Beautiful maple wood, undressed in cuts
of measure ~ with rings of melancholy ~
graced in grains of old.
By design and desire, it’s coated to
armor in blankets ~ rather cold wears ~
fitting un-pleasantries, erasing the
woods indigenous core. Such left
without its natural dressing, its fountain
of fortune and the promise of lacquer.
In new coats it concedes the culture of
the carpenter. Simply ~ to paint wood is
to dilute the piece of lumber. A
misguided brim of intent ~ and the
precious soul escapes the woods finest
elegance and thus left unfancied.
The promise of shavings, then sealing in
oils of old ~ readily suits for a trusting
stain. If not of woods polish ~ they are
stains of ruin. Thus concealing the
wrinkles of father time ~ lost in the fever
of the cloak ~ now soiled in many ways
in solid colors ~ such vogue, such sin.
Unseen are the fathers rings of time ~ if
sealed in finger paints ~ so I simple ~ a
toast to the carpenters of the living ~
and his brushes of leisure to amuse with
a cunningness of frame work ~ such the
woodworker dressed in leathers of old
polishes there every send…
Soldiers ~ Brave ~ dressed to a sleeve,
pressed tight ~ two fisted ~
grew calm to defend her right.
Magic are the buttons ~ in seasons of cold ~
in service in the darkest of nights ~
to defend our vision ~ our rights.
Needing a warmth of home ~
a cloth of comfort ~ a grace of old ~
a stitch ~ a sew ~ a blanket to shelter ~
any measure ~ any promise ~
such they defend our greatest of hopes.
Their bravery ~ graces us daily ~
embraced by the heal of this Nation ~
protecting our passions ~ our rights ~
our freedoms ~ our home...
They defend the women’s love of life ~
they shield away uncertainty ~
they champion a child’s glimmer of hope...
Clean shaven ~ polished ~ ready ~
they carry us free ~ raft our knowledge ~
and gentle our deepest of woes...
Visitors had flown back home...
The much-longed for respite
Finally, was at hand.
It felt good...to be on your own...
Leaning on the bed, alone, though
Still nursing a cold from two weeks past.
To catch up with sleep
Was all that mattered.
Quietude was a blessing.
There was no noise at all
At 5:00 in the morning.
What? 5:00 AM?
No rushing footsteps? No showering?
No flushing of the toilet?
On a school day?
This can't be!
Rising from the bed was a struggle,
Everything seemed light...floating,
Panic lurked in all corners of my room,
Loomed, it did, and spread all around,
In the midst of a widening cloak of fear.
The vacuum...in the right ear...
Cleared those fuzzy thoughts.
My right ear could no longer hear.
Whether lying cringed or curled,
Prostrate, or supine,
Predominated in the days that followed.
Diagnoses and prognoses, all were bleak.
The cruel, deadly virus did it all...
The loss superceded, and
Displaced every strand of confidence...
A downward pull was imminent.
No phone calls were accepted.
Unexpectedly, true colors surfaced,
Real friends came forward...
Family, other voices kept whispering:
"Shibashi waits, tai chi helps,
Both can alleviate, heal the heart,
Heal the mind, to be able
To accept the unacceptable."
Fourteen days seemed a year already,
Moments spent in soul-searching...
With prayers and courage, gathered within,
I dared cross that busy street,
Though shaking, quivering from fear
And from the cold winds of February...
Almost got hit by a car,
Cursed by its driver,
But reached the church grounds in one piece.
Practice started at 7:00 AM, sharp.
Movements were calming,
Concentration was perfect!
It was a sunny day...
Wind blew softly,
But small things began to fall,
Tiny strips that went with the wind...
What I thought were garbage...
Strips of thrash paper, from a shredder, maybe...
Thrown from a house I passed by...
Blown even further, higher, by the wind.
I walked back home,
With strips of paper on my head.
Two weeks were too short, I was still confused,
Unaccepting, mad, sad, felt cheated,
Still in denial, of what had occured...
Standing in front of a vanity mirror,
Wondering what God's message was.
Strangely, I thought of those strips of thrash paper...
Confetti from Heaven???
My situation wasn't a festive event!
Could I have overlooked something here?
I wasn't sure...but what I knew was,
I was depressed...
I lost equanimity, I lost my serenity...
I was distraught, I was everything but happy.
But, those strips of paper...
Falling on my head like a shower...
Made me look up to the sky that morning....
There were no tears, still am afraid, but
There is a calmer me...
There is solace in the fact that,
God gave me two ears...
I could still hear with the other...
I live a quite active life, til now...
I still move briskly...
I sit where the speaker's voice is most clear
To my left ear.
When something is difficult to hear, or understand,
I still get so frustrated..
Sometimes, I forget about it,
It has its good effects.
It would soon be seven years after...
I have learned to
adjust to my limitations,
And still wanting to know how to overcome
Or resolve these limitations...
One day, I might just...
One day, I might just,
Accept what should be accepted...
There'd be much gratitude for my sole request:
To be understood...and not pitied...
Written early morning of December 11, 2013
(From journals of February 2007)
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
1. Put a sad song on repeat. Some people will tell you to play a favorite, but you should always use a sad song. One so painful that it breaks your heart in pieces with every itinerant chord change. One whose words slide sharper than the six fresh blades stashed under your dirty socks across flushed and anxious skin. One you only remember on nights like this. You want a song that sneaks on trembling legs, unstretched and untested, into your thoughts to leave muddy footprints on everything it can reach. Let the bass line become a heartbeat; inhale to it. Exhale to the kick drums, and moan to the guitars. These are the nights you won’t remember, the songs you won’t remember; but when you do, you’ll know.
2. Snap a rubber band against your skin. Leave welts, because that’s really all you want. Watch the inflammation evolve and fade. The rosy lines of discontent will eventually dissolve back into their pale, ivory stasis, and you will be no worse for the wear. Keep one on your wrist day and night, like a shackle—a rubber band that is. You will depend on it one day, wound up in its elastic tension, a knot stretched to breaking, and you will snap. Snapsnapsnap. And you will revel in the marks you leave as they fade from your memory.
3. Go for a walk or a jog. Run. Feel the cool of the breeze as it dries the sweat to a tacky layer of salt on your forehead. Feel the stitch form swiftly in your side and imagine a knife. It slips between the bones of your ribcage. It twists, knicking calcium splinters into your chest cavity. Keep running and never stop. As your knees cry out and crumple to the sidewalk, your breath will come in short gasps of agony, and you will feel everything and nothing at once.
4. Scream into a pillow. Let your lungs bleed venom and misery into tear-stained feathers and compression-resistant fiberfill. All the secrets you’ve whispered through the years will whisper back and muffle your anguish. Breathe. Soak in the regurgitated carbon dioxide and know it is yours. Feel it burn as feather fronds slip through thin cotton mesh and into your nasal cavities. Catch your breath deep in your chest and scream again. You’ll lose your voice one of these days.
5. Spend hours absorbed in art—draw, paint. Scratch endless lines into paper with the implement of your choice. Crosshatch ink into pliant wooden fibers until it bleeds through to the other side or even the next page. Splash an image of the object of your frustrations on a wall-sized canvas. Spend hours inking over those delicate fibers and indelicate features with dusty charcoal and night-black Krylon. Paint yourself until your smile no longer cracks, but flexes with the heat of your skin. They will love you now, an ever-grinning Mona Lisa.
6. Call a friend on the telephone and make uncomfortable small-talk. Ask them how their day was, even though you saw them twice. When they sigh it was fine and ask how you are, reply with the same lie as always. Oh, I’m alright; a little tired, but okay. Eventually, you might even believe it when the words tumble instinctively from your lips, and then you’ll be fine too.
7. Draw a butterfly on your wrist and name it for someone who would be sad if you relapsed. Color your butterfly; make it your friend. Remember that it’s temporary, that it will eventually wash off in the sink or shower, but while it’s visible you cannot kill it. To slice off its wings would be murder; to scorch cigarette marks into its thorax, cruel. You wouldn’t hurt an innocent butterfly, would you? Someday you’ll name that butterfly after yourself, and then you will be free.
8. Slip an ice cube into the crook of your elbow. Let it melt; from the sharp sting of frost to the slow itch of evaporating wet. Watch it disintegrate and know you are warm. You radiate, even if it is only enough to coax water from an ice cube. But you are warm and alive, and that is enough. Let that knowledge numb you. Remember when you were small and hurt your ankle falling down the stairs. When your mother found a decades-old bag of peas in the basement freezer for you to wear, thinking it would numb the ache of a tiny sprain. The bag dripped into your socks and squished in your shoes, but the cold made it feel new again (eventually). Watch the ice and feel the cold as the liquid slides down your sleeve. You will melt it and it will melt you.
Fashion this as liquor to give spirit to a song in write.
Seen seldom to weigh words at play in search,
sewn expensive for time spent in trust and recite.
Penciling not for profit so rhythmic this may show.
Find in the presence to open and reflect our woes.
Only prescription for uncommon those in write.
A same those who compose.
This on display is the compromise
of sheltered dreams ~ and the soul,
of rhythm in gentle prose.
This is the allure of the jewel of life.
Sent as promise a same a wish.
Stem those genes and make heavy this vision ~
and prayers in might.
These are our rays made ink,
to weigh the pressures of waves
constant in cycle, to detract from nature’s
Heavenly sight. Lost we shall dream
and ever so patiently grow old but in heart live bold.
Rugs were in Persia mathematically
correct and with an Indian craft
colorful, Heaven sent. Only captured in
a metaphor this day, so men do master,
so simple this way. Simple this as to
measure the years past, shudder away
tears, for the river purifies our passions
commandeered. So culture our gardens
to prosper and replenish, in the green
untamed, and natural in wonder,
Today we thimble a sew for tomorrow,
for our craft is spared only to simple ~
ness of editing, not journeyed journals
to an ever-changing composition
Perhaps unfamiliar this vest, this
life. Sample the living, in books that
inspire. Dismal I think the desire to
purify a pen in this heavy practice, a
dance an art. Time lends a flavor,
marinating appealing to a fashion so
Always calm to prolong righteous
reason, modern making, yet captured
still as storytelling. Uncommon to cues,
but refreshing at leisure, is now a
computer who makes simple what once
was wasted time. Measures made in
this art are laborious, the passion is for
the pen, reel it in as your tool, rations
will in turn ~ give as a well to nature
and sow, the seed of the write.
Refinement ~ un-forsaken, notes of
detail, must reinvent and inscribe in
ink. The bank of intuition lay tender as
our diction. Replenish in the soil of our
native grounds to seed another tool, the
luxury of our lingo. For inspirations
may befriend or become uncharted if
left in the cold. Sold but without a
surrender to all integrity, we will call
for many souls to ship and receive what
Forefathers intended. In over our
heads, over watering our behaviors,
half unknowingly over diluting our
mental treasures, is this the liquor of
life, all too fancy in measure but it was
the tea of rebellion ~ and so I toast ~
to a drink tonight.
Inherent as memories of a generation
now surely within time, we will fill the
promise within crafted lines, and file
away ~ many promises ~ many
revisions, many times. In spoil we shall
not surrender our bounty of honesty and
wisdom, so gray in years we
mend. Dent our self-serving self ~
respect, make and justify the wheel in
role common. Like a beard in keep,
intention is relevant. Surely women
refine makeup as to show beauty in
character. Thus what we intend to
refine is an endeavor to unwrinkled and
celebrate the qualities of growing
old. Time is of new defining, for the
times are naturally at all times ~ in
ritual of change.
Memories to grace the gift of sight are
the shades to carry our reflections
away. One, who trusts and so cares, lay
in the daydream of light. In a wish sent
salient, reference to eyes unveiled,
patiently as a seed shall ripen, the
flavors of life will flower in springs
day. We hanger thus shelter, the rags
made clothes, best when leather to
weather firm and tight.
Regift the promise, to harness the wind
and make words potent as those before
did without regret. Today in general we
lean and conform on the fundamentals,
too disciplined, mirror of stale
literature. Similar to wood varnished
but without the stains of life. First
revision is not for giving, only what is
taken, luxury of time. Color your copies
of the wood you talk in and pencil in
your pressures to relieve the pain,
simple ~ ness and cold feet lay sold, as
buttered bread to fill. But imperfect, so
forthcoming, wills the literature of today
finding promise in ceremony by
charting drafts and revisions to send in
message to those young in read.
This voyage is regretfully gentle as our host
made monumental any verse, so breathe
within the soul and hearts of men, to
find new styles to milk the mind of
reason. Leafs from the tree of intuition
censure the picture, sell in the filter of
Freedoms fight, not first drafts ready
Battered but purely by pace and
meager beginnings, the wave of
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will saddle and shelter the idea
profound. Don’t toss away the raisin of
a pen in hand, for we lean to easily in
bits and bytes. Promise of Heaven’s
pennies falling in rhythm will sing
tonight. Majestic in find, common in ground,
gift a find, in leisure, in time. Gather
they guard and uphold the greater good,
not to entertain but inspire. Just as
ones soul is when right. Humbled in
behaviors so chips in clever may
fall. But poker face we have
become, once centered in earnest of
essays in rent, now owners of ideas
embellished ~ in verse ~ our native
treasures. Second, we charter the raft
of ideas in mend, to conceive works so
aspiring as the poets and linguists of
historic claim. So riddled ~ so
mastered. Surely a new discontent shall
offer, in a pebble of examples met, with
practice and structure our youth will
Demand must be patient, for
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will nurture and mother our future
Leaders to a discipline in their own
right. Never forget the days of past
generations for they marveled in the
arts ~ and in rain it falls in our hands ~
to luster and defend. Poetics are too
political if not in share. Protection of
this is how Freedom was rung. The
hungry will maintain its resolve and
rightfully so. Riddled as sow ~ these
lentils, this meal, these feathers, this ink
shall fuel the fire. A dance in the
pillows of night shall brush the painting
in the autumn of one’s days. Flaccid in
so many ways. Glorified by the shadows of protection,
but only one day is stored for this
intention. Freedom is in the work
engraved beside it, within it, sharing we
celebrate it, and our Brave provide
it. Celebration comes by way of duty
and hard work, and it rises high and
early in the dawn. Yes, on the Fourth
Day of July. Food and pleasures are
gifts for price paid by our Soldiers and
Agencies who protect and defend our
freedom and intelligence, and calmly
watch over it as we carry along. All
under the calm watch of Gods
umbrella. Future dreams are blessed a
same, for all under this Flag by notion
alone, seam and dress and hence sail
with solemn truth. Trusting the winds of
reason to keep us Forever Free and on
course to replenish the soil, for those
young in years. Students in the day
dream of life are in the send to allow
their pen to charter this peaceful but
daunting Nation to one of peace and
prosperity. Willingly and calm the Lion
stares afar from American shores,
Democratic in nature and always
reinventing in this idea we call ~ the
There's nothing I've wanted more than the ability to forget.
I've tried but I haven't been able to master it, yet.
I can't forget you're scorching touch,
You left scars, more than enough.
You were trying to mask your impotence,
I should've shown more than just indifference.
Tell me did you know what you were doing, did you notice my change?
Must of, since you asked "Why are you acting so strange?"
I never admitted, never told a soul,
I never seeked help- I turned numb, bitter cold.
Tried to convince myself I was strong, stronger than you.
I was completely wrong, you knew this, too.
You hold so much sovereignty over me,
I still can't comprehend how this can be.
You knew who'd keep quiet, you knew which prey to choose,
You're so clever, made sure you'd never lose.
Do you know how indefinitely f'cked up I am now?
Are you happy? Are you proud? Do you want to take a bow?
Your time is ending, your death is near,
You'll be gone, yet I'll always have so much to fear..
White snow, white lights, happy smiles
Brown mud, mismatched lights, sad eyes
Trees lose their colors, but not their beauty
People lose their money, but not their soul
Cold grass, warm socks
Happy people, sad people
Why do we often see ourselves as cracked mirrored monsters
and soul-less entities that are worth less than the next ?
How does this ring true to the infinite beauty that you know lies within your self.
In the form of cells and dna...in the form of your ethereal creation...in the hug you give some one...
It is not the mistrust of yourself that seeps into your pores but it is the mistrust of a world in which 'an honest lie' is called advertising and a commended joy.
We have no morals , no code of conduct , we are free to chose yet condemned to no choice unless we ourselves decide that it is so.
For nothing is , until we deem it.
The sun is not a sun until i say so , at least not to me.
I am a universe unto myself and a god unto my own being,
i am creation's destruction.
Even if we don't always feel it , we always are it.
There is, a colder side to the summer but only so we know what cold is and what hot can be.
We are no more nor less than the ant, than the bumble bee.
We did not notice when the roses bloomed,
Now their petals float away with the breeze.
We heard not the birds sing as the end loomed,
Now they all stay hidden within their
We did not care for the crisp, dewy air,
Now we huddle in our cars, busses, trains.
Our feathers we never did choose to bear,
Now we find they are too bright to unveil.
We did not appreciate the glow,
Now we stand with frozen hands and faces.
Never roused by the skies that chased our woes,
Now the heavens shower us with kisses.
And as the cold, white crystals surround us,
It chills our bodies but warms our cold hearts.
Dimension upon universe
our fantasies spill out in words and emotions,
Tame my wild mind and ground me to the earth
because i am lightning without thunder.
Unfurl my brow, because it takes one less muscle to smile.
Ease my heart with 3 words...
Cosmic Space Pancakes?
Teach me about loving myself enough to say yes to myself and no to the people who were never meant to be mine.
Whisper your carnal caramel luxuries into my skin,
i guess you must see my scars as beauty.
Play with my hair so i can fall asleep on a floating bed of lotus flowers ,
Time bends at the flick of a finger or the brush of a leg.
We exist only as dust motes floating in a stream of light ..
Energies , manifesting as human for a while ,
Heartbeats deteriorating ,
Toenails growing ,
It must be the chemistry, or something in the air,
but i think with you i won’t be cold.
I admire your ability to see things through.
I admire your kindness and honesty.
So , one sunny winter’s day.
We’ll execute our escape plan.