The space I have
needs someone to fill up
and found none so far.

I cursed the man for invading
into the May notes of casuarinas
on a space all my own
before the sun was alluringly soft
on the tender hearts by the sea
finding love in whispered notes
sheltered by the swaying trees.

Found many and none
and their vacuous echoes
question where I failed
or was there precious silence
speaking it wasn't a void
that I ravaged into sands
of futile recollections and laments.

The mercury was falling
over the man as I left him
and soon the creed of hope
would break in like evernew waves
around a vacuum of empty space.

Approaching Station,
Exit to left,
Passes please,
Discounted and undiscovered,
Are the tracks still broken?
Hand loosing it's grip,
As the content contentment,
Starts to rise,
Dreamers can't have dreams,
When passed oot,
Trying to shake,
Tattooed faces,
Security let's it go,
When glasses cant stop staring,
An angel with Diamondback wings,
Trying her best to keep it all together,
While puting on shoes,
That aren't on her feet,
Rushing to the other car she saves another soul,
Central ave,
Centralized humility with mangled humanity,
He's alive,
But rarely living,
Loved,
But wondering where it is,
Art district and,
**** I've listened to this song too many times,
Poetry on rails,
******* railed by poetry,
Glasses terrified by realness,
They all deserve better,
Would they know what to do with it?
Exit to left,
The angel let's her sister go,
The door closes,
She checks,
The rail only has so many stops,
It's quiet,
The significance of the moment,
Discovered then discarded,
She's asleep.
He's not waking up,
She leaves,
Approaching station.
1st ave,
Passes please.

My couch,
Is death,
And avoidance is a second language,
Ask me do I speak it?
Conjoined twins,
Of misery and manipulation,
No calls,
Only cushions and customer's custom complaints,
From tomorrow,
The phone wont ring,
So I'll stay down this road,
Listening to headlines and headlights
Sing,
Moody music dwelling,
Where the lies and shame met in between,
Cut the cue, end the scene

The stage has been rebuilt,
We talked like teenagers,
And you told me that I've changed,
But the same,
Still that same number,
No more gap,
But your smile still kills,
Pain with palendromes,
We were here before,
And so again we,
Our fighting saying goodnight,
Street lamps in different cities,
Static.

I'm just fine,
Playing my part,
My mainstream maybe different,
But
Obsession has been overcame,
By the rising tide of a smile,
If the teleprompting signs shine through,
Meanwhiles and meditations
What can I do,
Except hope I'm reading,
The
Right
Script,

The couch,
It asks,
Where have you been?
I set down another,
chip.

(a travelogue cont...)

Waiting for summer
just outside the tallest
mountain’s door

Where the emerald vale
streams spring glacial-grey
river waters,
west into the setting
midnight sun

Another resplendent day’s
paling whisper set free
in an unseen blink
and an unheard sigh

In these unwonted moments  
eyes rise up to touch
the beckoning sky
like a bug drawn
to the light

Upward over
highest mountain's skies
abides everything
worth rising for

It's so rare
in this fleeting life,
when a dream
for a moment
comes true ―
 
you come to understand
how deep is silence

and ...
it doesn’t really matter
when there’re no words


harlon rivers

June 9th. 2018
11:55 pm Denali sunset ...
"don't dream it's over"

She drew each suit
Of a deck of cards
On my arm with a
Black ballpoint pen
We nursed our shared glass
And took ice once
All the customers had taken
Their motorbikes into the night
We made love beneath
The fairy-lights and
Cleansed ourselves
In simple, beautiful poverty

I knew that the ink
The glass
The ice
The fairy-lights
And the ***
Would all burn out
Or wash away

I knew that the poverty
Would lift
Eventually
And expose
Our rushed
And reasonless
Foundations

They say
Where there is hope
There will be life

 I say
What is life without
Happiness & fairness
What is life without
Proper funding
To buy even the
Basic Things
In life
              
 I say
 In hope
 I see our children
 Starving

In hope
I see our children
Gunned down
Everyday on our
Streets, and even
Inside their classrooms

In hope
I See too many
Heart broken

In hope
I see our blue Angels
Gunning down
My brothers, just
Because
Of the color of
Their skin

In hope
I see our elected
Officials
Corruptions at a
Different level

In hope
I see racism
Evolved

In hope
I see the world
On the verge
Of collapsing

In hope
I see pastors
Appearing
On television
Defending
The wicked

In hope
I see too many
Tears
From our
Mothers  Eyes

In hope
I see nothing
But a path of
Thorns towards
Peace

In hope
I say
I am hopeless

And in
Hopelessness
I am lifeless
       Yet
I’m still holding
   On to hope

No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile

readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,  
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...

a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on,  shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.

sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words,  a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....

a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...





Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    January 29, 2017