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its boughs, so large and heavy
but its leaves lean to the wind
just as sadness marches steady,
to the beat one’s starts to sing

winds that cause the willow branch to groan,
pluck like harp strings, dry and rustling leaves
who speak of rope- over them thrown
when a weight should come to pull them,
it is not exactly known

life starts with hope,
and from there, the path is forked

life either dies with the sunset,
or sees the moon in panicked fraught

trees end in branches,
and on those branches tied-
are braids that end in knots

such as the willow, knows in its heart
those who come and see, afar
hides the body hanging from it
with its leaves and broken heart
Golden halo, crown of gold- rings as you call,
Golden halo, heart so bold- yes and yes to all-
yet all the time that falls off the leaves after rain,
dry up too soon in the mid-morning sun’s heat

Golden halo, not of gold- just as ever blinding,
Golden halo, made of light- slowly ever fading-
the sky is clear, buts its clouds uncertain to cry,
Sit and wait, sit and wait and talk- golden halo

I hear your whispers, golden halo- loud and soft
echoing from the fleets of galleon clouds
and crashing nimbus waves
blaring through soft torrents of gale and gusts,
dodging the lighthouse of heavenly fire

I hear your secrets, golden halo- safe and sound
safe in me, golden halo, deep in locked chains
safe in me, high above the clouds,
the key, broken- its pieces, heavens apart
the lock molten shut

golden halo, golden light
golden secret, lips sealed tight
to thunder, the pond swells
in summer, it diminishes
when its streams and brooks die
a thousand plants-
and a hundred fish-
rot and swelter in it

to rain, it lives and breathes
the ebb and flow of raindrops
when from its banks break
a thousand droplets-
a hundred streams-
blooms in its spirit

men wait not for the rain,
nor does he diminish in heat
in his soul contained to find,
a great typhoon-
angered by his passion,
calmed when he sulks

in each awaits catastrophe,
one as different, none the same-
all as fated to start as one
feel the wind, heat, and rain
feel it now, again and again
Issachar Bacang Mar 2020
The beach was not wet,
The sands grainy yet dry
And the salt of the sea
You cannot smell-
But only hear and see

It's hue- in the cool colors
And in this Violet sunrise
In which the violet sunrises
The colors do not face away-
But join the same pallette

A breeze not there, blows
A gull, not there- crows
Everything in colored squares
The in in hatched purple gradient
The first rays glow electronically

The music that plays, plays from
No band but but the ghost behind this scene
The music- as grainy as the sea
And a melody- soft, like the sun behind it

The music that plays, plays from
No band but the ghost behind this scene
The glow of the sun that shows,
Glows from no sun but the one behind the screen
Issachar Bacang Aug 2019
a dark, dreary dream it seems-
no fog thicker than it's haze
this land is real, it exists-
this place has a sign with its name
no map on earth has inked
to draw the arrows to this maze
a garden of eternity,
where the rabbits, feral and wolves, tame

this place is cloudy,
but each whispy haze weighs a metric tonne
the crown on each tree
and their boughs so far up their trunks
they form a cloak, impenetrable
that paints it sable against the sun
and what little sunlight dies-
in the ebon sea, its flare had sunk

there is no light here,
save for an oil-less lamp yet to be lit
an ashless bonfire-
wood yet to be gathered and be burnt
these pixies have no home
other than the cage one carries them in it
these fireflies have no light,
save for what is suffered and learnt

the forest makes pub ******
of those who lose themselves there
leches of those thirsty
who drink from its streams and creeks
they fail and falter and fall on the forest floor,
and the bushes wake back to life and stare
these are the sentinels of the forest,
and it is your surrender they seek

skulls and rib cages decorate
and hang from the boughs in this forest
the beaten trail there is paved
with the bones of the pleasant and their tales
the lamps are candles stuffed in the skulls
of the truthful and honest
you walk on these and where the bones stop,
you stand on where the last of them failed

the night here is neverending,
according to whom have endured
when it actually ends,
all memory of its trees and creeks cease
each and every soul that stands,
has left footprints here for sure
no telling which are the footprints of those,
living, lived, or recently deceased

this place is cold,
the clement light drowned out eons ago
it's cruel too,
this brumal darkness too tame to **** you
it keeps your heart-beating,
pounding down on you with layers of snow
it makes you forget the clement light,
makes you forget the warmth your breath once drew

how you get there nobody knows,
one wrong step- the forest eats you
from the sidewalk, from school to home, into the alleyway,
the forest eats you
the door between your room and the living room's screams,
the forest eats you
from the covers of your sheet into the noise of the streets,
the forest eats you

from the street to an inn, back to the street again,
the forest eats you
from the light of screen into the darkness of bed,
the forest eats you
from the concave stomachs and a mountain of debt,
the forest eats you
the stool between you and a knotted rope,
the forest sill eats you

and then, skin hard and frozen cold
since wandering this grove of a thousand broken lights
the crown of the trees recede
and the boughs begin to thin towards the opposite pole
there is no sun here, other than the immolated torch
of your flesh burning bright
there is no sun here,
other than the immolated phlogiston
that combusts at the end of

the dark night of the soul
Issachar Bacang Aug 2019
the first spark sparks

in the wastes of Shabsheer
his bread and water, that of niter
where he would spend nights here
worked as dawn neared

his flame soon to burn a million
harshness and saltpeter
his nickname was 'Paidarion'
his future more bitter

ⲇⲉⲁⲑ took a paid lover
and soon, mother and father
no home, no lamp for his feet

as the Egyptian sun began to blister
under the shade of one's beard
he sought an elder

"watch- for you are awake
you are seeing
you are knowing

watch- the baker as he bakes
the thieves fleeing
and the farmer sowing

"starve- we'll eat later
now we ponder
the hunger of  the beggar

the next we pass one
dont let him wonder
invite him to share our supper

"know to rise above
and to go under
to pass through-
and asunder

for He weaves
our lives together
we hold each other

in the pattern of our souls

He weaves us together
that we may hold one another
from the cradle to the casket

humanity woven well
holds on to much more
like a good basket
Issachar Bacang Aug 2019

it hurts thine eyes
it forces thy mouth open
to sing!

sing towards it
sing towards Him

sing in the night
sing in the day

forget not-
the emerald light
see in your heart
crucem  zmaragdinae
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