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 Sep 2018
Traveler
My dear friends
Go on and enjoy yourselves
Slumber the morn away!
It seems early on Saturdays
I've always far to much to attempt to convey

While my few kind heart-ed followers
Tend to sleep their mornings hours
Peacefully in and out of REM
While I'm at the computer rhyming again...

It's late
You passed your chance for early waking
Hell you miss out on a great early baking!
And now it's far past time for eggs and bacon
The munches, as you can guess
Have all been forsaken

And what did you achieve
With extra sleep
Morning dreams of distorted thoughts
Poetic themes now subconsciously lost?

I know, I know
You made wonderful love the night before
And you need your beauty rest
I read your writing, I get it
you are so blessed!!!!

I went to bed alone and played
With the thoughts of someone wanting me
I wish my poems could reflect
But all they do is bleed

How I envy all my followers
If I offend
Give me a holler
You've been hanging out late
With a habits to itch
We all have a role to play
Unfortunately  
By the time you get around to reading this
I'll either be asleep
Or on my way!
.....
Traveler Tim

houmor
 Sep 2018
bulletcookie
gesundheit!

"reflexive longing" says Charles
looking at looking as an end
time's tailored rust overcoat

back in that day ghosts lived
high and low road spiriting
pinned chronicles of osseous tissue

this hunger, thirst and yearning
for aging interstitial cartography
points our happy compass arrow

remembered like a dear friend
or a stuffed bear or rabbit tale
where familiar comfort comes home

-cec
 Sep 2018
Sally A Bayan
Today......in some places, heavy rains and
gusty winds rule, no way to control them
today, here where i am....sun beams with
fire.........hands keep fanning the hot spell
away, i think of ice...of snow falling from
heaven....touching the skin with coldness
that freezes the sadness in our heads...we
slowly become aware.........silently, gently
it fills spaces...seeming weightless.......yet
it soothes feelings....every drop, a comfort
we ponder more, as it amasses....painting
hills,  mountains, with  immaculate white
all over.....as if choking, but never slaying
cleansing........healing.......even the human
heart and mind, from bad energy......from
stubborn dirt......from being broken.....the
sparkle of white and  the refreshing  cold
bring clarity  to one's darkened  thoughts
a respite....a shedding of old, broken skin
much like new existence..............a rebirth.


Sally

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. bayan
September 16, 2018
Trying to divert my mind from typhoons and hurricanes.....
From over the bridge
the sky curved into the river
and the winds from the distant hills
carved a smile on his face.

So here he was, at last, all by himself
played upon by a feeling
of being not shadowed anymore
but by the one his very own.

light as the bird, came to his mind,
and making sure no one was around,
he spoke aloud
I'm light as the bird.

Yet a shadow was preying upon him,
an unease, a discomfort, a disequilibrium,
as he heard within, his son saying,

Baba, you need to take a break,
to be with yourself, to be away from us,
to soothe the frayed nerves..


So I have been set free, he thought,
but are the birds really as free
as they appear to be?

So here he was, but his mind was drifting,
and he was calculating like a child.

how many feet below is the river,
would the fall hurt, or would one have to wait,
for the impact with the rushing surface
before the final touch by the boulders?


I shouldn't be perilously close, he stepped back,
muttering three incoherent words..
components of love.

Back to the Rest House,
he was packing his bag.

He was not sure, if his reappearance,
at so short a notice,
would at all be, a pleasant surprise.
The temple rises
high above the humid earth.

The sun looking through the playful clouds
colors the terracotta in the golden hue
of God's emotions
long forgotten by the travellers
down on his earthly abode.
At the temple, June 3 2018 4 pm
 Sep 2018
pri
somehow, right now,
it’s winter and i’m wrapped in your embrace.
somehow, it’s winter and we’re all wearing brown,
sitting on soft couches and listening,
pretending we’re oh so smart,
when really?
we’re oh,
so
young.

and all our hearts, they’re strewn across the floor,
all our work is forgotten,
as we kiss and touch and watch the snow fall,
and sit down to dinner,
where we slow dance -in the living room,
then wrap our arms around each other,
repeat the same songs on some ancient tape player.

those slow drumbeats, the soft jazz notes,
the growing thrum of this cursed city
-the one we danced to? sank into the sheets with?
this, this is where we got lost in us.
with the snowfall outside and, who would have noticed
that we smell like something other than fall candles.

i grin, and we grab our things off the floor,
and laugh it off. somehow, we know this place,
it’ll always be our home. after all,
sweaters cover our marks in a way sun-clothes can’t,
don’t they darling?

now, soft skin, pearlescent,
seems like some sort of luxury, a wish made during yule,
something i can only share with you,
because truly, i don’t think i’d want to share this cold place,
unless they were you.

and as we waltz to slow music, as we plan, as we laugh,
as we sit down in the candles,
i think i’m falling all over again,
because your eyes look hodded in the light,
your skin inviting, your mouth soft,
and your smile makes me wish you’d swallow me whole.
based on perfect places (lorde), and **** your darlings.

inspired by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyIEOKbuTaU&index=2&list=RDGMEM6ijAnFTG9nX1G-kbWBUCJAVMuxLz5aWl4Mg
 Sep 2018
Traveler
Beneath the tears
That bleed fools dry
The eye of Ares dwells
Peering into eternal night
The darkest blackest hell
There be found
The wretched bound
Trapped within their dream
Whispers of madness
Within their ears
All shall be redeemed
Traveler Tim

This pretty little witch taught me this, try it!
Repeat aloud to cleanse
Evil spirits from houses and homes....

Seriously I wrote it!
 Aug 2018
Pagan Paul
.
Snow drifts down
     laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
          creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
     bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
     and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
     A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
     as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
                     tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
          The snow falls,
     falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
               all is still,
               nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
     dreaming,
                       of being kissed by the Sun.



© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
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