Someone is listening in the darkness.
Gravity cannot contain our voices and the stars embrace every scream,
the galaxies every song;
a millenia of music notes and battle cries.

Someone is watching in the darkness.
Curious eyes at such a strange celestial blue questioning itself,
earnestly gazing in every direction.

Someone is waiting in the darkness.
Patiently listening to our feet tread ground we were once afraid of
with hopeful eyes  moving forward from all we thought to know.

(Just some passing thoughts)

What if.....
...the midnight blue firmament remained midnight blue?
...dawn didn't come...the sun didn't even peep...
...the lamp posts remained bright with light
...because the hours seemed to have stopped
...because the night.....didn't want to end

what if...
...everyone got tired of the night
...dreamt, and wished for a bit of light
...bonfire flames became too much for the eyes
...they burned nonstop, like those in a funeral rite
...as if waiting for the dead one to soar
...even with the wind blowing, temperature was hot
...everyone was awaiting the sun---
...the true light of day

What if...
...electricity did not return...gone permanently
...there'd be no more cell phones, ipads
...laptops, desktops, nooks and kindles
...there would be nothing...of these gadgets
...no more appliances to make life easier

But, what if...
...light came back
...we had sun...and moon...and stars
...yet we could not speak, like we speak today?
...no papers and pens...just rocks and pointed objects?

Where would you be?
where would I be?
how would we be?

Would you be one holding a club?
dressed in your off shoulder attire of animal skin?
would your hair be long, uncombed, messy?
would your house, be a cave?

Would my hair be rudely grabbed by a man
to show the rest that he owns me?

Instead of cats and dogs, would our pets
be big, long necked creatures that eat trees?
would they be friendly enough to be patted?

Would we ever know of a blood moon
apart from a blue moon, or a yellow crescent?
would we ever know of mars? jupiter?
would we still remember our own earth?
the way life used to be?

How would we be?
where would i be?
where would you be?


Sally

Copyright September 4, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

I spent a day sleeping, or at least
covering my face with a blanket.
Then night came around.
And my body ached.
My mind was preoccupied.
I thought of all the ways I could
take my life.
I've tried pills, but I always throw up.
I don't own a gun, but I've
done the research.
But one thing I did do was fashion
a noose, from a blanket that couldn't
cover me. I placed it around my neck,
and thought of where my life was headed, such a joke conceived for
an ill person at their wits end.
Now I lay on my hands, keeping them
from being idle. After I rub my neck.
Waiting for the courage to ignore the
value in the little things.

a green cape to be superman in the lawn
a brown orange red one
in the fall and a white insulated
one in the winter

I put on at halloween a jack 'o lantern
adorned one
and at Christmas
a red and white one

When I visit the kids
at the orphanage
I put on a clown mask
and they laugh

And when I take it off
when I get home,
I cry.

Pictures on the Cave Wall





I look for the humility and pride I want in doubt

When I can only look there.

I close my eyes. Help me pray like a man. Not like a fool.

Accept my doubt and my self-conscious blessings and



My rote mumbled grace. Give me a chance.
I know  I can be good.

Plato saw shadows on the cave wall. They said something somewhere else is pure.
I saw bright painted animals. I will go with the hunters and their dogs.

I want a fire and food and love and

I want to hear the love story again,
Or the friend story:



I’m 17, back in the boys’ bathroom at high school, punching and kicking

Andrew Fane, who hit Colleen so hard and often.  I didn’t know.

She was my friend.

For months I didn’t know. How stupid. He humiliated Colleen, she crawled,

She was my friend and that is more than a saint for me.


  
She was  my friend and this is more than a saint for me and for many like me.
Save me from the coarse things all men are offered.


I will do the right thing.

Help me guess the right thing.

​Paul Anthony Hutchinson
pahutchinson@icloud.com
www.pahutchinson.com
Copyright­ Paul Anthony Hutchinson

This precisely is the secret hour, that brings to an end
of the long wait of patient bats, now let them ecstatically mate,
mind, wakes up from stupor,in creative instinct,becomes a ******,
though peering in to own hidden shadows, from a pantomime past.
Silence of many shades reign in the mansion of magic beyond space,
along the labyrinthine inner corridor, lighted seldom or even never.

The dark nimbus clouds above, purge, thunder roars,victorious,
outside the cave rain in torrents lashes, winds whistle like possessed,
heart fills with an urge urgent,words fumble to express with verve,
blind bats, hanging upside down, wake all at once, shaking wings,
they arise creating a cacophony,then the transformation is quick,
what results is a frenzied ****** fight for colored words to mate.

The pairs suited most, in the crowded cave , intuitively selected,
commandeered, brought together, merged perfectly, without effort,
blending with the rare beauty of light filtering in, striking images
of different hues appear on the screen, moving pictures of creation.

Everything is still here except,a fecund sense, awareness in fire,
thoughts are in a churn, turn towards the starlit firmament,
and fertile red earth doused in the scent new rain roused,
blue water expanses, rippling moves as waves after waves
all finally settle, mind's creative pool now, is a placid reservoir.

Astonished he is, by the immortality of words, that acquire
an escape velocity to project, shoot up through the clouds,
it's payload, is carried by a  fuel, alchemy created propellant,
that ensures poetic transcendence,the fused golden words live long.

The creative moments, are pure  wonder, when within the folds
of primordial sound,he waves silk blending it with golden threads,
The poet becomes the word first and the word speaks through  him,
poem is a canal perennial,for the flow of desire, hope and pain concealed deep,all projected by the  mind continuum that never sleeps.