I.
you don't know who this person is,
what do they want?

II.
try to find empowerment here, find only confusion, find only unfamiliar memories, find only resistance

III.
maybe if you can make it poetry you won't throw up

IV.
sometimes you cry and you don't know why, sometimes you feel sick and you know why, sometimes you want to die and you don't know why you don't,

V. so you do

blue dress- it is soft, it shapes around your chest like it's supposed to be there, and you begin shaking with no end in sight

white feather earrings- your face is softened and you remember you don't want to be soft

blue beaded earrings- they match your dress and your dress makes you want to die

bird earrings- they are small and bright and you curl up on the floor and wonder which parts of you are real

moon and star earrings- they are small and pale and no one but you can ever see

sun earrings- you shiver and don't think anything

blue crystal earrings- they are the strongest form of feminine you have ever had, and you remember buying these from a street vendor, holding them like some strong piece of the world belonged to you

peace symbol earrings- they are small but familiar enough to be recognized and you feel sick in your throat, your face, every part of you that accepted peace is aching, you want to tear it out

blue stones and dangling silver hoops- these make you look like a woman, which is a familiar future you have been told of, and you realize just because you understand it doesn't mean you want it

dangling iridescent gems- these make you look like a girl, she would love them on you, and you decide to give them to her before you remember she's changed, now you don't know what to do with them

warm colored striped dress- it shows all your bones and still makes you look so soft, you are so, so cold

black feather earrings- these feel like how you used to try to be strong femininely, both of those at the same time, and you tore yourself apart for years not understanding why it was so hard, blaming yourself

black beaded earrings- these make you look like femininity comes easily to you, as you wish it didn't, these seem to belong, as you wish they wouldn't, and these are so heavy, just like everything about this, you are still shaking

silver rose studs- these are small, indistinct, you remember being familiar with this small amount of femininity you thought was necessary, and you twitch violently, something itches, you are hunched

black pants, shirt, jacket- you have a body, in the most abstract sense, and now no reasonable person could call it what they wanted

spider stud- it's small, looks metallic, and delicate yet menacing, like you never could be

White
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Lightning
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Prayer

A poet writes
about truths,
what is, and what is not...
a poet writes about nature,
people....the sun, moon and stars,
a poet dares to feel...to see the whole world...


A poet writes...
to vent his/her own shares of  joy
of agony...and aches...miseries...afflictions
as well as those of the others'
a poet reads...sees through someone else's eyes,
face...words...voice...and actions...

A poet writes,
to euphemize the sharp truths and facts in life
make them less painful to the ears
to at least, soften the pointed edges of every trial...to hurt less
to pad the impact of a fall...from frustration and despair
and, through words...encourage one...to rise...when fallen...

A poet writes
to cite reasons...so a hurting one would believe again
have faith in life...in love...again
to reach out...to those who have gone far, in the dark
and take them back to the fold ...of the bright side...

A poet writes...
to tell the woes of those oppressed
the world over
those tortured...violated...and killed
of children abused
their future stolen away from them...

A poet writes
of how nature has been exploited...and maltreated
how human beings
would one day disappear,
how nature...would be around.......no matter what...

A poet is sensitive
observant
and vigilant...
A poet is compelled to see and tell all truths...
truths of yesterday...those that are here now...happening
and those of tomorrow.....and beyond...
All these,
A poet must write...
...nothing more
...and nothing less...


Sally

Copyright January 3, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan



[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[(())]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]­]]]]]]]]]]

Each human searches for the passion that suits them best,
to feel at ease and happy with their lives;
they need something,
just something that is beyond them,
an aim out of reach.

For a woman, a man,
for all religions, a philosophy,
a leader to worship and adore, follow and copy.

When in love this is the same passion
that guides our feelings
and establishes so deeply the sense of love,
that it lasts forever, or doesn't.

The same self-suggestion of passion we nurture,
cultivate, breed in our minds and lives,
because it gives us meaning, an aim
and at the same time sensations of joy
that are unsurpassed.

It creates great arts,
great expressions of man's wonder at the universe
and all its explanations that,
greater than ourselves, pace about this little planet,
out there in the unknown depths of nowhere.

Of course we exaggerate, enhance what is of pleasure,
shun that which is of pain,
yet those two define each other,
without them they wouldn't exist, we wouldn't even exist.

This kind of enhancement can take many forms
using the whole gamut of human methods of expression,
passion and powerful intoxication,
not unlike alcohol or drugs,
we do not become more intensely intelligent
or aware under their influence,
quite the opposite, we loose ourselves, our rational minds,
and plunge into the depths of this other world,
parallel to our own mundane existence,
into the euphoria of pleasure.

Throughout the history of man
are numerous examples of this over indulgence
in things, seemingly giving high pleasure
to our minds and bodies.

To take only one example, the Romans,
we all know how the fall of Rome
affected the world of pleasure seeking human beings,
and yet we would not be without it.

It has produced everything we have created,
it is close to the spark of life that generates life at all,
we may look at all things with seemingly
rational, serious researches and make exact machines.

But in the end it is the leaps of intuitive creativity
given birth from passion,
that produces the wondrous machines
of our industrial existence.

Forced into this concrete, iron, built up world
by our own choices,
we long for the simplicity of nature's
own ways of existence, and look to her to yet again.

Embellish our chimney'd cities
with things almost forgotten,
our longings can turn to nature,
to discover the such-ness of all things found on earth.

A direct contact with the spirit of the world
which clothes itself in mysterious theories,
or expounds itself yet again in religious ceremonies,
all trying desperately to find
the hidden gem that explains it all.

This we shall never find, because we are what is,
only our minds weave patterns never ending,
thoughts and fantasies, dreams and visions,
Utopias's and heaven's,
hells, gods and fiery demons -
oh what a rich and magnificently
embroidered life is this life we live,
on this beautiful blue planet.                  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2011