for Catherine,
who did not request this,
whose soul prospers, more than survives,
but forced me nonetheless,
this poem~quest to address

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
do not come,
turn back now,
disjoin from a
voyager to the harshest disheartening,
to the crux,
where essence oils aflame
burn smoke, stymied from being
expulsed, expelled,
through organs that have
no natural orificial cavities
allowing escape

the hell of poetry

no, paeans,
yes, pain swirls,
Greek laurel wrapped headbands
squeezing temples, give no relief,
confusion sewn together,
a mixology cocktail
of the ends and the means,
of giving up yourself
in, and to,
poetry

no tribute,
but only that which,
we must pay,
and pay on
in the coin of the realm,
which expires valueless
at the end of the day,
so you awake,
broke
in every way possible for a human to be
broke

busted bird, wing broke bent,
judiciously waiting for
a capricious time to heal thyself,
but time never healed anything,
where grievous grief knows no horizon,
from the absence of some sounds, voices,
that can never be heard again

toil (a/k/a light),
trouble (a/k/a diamonds)
double that,
then raise it again to the power
of anvil crushed chest compressions
preventing basic breathing

all this to get to
the crux,
that tormenting, familiar place,
where difficulty lives on a
one way street
with a "dead end" sign at the beginning,
a self-mocking "no outlet" at the end

this crux,
inflection point,
****** peak imploding,
*** of brains boiling over,
more crucible,
where molten metal
reformulates into words

why do you want to go there?

the heat of me cannot be measured by
any mortal thermometer,
the pressure of blood cannot be calculated,
the stained consciousness maculated
by past and future sadness

of death, no fear,
writing poetry from the places
where it's well down drawn.
terrifying,
like waking up

this is where one goes,
when your pick up the gun of pen,
in vainglorious hopes of venting
the bullets of gases that seek
an unplanned escape
from a place you have no business
visiting for business,
certainly not,
pleasure

this is here, this right here,
where existence is identified,
where the sun only burns,
word life selection, a humming curse,
and the voracious need to write
boils in your blood,
chokes the throat
with your own two hands


for their is no perfection in poetry,
there is only a voyage to the crux,
the hell of poetry...
where Faustus and I
rue the day we deemed ourselves
more knowledgable than the gods,
selling our souls
for fleeting, human skills


**why do you want to go there?

3.59 am

a monitor

two parallel lines
like a road going nowhere

a mother sits on
a hospital linoleum

by her side
death kneels
politely
holding a child’s hand

~

In sonnets on a moonlit night
across the heavens oh so far
Melodically in soothing sounds
while wishing on a falling star

Neath wispy clouds of charcoal mist,
horizons painted sunset glow
wafting softly on a breeze
gently in a tranquil flow

Serenades ‘pon velvet sky,
harmonically this weary eve
Affection played of every wish,
lullabies in twilight key

So find these lyrics I now pen
flowing from my heart so deep
To comfort you in whispered words
*this evening as you fall asleep

My Fingers Touch...
(an offshoot of an older poem...)

It happens  any minute of any day...the empty feeling...the sadness, the grief visit...all are put on hold...yet, they make me realize all the more,  grieving isn't over yet...
i think of the ones gone...but, there are people around me, with pressing needs...faces that get bored, but can't be ignored, needing my say and my care.

Mornings, i work around visible reminders...i touch them, i feel them...they take me back, while dusting old furniture,
window sills, and curtain frills.

My fingers touch the old bookshelf, i see Tortilla Flat, Perry Mason,
The  Raven, The Virginian
i find myself in a different era.

My fingers touch old framed pictures and photo albums, and i am slowly unburdened, sighing out unwanted energy.

My fingers touch the old bed, the old seal, the old vases...i am saddened, but comforted, by tangible souvenirs.

My fingers touch my temples, and the old memories, old dreams come back... it's the same face with the smile that never fades,
the same one that still shyly reassures me.

Never saw my father, yet he always smiled at me in my dreams.
perhaps, it was his way of telling me, he wasn't physically with me,
yet, he never left me.
despite his absence, he knows me, us, and we know him well.
i felt him closest when going through a dilemma, or when i was ill.
there was this loving presence,
only i can know...i was sure it was him
i miss the comforting warmth of those moments.

My mother had told us more than enough---their love story, dreams and plans cut short
where I got the shape of my face, my nose, my legs...my fingers
even my allergies,
the funny names he called my siblings and I, his funny tales,
his rocking chair
the events when he died...how he died
where he died...what time he died.

We knew him well
through those stories my late mother told us
through those accounts passed down to us by my late aunts
through my dreams that never have faded.

I realized
he was with us, all the way
silently...invisibly

...we never lost him at all...


Sally

Copyright March 28, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan