several families living near the shore. The area had been classified as dangerous because of coastal erosion and frequent flooding.

“This is for public safety,” Principal Salazar explained during the school assembly. “Affected families will be transferred to a housing site inland.”

Students began whispering.

Lira’s chest tightened. Their house stood only twenty meters from the sea.

After the assembly, she hurried to the faculty room.

“Sir, is our neighborhood included?” she asked.

Principal Salazar looked uncomfortable. “The official list has not yet been released.”

“But you said several families will be relocated.”

“That is all the information we have.”

By lunchtime, rumors had spread across the school.

Some students claimed that one hundred houses would be demolished. Others said the residents would receive no compensation. Another rumor said wealthy developers wanted the coastal land for a private resort.

Lira’s classmate, Paolo, showed her a post circulating online.

“Look,” he said. “Someone says demolition begins next week.”

The post had already been shared hundreds of times.

“Who posted it?” Lira asked.

“An anonymous account.”

“Where did they get the information?”

Paolo shrugged. “Everyone is sharing it, so it must be true.”

Lira read the post again. It contained no document, source, or official statement.

“Sharing something repeatedly does not make it accurate,” she said.

That afternoon, she found her father repairing a fishing net outside their home.

“Pa, did the barangay tell you anything about relocation?”

Mang Andres did not look up.

“Nothing final.”

“Are we included?”

“I do not know.”

“They might demolish our house next week.”

“Who said that?”

“People online.”

Her father pulled the net tightly. “Do not believe everything you read.”

Lira became frustrated.

“Then tell me what is happening.”

“I already told you. I do not know.”

“You never tell me anything.”

Mang Andres stopped working.

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“I cannot give you information I do not have.”

His voice was not loud, but Lira heard it as anger.

She went inside and closed the door.

That evening, she wrote an article for the school paper titled “Families Face Sudden Demolition.” She described the fear spreading through the community and criticized local officials for failing to explain the relocation plan.

Before submitting it, she sent the draft to her adviser, Ms. Reyes.

The next morning, Ms. Reyes called her into the journalism room.

“This is powerful,” the adviser said, “but where did you get the information that demolition begins next week?”

“It is all over social media.”

“Did you verify it?”

“No official will answer clearly.”

“That does not mean the rumor is true.”

Lira crossed her arms. “People are afraid. Someone needs to speak for them.”

“Yes,” Ms. Reyes replied. “But responsible communication requires more than speaking. It requires listening, checking, and understanding.”

“So I should remain silent?”

“No. You should ask better questions.”

Ms. Reyes returned the article.

“Talk to the residents. Interview the barangay officials. Request documents. Separate facts from fears. Both matter, but they are not the same.”

That afternoon, Lira began interviewing families along the coast.

Aling Marta, a widow who sold dried fish, feared losing access to her livelihood.

“If they move us far inland, how will I bring my products to the market?” she asked.

A young father worried about transportation costs.

An elderly couple said they were willing to relocate because floodwater had entered their home three times that year.

Not everyone shared the same opinion.

Lira then visited the barangay hall and requested an interview with Captain Ramon.

At first, he gave vague answers.

“The project is still under discussion,” he said.

“What exactly has been approved?” Lira asked.

“The hazard assessment.”

“And what has not been approved?”

“The final relocation list, schedule, and compensation package.”

“Is demolition starting next week?”

“No.”

“Why has the community not been informed clearly?”

Captain Ramon sighed.

“We planned to hold a meeting once all details were complete.”

“But while you waited, rumors filled the silence.”

The captain leaned back in his chair.

“You may be right.”

He showed her a map identifying high-risk zones. Their house was marked in orange, meaning it required further assessment, not immediate relocation.

Lira felt relieved, but she also realized how easily incomplete information had been interpreted as certainty.

Before leaving, she asked one final question.

“Why not involve residents before finalizing the plan?”

Captain Ramon hesitated.

“We assumed technical experts should decide first.”

“But residents know where floods enter, which roads become blocked, and how relocation may affect their jobs.”

The captain studied her for a moment.

“You sound like your mother.”

Lira froze.

“You knew her?”

“She often attended community meetings. She had a habit of reminding us that listening was part of leadership.”

At home, Lira found her father sitting near the shore.

“Pa, why did you never tell me that Mama attended community meetings?”

Mang Andres looked toward the sea.

“You never asked.”

“I ask about her.”

“You ask what food she liked, what songs she sang, or whether she was kind. You never asked about the work she did.”

Lira sat beside him.

“Then tell me now.”

For a while, he remained silent.

This time, however, Lira did not rush to fill the silence.

Mang Andres finally spoke.

“Your mother believed people misunderstood one another because they listened only to reply. She listened to understand.”

He told Lira that her mother had helped fisherfolk explain their needs to municipal officials. She translated technical terms into everyday language and encouraged women to speak during meetings.

“Why did you stop talking about her?” Lira asked.

“Because it hurt.”

“I thought you did not care.”

Her father looked at her.

“And I thought you did not want to hear painful things.”

They both realized that years of assumptions had built a wall between them.

“I miss her,” Lira said.

“So do I.”

It was the most honest conversation they had shared in years.

The following day, Lira rewrote her article.

The new title was “Beyond the Rumors: What Coastal Families Need to Know.”

She explained which parts of the relocation plan were confirmed, which remained undecided, and what questions residents wanted officials to answer. She included the concerns of vendors, fisherfolk, elderly residents, parents, and families willing to relocate. She also emphasized that communication should be continuous, not delayed until decisions were final.

The article spread throughout San Aurelio.

Unlike the anonymous social media post, it cited interviews, documents, and official statements.

The municipality soon organized a community consultation.

Captain Ramon presented the hazard map in simple language. Engineers answered questions. Residents identified safe areas, livelihood concerns, transportation needs, and possible relocation sites.

Mang Andres attended with Lira.

During the meeting, Aling Marta raised her hand.

“We are not refusing safety,” she said. “We are asking you not to decide our future without talking to us.”

The officials listened.

Several weeks later, the municipality approved a revised plan. Families in the highest-risk areas would be relocated gradually. The new housing site would include transportation support, storage areas for fishing equipment, and access to the market. Residents in moderate-risk zones would receive flood barriers and structural assistance.

The plan was not perfect, but it was clearer, fairer, and shaped by dialogue.

At the next school assembly, Principal Salazar invited Lira to speak about journalism and communication.

She stood before the students holding her notebook.

“Communication is not simply sending a message,” she began. “It is making sure the message is accurate, understandable, and received as intended. It means asking questions, checking sources, recognizing emotions, and listening to voices different from our own.”

She looked at Paolo, who smiled from the front row.

“Silence can create misunderstanding. But careless words can create fear. Good communication requires both courage and responsibility.”

That evening, Lira and her father ate dinner together.

“How was school?” Mang Andres asked.

Lira smiled.

“Do you want the usual answer or the complete one?”

“The complete one.”

She began telling him about the assembly, her classmates, and the next issue of the school paper.

For once, neither of them rushed.

Outside, the waves continued striking the shore, carrying sounds from one end of the coast to the other.

Inside their home, father and daughter were finally learning that words mattered—but understanding began only when someone truly listened.