SoHo

South of Houston,
an ethnic divide
that turned into yuppiedom
and new hipsters,
but not the Beat kind.

I miss those snaps,
the Nueyorican taps
of bullet fast words
steppin’ into the streets
with wild eyes beats
and the howling rage
at hypocracy.

Now all you find
is dead eyed
zombied out,
but starbucks energized
bunnies
and freaky fellows,
all into themselves
as though they
knew something
more than the chase for
money and ***.

And they say this
is the American Dream;
follow the greed
as humanity burns
to pay for these pleasures.

SoHo, Village groupies
who long ago
gave up their tongues
and their eyes...

Aztec Warrior 8.2.15

We worked hard for these plans for so long
these dreams, we feel, could never go wrong
we have given them our all...they are nearly done,
but, "nearly" doesn't mean it's been won
deep inside, we keep alive their  essence
and we choose to stretch our patience...

We wait...

Notes have yet to be written on the bars
the tunes seem to be playing among the stars
lyrics are springing back and forth
"pen-rubber-pen," is a cycle that can't be fought
they are songs taking too long to be sung
in the air, they fly, like arrows being slung
in spaces too far flung...

We sit on the edge, while waiting...

They are verses that falter
have yet to make it on white paper
altered thoughts, words displaced
lines, here and there...disorganized
hanging...
with unknown endings
work is pending
we desperately seek for the missing element
to come up with meaty, meaningful contents...

We console ourselves, and say, "maybe later..."

They are faces that hide
there, at the back of our minds
smiling at us in our darkest hours
they make us cry, laugh, turn our moods so dour
keeping us company twenty-four/seven,
we fervently wish, the odds would become even
yes...we long for their physical presence
but....it can't...it just doesn't...happen!
they keep stalling
courage could be waning...

It is hard to comprehend why...we're still willing to wait.

When most days of life have passed
and while waiting, we breathe our last,
our songs, our meandering loves, our dreams,
our long written poems with scattered themes,
like shredded paper, shall go with the final heave of our chests
fly away, flee to the open spaces...to find rest,
and, after wandering all over...they would then settle down
to finally become the color of the ground.

One day,  things would fit into their proper places,
people will wear smiles on their faces
nothing would seem to be wrong
the air would be filled with songs
from new lives, new loves...risen from the fall
from life's cycle....these unknowing souls
their palms, with lines and colors, much brighter
they could be luckier
they have better chances...they show more courage
the wind brings good fortune, they now have the edge...

How are they to know, their most desired aspirations
used to be other people's inspirations
in the past generations?
their dreams realized had once been,
Things that were not meant to be.


Sally


Copyright JUNE 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

(10 w x 9)


A glass of wine waits
beside a tureen,
..............where soup
......................

~~~~~

with twisted noodles
of choices
and reluctance
is
slowly simmering.

~~~

there's no fire,
yet,
ladle goes on,
stirring within
........amidst

~

quivers...
rivers of fear
..........of paths
circumstances may lead to...

~~~

to stagnate?
or rise from inner swamp?
::::: a recurring
dilemma

::::::::::

losing
people...things
most loved,
derails intentions,
w
  e
a
  k
    e  n
           s
     existing wall...

~~~

faces...voices,
wisdom gained,
all reside in
one's comfort zone

****
to move on,
or stall?
when?
tomorrow?

no!

not...yet...

****

doi­ng    n o t h i n g,
this humid evening
just swimming
~
~~~
~~~~~
in dark
waters.

~~~~~
~~~
~



Sally

Copyright May 31, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

It slips,
this new surrender,
past the rusted locks
and caution signs
and crumbling roads
of cul-de-sacs
and vacant lots
and open tracks
to freedom;
where conundrums play
and secrets huddle
and bodies lie
and youth decays,
retired past expired days

Engraved in time,
cocoons and shells
and nests are hung
and quartered for a chance at love;
the way ahead,
receding,
half behind
and part enslaved
(a mask of promise worn from birth to lucid grave)

And,
like an avalanche,
it falls in quick pursuit,
this multiverse of
filthy guise
– of liquid paths and dangerous eyes –
and ruby coloured blushing cheeks;
where every lover’s
heart of sponge or stone
descends to meet . . .
heating,
for another touch
beneath the fraying sheets

And all the while
in rush and glory,
time,
******* moments
as it passes, flies away –
manifest instead as flesh,
(again)
with wings that only beat
to re-transcend
and scar
and mend in
pounding,
swollen,
rhythms,
c
l
a
w
i
n
g
for the warmth of smothered distance:
roaring
for a welcome end

So,

spaced between
the tics
and tocs
of darting pain
and thrusting *****,
of ***** aroused, abused, and shamed,
a silence, near, deploys again
the ever caged
and emptied song
and lusting shame
of mouths and tongues,
inclining, fast at last
to go
from whence it came
to soak the mind
and strip the soul
and blur the lines
of time and toll,
buried,
in surrender, whole