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 May 2015 nehyl
Nat Lipstadt
how to build a better poet...

take away the utensils,
the pen and paper, the computer tablet,
the recording devices that inhibit the
free flowing alliteration of formation...

dispatch the poet to within from without,
kiss cheeks with the surety of uncertainty,
whisper whiskers of doubt will be his fearful, occupational, life long companion,
hazard, best friend...boon of indecision

let the composition begin instantaneous,
with every glance, every chance,
an overheard snippet, an introductory shot,
the writing birthing in the mind's canals,
stored for seconds, or as long as desired

give him secreted love, take it roughly away,
let him rage, then  quietly sage on
vicissitudes know as incurable,
yet poet soldiers on, role playing
a solutions seeker, a healer treating us with
decisive words about everyday indecision

beg from the poet,
to release us from our self-sequestration,
employing visionary words,
untested formulations, new combinations

as per request,
poets's eyes unclouded should; could?
raise the dead, forecast blue moons,
make us walk on hazel word horizon waters,
infect our reddish defects with reflections that effect our flesh's affections,
the breathe need continuum burn/soothe,
faster harder slower softer, always irregular...

force the poet to unceasingly seer and see,
give no rest, allow no desist, poet resist, vaingloriously disingenuous talking tongues,
distracting with ancient lore resurrected,
newly spun silken verbs...

make memorized color palettes his food,
give drink of animals, plants, star names,
visions of fields resplendent with poppies,
visions of eternities in sidewalk cracks,
dividing high wire lines connecting

his words will rise skywards,
in alpha bet pieces, returning molecules
from where they were given,
and from they will in rain-droplets,
come back again

you have not lost poet's accomplishments,
you have built a better poet
Written and in the skies over Utah, Wyoming, Idaho, and Ohio
 May 2015 nehyl
Terry Collett
Who is the boy?
Sophia's father asked.

Sophia looked at him:
the greying moustache,
dark eyes,
short,  
but solid build.

A friend from work,
she said.

Her mother walked
in the background
never interfered.

What's his name?
The father asked,
examining her,
eyes searching
her features for signs
of lies or deception.

Benedict,
she replied,
good Catholic boy,
nurse.

The father
walked past her,
then circled her.

She thought of Benny
having nodded
and spoken briefly
to her parents then
had left the house.

Good ***.

Miał dobry ****,
she said to herself
in Polish,
pretending she was
talking to her father.

Not dare.

Good Catholic?
Her father said,
he come to the house
and no one to safe guard
your honour here?

We talked; had coffee,
she said,
thinking of the safe things.

Those outside
may think otherwise,
he said.

Who?
Sophia asked,
sensing her father
walking behind her,
as he did when
she was a child,
then WHACK WHACK,
he did to her as a child.

Now he just walked
around her, hands behind
his back.

Neighbours see
these things,
think what they think,
he said,
in front of her
staring at her eyes.

Those who sin, see sin,
she said,
holding herself firm,
eyeing her mother
in the background,
no words,
not a sound.

This Benedict,
he likes you?
The father asked.

Yes, he does,
she replied,
thinking of Benny
******* *******.

He must consider
how it could looks
to others,
her father said,
not come while
we are out.

She nodded,
looked at her feet,
wiggled her toes.

He may come while
we are here,
her father conceded,
eyeing her firmly,
walking away,
hands behind his back.

She breathed out
relieved
no whack
whack whack.
A POLISH GIRL AND HER PARENTS ABOUT A BOY IN 1969
 Feb 2015 nehyl
Sally A Bayan
(How Do I Write Of Thee?)

I always asked myself then:
"How do i write of thee?"
...how do I start?
...where do I start?
i am an expert on being mum,
but, i must write of thee,
and I do...the way i know---
simple-worded thoughts
coming straight from my heart...
honest, innocent lines,
bare...unaffected,
no false pretenses
not much metaphors
at times, none at all...
maybe, none is needed,
i just want to reach out,
a message, i want to impart.

"What would i write of thee?"
i equally wondered...
didn't know then how to hide behind words
to mean "i," or "me," by saying "you,"
to show "happy" in words,
when the truth is bright and tasseled with "pain,"
but, i had to start........and so, i learned
to write of thoughts i am most familiar with,
they are like second skin to me,
i write about the beauty of nature
that surrounds and comforts  me,
i write of sleepless nights,
of distances not bridged,
existing and failed expectations,
hanging conversations
dwelling within...safely cradled.

Deep, in the hidden corners of my mind
are thoughts very, very private,
some written...
some, yet to be written,
all unspoken of.
they are gentle whispers,
soothing,
unequaled moments,
sweet, sweet words,
a balm to my aching soul.

One day,
when i am too old to care,
these journals would be beyond my hold
and find their own way out,
to be shared...absorbed...understood
in a whole new different perspective,
these words shall be
i m m o r t a l i z e d
when i close my eyes for good.
people shall read about me,
and finally will know
that once,
in my lifetime,
I had written
My One Immortal Poem.

June 7, 2014---12:09 PM



Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Truly,
everyone dies;
so few seem
truly alive.
Earth, holding its breath,
willing the droplets down
into its warm, waiting skin.

Amplified senses
drawing on the palpable air,
willing the heavens to quenching chaos.
© Annilda Esterhuysen. All rights reserved.
 Aug 2014 nehyl
Esther
Dime:
¿Cómo olvidar la primera vez que dejé mi huella por tu cuerpo,
el primer beso furtivo, la primera muestra de deseo compartido,
la primera vez que sonreí y a ti se te iluminaron los ojos
de miedo e ilusión porque ya no había vuelta atrás,
los primeros celos, el primer juramento de compromiso,
la primera vez que olvidamos la oscura realidad
y nos rendimos ante la poesía de la utopía,
el primer "amor" que huyó de tus labios
o la primera mentira que asomaba, por fin, la verdad?
¿Cómo planear la vida sin primeras veces?
¿Cómo acabar lo que no puede volver a empezar?
Si todos estamos enamorados de los principios.
Y cuanto más tarde: mejor.
 Jul 2014 nehyl
Sally A Bayan
Two ***** are
A F I R E,
flames within are further fanned,

WRATH
is breaking free from its leash...

like a BLOB,
spreading quickly on all directions

BLOOD and
MERCURY
are both rising...

the once silent voice
now ROARS,
like THUNDER,
gaining
COURAGE,
gaining
STRENGTH,
THREATENING,
the
PIN
is being lifted...

this
BOMB of RAGE

is about to
EXPLODE

any second now...

€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€


Sally

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Copy­right 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
 Jul 2014 nehyl
Sally A Bayan
Friday Night Symphony


The light shower has stopped tip-tapping
Upon the blue-colored roof of the veranda...
Suddenly, a cloak of darkness prevails...
The moist coolness of the air gives
A refreshing feel this particular evening.
Two frogs are throwing croaks at each other...
One would quickly reply to the other's croaking
Within seconds... it seems
They are engaged in a conversation,
While above us, the roof creaks as
The green-eyed stray cat slowly walks...
By its measured footfalls, it is obvious
It is lurking in the dark,
Carefully waiting for the right moment
To grab its prey,
The one with the careless, scratching
footfalls...

The crickets are having a grand time
Singing their monotonous song...
Across the street stands a big mango tree, where
A gecko is nestled on one of its branches,
Making its night calls repeatedly...
Could this be their mating season? For
This particular night, it calls fervently, scaring
The night vendors selling "balut,"
Or freshly boiled duck eggs,
The home-bound residents hesitate,
More frightened  now,
As they pass through the vacant lot...

All these are happening, while distant stars
Spread glitter over a vast sky
As blue as indigo,
And an ivory crescent moon
Hangs suspended...

My delightful mug of coffee is steaming
While I am stargazing,
To a unique symphony i am listening,
This Friday night of a week ending...
      
        

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***Our old folks claim "Balut," or boiled duck eggs, provide more nutrients, strength for those  who work the graveyard shilft, and those who easily get sick. In my country, it is sold by vendors starting at late afternoons extending to late evenings.***
 Jul 2014 nehyl
Terry Collett
Atara loved the sun
and laying on the beach
in a deckchair
in her bikini
and sunglasses

I preferred the shade
a cool beer
and reading a book

she came in
the hotel room
tanned and cooked

I sat on the chair
by the open window
white and cool

you're like a snow man
she said
sitting all white
open necked shirt
white trousers
why don't you come out
to the beach
and get some sun
get those arms
and features brown?

prefer my whiteness
and being cool
and a good cold beer
I said

she stood by the shower door
and pouted her lip
why come
all the way out here
to sit in the shade
and read a **** book?

I like sight seeing
not sun worshipping
I like museums
and art galleries
not seeing other people’s
sweating bodies

you are such a bore
she said

you didn't say that night

she looked at me
wrinkled up her nose
that was different
she said

you didn't mind
my white body then
I said

I couldn't see it
in the dark

and I couldn't see
your tan either

what's wrong
with the beach though?
she said

too hot and smells
of sun oil and stinking flesh
I said

they have men on the beach
with big brown bodies
and muscles
she said

they also have dames
who look over cooked
and big busted
I said

I’m going for a shower
she said

don't wash off the tan
I said

why don't you
shower with me?
she said

I prefer to shower alone

don't you want
my body any more?
she said sexily

not in the shower

you are so square
she said
walking off
for a shower
so fecking SQUARE
she yelled
and slammed the door

a cool breeze
came through the window
I sipped my beer
and turned another page
of the book
I could hear
the shower going
but didn't go and look.
A MAN AND WOMEN ON HOLIDAY IN 1972.
One,
who cannot handle
their opinions being questioned,
most likely hasn't derived them independently.
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