New here in DC...
26 degrees outside
On a Sunday, a church day.
No one dared go out...
But it was imperative,
Sunday mass is always a MUST.
"You have no idea how cold it is outside!"
"You are the youngest, but old enough...your
sheltered days are over, go find it yourself!"
These words were all too much to take
On that cold Sunday morning.
A decision was made right there and then:
Pennsylvania Avenue must be found!
Wrapped with woolen sweaters and boots,
A scarf and gloves and ear muffs...
Armed with courage and determination,
A most chilling adventure out there started.
Hesitation loomed, but...it had to be.
The biting cold let its presence felt alright,
Accosted everyone in the streets....
Walked on, with gloved hands
Deep inside coat pockets...
Toes were now freezing,
Rushing against the forceful wind,
With runny, stuffy nose starting.
There were no doubts, God is always leading...
Destination was now visible.
The building with a cross on its top
Found Saint Stephen's Martyr Church!
Mass started, praises were offered,
And thanksgiving, too...
And yes, homily was funny...
An hour went by quickly.
Once more, it was time
To brave the wintry winds of
More confident now, though shivering...
Retraced steps back to Columbia Plaza
Along Virginia Avenue...
Entered the building up to the sixth floor,
Unlocked the door, saw two ladies...
Appeared busy with their ipad and laptop,
Very near the door they were situated...
Unmindful, but obviously waiting...
Had the table all set,
Lunch for three, waiting.
This time, not a word from my sisters,
No admonition, as if nothing happened.
Lunch was pleasant, considerably quiet,
Atmosphere was great!
Peace with my two sisters...
Peace within, for my newfound self...
Aahh...Silence, was Heaven...
(Written Nov. 24, 2013 ... 9PM)
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child
And seize the day
And seize the sign of your day
The days divinity
First thing you see
From the lands of slumber
Shake the sands from your eyes
My dear little indigo
An angel you are
I will wait
I will stay in this state
Be it moments
I will find you again
Patience is virtue
And love conquers all
There is blood in my veins
Like the summer to fall
Winter gives way to spring
And those who have voice
Will rejoice and sing
And those praises will rain
Like the sweet summer storms
The parched earth of my heart
Will grow flowers
there are those days when
we long to feel happy and
occasionally trying to fuel our fears
we crave all the crying and the drama
but we also like laughing to tears
we burn with anger,
wallow in self-pity, or
drown in depression
get stuck in robotic recession or
our run-of-the-mill routine
we face the day with dour expressions
and pine for praises all our lives
strive to climb the social ladder
only to stay tired the rest of the time
when all we really want
is to feel nothing
It's an old story - Jack is sitting by...
He broods sometimes and sometimes tells a joke.
He's no warm eloquence of a summer sky,
But sometimes he helps you, he gives you a poke,
And the two of you smoke a cigarette,
And chat a little during coffee break.
He tells you stories with a sliver of light
And sometimes his wit has some teeth and bite,
But mostly you pretend, for politeness' sake,
To listen, you may be thinking of your lover,
The love you made, worded sails of the other night,
Or thinking how glad you are it's over...
Usually flatness is the sovereign, king
Of his manner and speech and eyes, and yet
Once in a while he manages to whet
Your appetite when he mentions a woman
Whose face he never forgot, whom he's loved for years,
And whom he scarcely knew, when he talks of fears
That you have too, or of unrealized dreams.
One day soon you're suddenly notified
That at 3 or 4 a.m. last night he died.
You reflect on him, on your thoughts of him,
Wonder that perhaps he bore a light,
That he deserved more, there was more to him
Than dim shadows of care made him out to be.
You scarcely lent him one ear, let alone two.
You now wish you had lent him a whirlpool.
You might feel like a careless, thoughtless fool.
You miss his jokes. You think he should have been
A comedian, maybe a poet.
Your praises of him spread their wings like dreams
Or tiptoe like a river's summer gleams.
Your colleagues follow suit, and well it seems
That sadness and sincerity are there.
Both HAVE descended, all breathe both like air.
Yet six months, eight months, nine months, ten months pass...
A seeming clarity attending death
Dissolves, and convenience claims the breath.
Habit, like Homer Simpson, sits on a chair
With his beer-belly; vulgarities stare
Out of sleepy, worn-out eyes; gossip comes and goes...
There are the niceties and pleasantries too.
Rarely does anyone get out of line.
People do praise but without heartfelt hue.
People by and by forget what happened then...
People take much for granted, once again...
Though this winter continues,
the December solstice has gone by;
have you begun your preparations,
lifting praises towards Heaven’s sky?
For tomorrow is never promised
and there’s work still to be done.
Future opportunities are awaiting,
blessed by The Father and The Son.
Are you on the narrow way,
following your God-given tasks?
If you’re unsure or hesitant,
don't be afraid to just ask.
Are you going to speak with boldness,
overcoming any semblance of fear?
What are you going to accomplish,
seeing that… it’s another year?!
Loosely based on:
Eccl 3:1-14; Joel 2:12-14
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Two mothers I have, in life’s scripted sight.
One upon origin, one from stage right.
Oh please nurse me dearly, autumnal womb,
invest in me, my eventual tomb.
Upon reflection, my life’s dissection,
I ask: who affords the most affection?
The one who I scorned since I learned to speak,
who kissed my wounds when all else was so bleak?
Who bestowed me with a womanly heart,
in my fatherless past, loved from the start.
She who shadowed my mind to keep out light,
to teach her young of how life is a fight.
She who took me to church, she who believes,
yet never praises the November leaves,
and though she’s guilded me into a man,
I fear she knows not who I really am.
The other, she loves, yet not through our blood,
instead through wine, in speech, half-understood.
And lo, she breaks her back to catch the breeze,
as it settles in those November leaves,
Oh, she studies the scripture of my heart,
to know the present, not solely the start.
My Sanskrit poem, a song for my saints,
you pepper my palette, liven my paints.
How different my mood’s patterns would be
if some foreign arms had tended to me,
no obsession of being born to die,
nor would I always crave the lullaby.
Both mothers remain, their imperfect roles,
duality of blessings, kindred souls.
Two motherly shells to shelter under,
when the beach is cast in fear and thunder.
Two footprints there are, across these bleak shores,
only unite through continuous wars.
With two mothers astride, they lead the way;
there is one for the years, one for the day.
Kiss the twisted girls
Who's exposure brings lights to reason
Lips parted speaking praises of trial
Collar bones tripped with anticipation
Wrap your arms around their waist
With futile legions
Kiss the girls who's eyes refract the sky
Simple falling pose
They're the ones with the most tempting secrets
it is because
it is flawed.
it sees itself
naught and bolt.
it would concern
if it did not
the pressure is too
Jehovah God is my shepherd
Praises to the Saviour give I
Give my all
So why should I fear when God
Is my guide to everlasting life
My step for his own name I
His love, so great, so free with peace
Praise his Name eternally
His Kingdom to come
When our hearts were steeped in sin
Vile and wretched were within
For he who cares for his sheep so much
Jehovah gave His only begotten Son
To die for us
Jesus died on Calvary's tree
There to set the sinner free
For all who believe
Everlasting life receive is his sheep
Praise the Father Jehovah and his only
Begotten Son Jesus our Lord
That redemption's work is done
Magnify that precious Name Jehovah
God is what we claim
Worthy is the Lamb our Lord
Praise Jehovah's name
To our Saviour and King
Ladies and Gentlemen
The story of a man
Who lived and died inside his own head
Came into this world on a whim
And left on a whisper
Leaving behind just his footsteps
For the waves on the nights
Darkness came too early
To wash away,
Clean to the bone
Leaving just the shiny purity
And reflections for those interested
In the forest,
As all good mad men roam,
He got lost on the edge of,
Between beginnings and endings
And no real divisions.
Occasionally, finding a wise man
To split his time with
Making it the three of them
Him, the man,
And them together
Roaming with direction
But still purposeless
Because a purpose
Would be their downfall.
He feels most comfortable
When he is certain there is no guide
No difference between territory, charted
Because there's no one to make maps
Only forays forward
Leave the paths clear
Spontaneous insight lost soon enough
Mystic Seam on his forehead
Childish gleam in his one blind eye
The Silly Being
Cutting his way
Through the molasses, thick
But he knows,
The only certainty he dares carry
Is that heaven,
Heaven, doesn't begin.
Cannot be reached.
The pearly gates are grim
Not a soul passes through them
But too many
Leave through the alley exit
For Heaven is not a place
Heaven is time
Time well spent
Because the burden of passing
And slicing meaning
Only in my head!
Runs out of steam
run off the road
missed the stream
Back to a story
A story of myself
Framed in bigger terms
Thoughts, thinking of big
And ego eating dinner
It's what the doctor ordered.
Trying to convince
What it could be, nothing
to be nothing
while paths grow and clean themselves
swallowed by my
tallest trees, growing richly
inside a small world
with deep holes
to prod and cling to
Being Nobody is an Overcoming
Defeating the propaganda of Somebody
The self lies
It can only grasp
It finds for itself
It can't see beyond
Never that simple!
To save yourself you must save the world
Only fools grab all they can
"Only fools rush in"
Only fools stay back
Playing with fire
It's a prophesy
Doing it because we can
Is the route to go
The only route we know
There are no reasons
Even if they lead nowhere
Right back atcha'
I'm not the sentimental type
I pretend not to be
Maybe it shows
I don't know
That's what it comes down to
I don't know
I can't remember a single thing I heard on the news
Even if it's all engrained in
My bark brain
A pair of loveless lovers
Wanted to prove to themselves
So they cut into my soft brain
Their own story
And I would return the favor
But I lost the binding to the pages
Of my story
But if I could so humbly request
Greatest Story Tellers
And Yarn Spinners
Of our time
I would very much like it
If I was, humbly mind you,
The Greatest Story
You ever told
It would be my overcoming
There would be no excuse
Not to do great things
Even better if no one
Knew that I did them
It would fill my heart
And be a great conversation piece
Pull up one eyebrow
Flip out my pocket-halo
"I've done it, done it all.
Not that you would know"
Just the way I'd like it
Then remind myself
I hate bars
And talk a walk home
Late at night
(Okay, maybe a jog)
(Fine, a sprint)
The night suffocates
If you hold your own neck closed
It's a nice change from day.
People have finally turned on
Maybe its the fear,
Time to relax
I've forgotten that
But seeing others alive
Is the last thing that reminds me, I am
I am, too.
And, I hate heredity
It can make folks forget
They are, too
I inherited nothing
And that's the only gift to offer
You know you love someone when you can be
It would bore me to death
If we could understand each other
That might just be
My Neurotic Impotence talking
Looking for an excuse to shiver in place
It's my second name
I hate middle names
People keep them secrets
For no reason
I hate secrets
Secrets don't exist
Somebody always knows them
So they can't be very secret
National Secrets, too
Give my my cut
I'm a gossip
And I've run out of stuff
To ride conversations
I don't do enough weird things
Or get involved too often
To tell a good story
The windows to my mind
I've been informed,
That they're quite pretty, also
Makes me feel a bit better
About all the time I've invested
At staring at the tops of trees
Not much, actually
It makes me look pensive, I think
Almost like I know what I'm doing
That saddest part is that
I'm not completely lost either.
Hovering in the middle
Neither here, nor There
Typical, I suppose
But I say,
Older folk devoid of experience,
Only in yourself, however
Indulgence isn't the problem
It's not knowing why
Now let me preach a minute
Ask for nothing in return
Not a dime,
The good ones,
Not even your attention
They stand on their private
Street corners telling to the stars
In both hushed whispers
And crashing screeches
About what they think
And the day the find
They will be pleasantly surprised
Because that was never part of the the plan
They are prophets
Because they are the select few
Who saved themselves
The man we talked about earlier
He's still alone
He's a bit afraid
Enough so to not find someone
To tread the waters with him
Because he is an almost fearless man
He doesn't fear scenery
Place, and time all the same
It's the implications that weigh heavily
On a psyche that's already burdened itself
On long bus rides
To remind himself (and his good pal,
That he isn't going anywhere
The city he thought he was bored of
Has slipped into the background
And now that the future
It's time to freeze in place
It's a nice break against the pushing
rush of reality
To stop and smell the roses
While right behind
The world implodes
The sky blossoms open
Only fools rush in
Only fools stand back
Survey the scene and you
will lose the gist
The parts will show themselves
And you'll miss the whole
That's where it's alive
Don't get so caught up in the pieces
It's the weight
You'll drown in
It's a little death in the family
Enough to shake it up a little bit
Thanksgiving, dig in
One less the thing to worry about
And one more thing to write off
I'm sure there's a grand deduction for it.
Remember when I said I hate things?
That's not true
I don't hate anything
Things only exist, and are
Because other things are
That they aren't
And I can't love
So there's no hate
Nothing to compare it to
It's more of an empty feeling
With a silver lining,
It passes quickly
I haven't found the thing I just Hate yet
There's always a catch
Call the Holy Hotline,
There's always a catch
We're here for your calls, 24/7!
Heaven is neon
Brothels, tight lipped doors
Baptized in Hard Liquor out
By the chalice alley
The heavenly Saints
Who were brought down
"Up There (He's smiling down on us,
I swear I can feel it, if I strain really hard and pop the blood vessels in one of
my good eyes, He's there, He's always there. I swear, She told me so,
Late at night, screaming o god at the ceiling, That's when I feel him,
Booze blood and Canonized Cum)"
These saints, now,
Or perhaps Saints,
Mumble to themselves
And sing invisible praises
The visionaries are all weird
But to be insane in an insane world
Offers a sliver of freedom
Between all the crucifixions and handcuffs
White noise, and head banging
I never got
What other people called
Because I did it everyday
Being broken down
and rebuilt every week
Goodbye o, Worldly World!
Not too cruel
But never too nice, either
This is not the end
That there is no end,
That's the only certainty
And the man asked me,
"There's no end is there?"
Cigarette in mouth, limp
There never is
And the walls
We have built
If we turn our backs on them long enough
And soon enough
Caught on each side of the wall
Will have to to unwind
From the thick braid
They've found themselves in
Unwinds the same way
From the corner of my closed eye
In a million parts
The beautiful whole
To be at liberty
To uncoil again
Back here again?
Always back here
Before and again
And the big wide world would
Drive you so
If you dared understand it
I think I
Might just be part
Of an elite class
The movers and shakers
But never the pushers
The world rotating around them
Looking for an in
Exits to nowhere aplenty
But right now,
I sit Here
Sterile, and sick
The man's voice buzzes, and rattles
Like the old AC at my grandma's apartment
Almost as dry
His low hum splits would could be
A comfortable silence
And I suppose,
That's why they think we're here
For all the "could be's"
The first words out of my mouth
Are a shrieking car crash
The mechanical man
Has such a grip
On the Atmosphere
His cogs and wires
Are free from the disease
That i Am
Rotting in my seat
Outside, where I cannot go,
The sky is static
Why is it static?
It's been that way too long
And now my walls melt into the sky
Buzzing and Flickering
It's now a diagnosis
Tell me what I have
Please oh please
It's in my head
But feels like my chest
Sitting in place
Cruel and Unusual
Long walks on the beach sound nice
If you can be with me, and alone
You're the one
And it scares me,
Like many things
The dreary rounds
I make each day
That I've built my own prison
I might just find myself
More free in a cell
(Free up my schedule a bit, just a bit)
And facing that mechanical man,
My voice dries up
Pulling my thoughts
Down with it
A soft touch to
The hard lighting
Maybe I need to lay down
Where the grass cuts my shins
I've given up
There's nothing but god above us
And nothing below us
The sky is god
And it is empty.