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Left Foot Poet Jan 2020
how I know we will make love someday / primal2

whatever you think of overwhelming distance,
thick black lined international boundaries,
no Westerly wind, snow binding, winter blinding, can forbid
the innate desired connectivity, the eye locking messaging,
the shared shards of losses cumulative, that we alone can relieve/repair

I will travel by jetliner, car, to unpack you from snowdrifts,
write quatrains upon your eyes, elegies on your lips,
epic poems using every body space possess-able, asking for nothing
in return, for living is hard enough, no need for quid pro quo bargaining

do not ask what am I to you, resist classification, place me not,
no slot, no rowed field, under closed eyes remember, recall,
better the butter of love and loss, which I’ll take and also leave,
summer spreads and relishes kitchen canned for next year’s winter

did you know, of course not, my name is Mordecai,^ the same who,
was Vizier to Darius and Xerxes I, meaning pure myrrh and
master of languages, but this is not the time/place, my secrets two,
to give away, and yet forbear, you may ask questions that no sensible human answers

honestly

but I have, and will do so again, against all odds, we will
compose original numbers, all prime, all natural occurring,
divisible, yes, but  only by the number itself and the number 1,
1,
a number that answers:

the equation, the prime ideal,
why only 1 + 1 equals:

primal 2

~
it takes one to create two
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mordecai
  Jan 2020 Left Foot Poet
Sally A Bayan
They're often cliched, yet always uttered
the real essence of the quote, "life is short."
struck me, as i was clearing my jaded eyes...

the “winter of life” is how they call it,
when your numbers are higher than those
on the calendar...when doing the stairs
shouldn’t be rushed, for, slowing down
is not a choice...but, a must.
:::::
despite challenges and changes that
overwhelm, there's this sprightly feeling
that still breathes within, like second skin,
as short hair, sneakers, skinny jeans and
t-shirts are to me...age hasn't weakened
this longing for adventure, this wanderlust,
unaffected by tedious procedures and
long queues at the airport...
:::::::
like a cat...i purr not, while exploring,
Yet, always wary in the midst of curiosity...
still wondering what's beyond the fence, or,
how to cross traditions, or, sensitive issues,
without displeasing, or hitting a raw nerve...
::::::
much to do,
much to see, but
   not much time...
::::::
at this point in my life, i feel, life is short(er)
the weeks, the months could be no longer
days turn foggier, or hazier, yet, it's not at all winter,
here, in my own space, it's always summer, where
short hair, jeans, tshirts, and sneakers are bestsellers,
where numbers, wrinkles and sags don't really matter...
:::::::::::::



Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 3, 2020
Left Foot Poet Dec 2019
a new born poet-babe was born this day!

more of a surprise to the baby than the
supervising family members in attendance
in the delivery room, they, unafraid of the blood
and amniotic fluid coating the baby’s first
poetic cri de coeur, a screaming wail

for well do they re-envision their own birth

the poet babe cuts their own umbilical chord
with a scissors snipping named and engraved
SEND,
which irony galore, reminds/rhymes with The End,
this misnomer a challenge and soon the babe
cries out in surprise, it is twins, and the second poem
emerging stating in a tone solemnly serious and formal,


”more to follow”

and the room bursts out laughing,
including you!




Saturday Dec. 14th, 2010
An Optimist’s Guide to Falling in Love With a Woman


have a very minor fender ******, you’ll never get a persons digits any easier, consider it a bonus first date, a stress test interview, when humans on their worst/best behavior, their true nature revealed and tough exteriors melt when gallantly take full responsibility, details to be discussed over dinner

risks: she’ll  will never ever let you drive her, even after, no...never ever after, the issue is closed, ‘twas your fault and is non-discussable

critique her order standing behind her at McDonald’s. blowback assured! charm resistance and openness will be tested, but you claim pure concern for her well being, even after offering to pay  a dollar for every calorie ingested if she only switches to a plant-based burger

risks: hamburger grease soul staining, no love stain stick remover handy and everybody knows mixed marriages really never work tween bronco busting cowgirls and city tree huggers

you take a spill, nose in the phone crossing street, she lifts you up with wonder woman strength and gentility, you sputter with half-feigned indignation for you’ve embarrassedly first sight-fallen in love, all your words and everything else is failing and flailing as she tends to the cut, drives you to her office where she stitches you up, while cracking jokes that are truly funny

risks: she is a Dallas Cowboy fan, or worse, someone else got there first, and you need life long therapy

she’s in seat 10C, Miami to NYC, pretending very poorly to not be reading this very story-poem you’re creating, but doing so VERY poorly because she is editing, making suggestions, punching you in the arm excitedly, asking if you want to share a cab home, for she reveals that she too, secretly dips the quill in ink and needs an expert opinion, yours for sure since you’re SO good looking too!

risks: the weather diverts the plane to Baltimore where you live together happily after-ever, cause you’re both tired of life in cities with 3-13 perennial losing NFL teams and it is exquisitely equidistant from your annoying relatives
and ex’s





Baltimore Washington International Airport
4:29 pm Dec. 2nd
  Oct 2019 Left Foot Poet
Sally A Bayan
.....live in a huge immovable circus,
we...are acrobats...
we do the trapeze...walk the tight rope
taking chances....risking our lives....
catching....grasping swinging bars
learning when to not let go...and
when it's time to release...
we rise from being upside down,
we learn how to hold reins...to survive...
:::
we tame lions, tigers, wild horses,
even people.....even situations...
we have mastered the art of
controlling...our grips, becoming
tighter, through time....making those
under our charge feel chained...with
spiked leashes......some fight the fear...
and those who accept powerless-ness,
bow their heads...they lose their voices,
imprisoned in body and mind...as good
as dead.....and add up to the avalanche...
:::
we got more than enough mountains
.............crumbling upon us....
:::
we forget...in the eyes of God, we are ALL
equal: AND, WE ARE NOT really in control,
we are given chances, choices, and free will,
it's really up to us...we either walk straight,
....or stray.....yet, we know very well,
................we reap what we sow...
:::

Sally

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 11, 2016
  Oct 2019 Left Foot Poet
Nat Lipstadt
First Line: The Most Popular Words on HP

those  selected below, are copied from the current top line of the Words section on HP,  which I believe, represent the most often used/“popular” words on the site.

love      time      heart      life      eyes      feel      day      
mind      night      things      left      find      long

when  I find love next time, and the next time,
the heart that has powered this life,
will avoid the trapping eyes that initialize the
first feel, the first contact, those things that are
the mind seducers, whether,
one, if by day
two, if by night

which is it?
love is blind, but we all dream of love at first sight!

which’s why, I’ve left the world of find,
long ago, deciding that love will find me in its own
peculiar time, way, method, until that occurs,
dreaming of that happenstance will inspire
a poem of the day, each day,
until time postpones either my
heart or mind, my senses, or the search is concluded,
which will most likely be through my jewels,

my very own words
  Oct 2019 Left Foot Poet
Glenn Currier
There is the ancient story of a shepherd boy
whose king outfitted him with armor
to ready him for the challenges of the day
and the boy could not walk
so he threw off the armor
picked up his sling
and tended his father’s flock
with peace and joy freely erupting in song.

My armor is not wealth or wit
I cannot make myself fit
into the current conventions and hype
trying to conform to the normal type
stops up the energies that yearn to flow
freely and gleefully and urge me to go
to the dawn, darkness, clouds and sun
to wrap myself in words that run
like sparkling streams
and windswept dreams.

Poetry is my armor for each day
where worries and problem allay
where I search my feelings and mind
for the word elixir loosening knots that bind.
This armor does not weigh me down
but frees me to my triggering town
where I find and create the poet me
and the landscape of my soul’s poetry.
My favorite book about writing poetry is one by Richard Hugo, Triggering Town where he says, “Your triggering subjects are those that ignite your need for words. When you are honest to your feel¬ings, that triggering town chooses you. Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to your vocabulary. Your way of writing locates, even creates, your inner life. The relation of you to your language gains power. The relation of you to the triggering subject weakens.”
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