wooing/seducing: the where of the first kiss always

~for Robin Carretti, who loved it best~

‘tis true my battlefield tactical brought me  
many victories
when that was fool-desired

no chain mail, walled armaments, arms crossing,
all failed

to the single softest siege engine in my possession



and the passing passionately poems read
back ‘n forth, non-negotiable demands,
vicious but viscous
red lines,
day remainders of the contusions of night's angry passions
and the
disputed but muted disparities of both

nothing, no, never broke the spell of:

the first kiss, always upon the neck

so someone remarks and thus a poem commissioned...

a better world, a wish no one can turn a back to...
a literacy of mine own, a bridge too far...
but such a lie too glorious to ignore...
blessed be the wisher for he gave this day
water and wine to a lapsed Jew who reincarnates
the containership of body and soul from the Star of David,

it,
burr~etched upon his chest, and embraces lost tourists
who unfated unfazed stumble
upon the guide dog of his verbal chicanery and funny bone,
smiling for as long as it takes to cross that last bridge,
nearer our god, you than me..

making your day (good job great pay)


comes so easy that the forbidden thot mind crosses

maybe that’s what I’m here for

good job great pay

nah

but tween o u r
trials and tributes
get a job you enjoy
is the common wisdom

so i’m stuck
in the uncommon heaven
of making your day
the highest paying job
ever

especially on weekends


(someone teases,
change you name
poet of the pay)

?????????

Time is not flying
the evening hours are so slow, inching by
and spent tossing and turning
my restless mind roams dark avenues
my restless feet roam the bed,
left...right...then back, over and over.
the bed, that was my hammock....no longer sways
a promise of peaceful slumber, flies away,
???????
new and strange images
start to trail me...they're heavy tassels,
tagging on the  hemlines of my mind,
seeking to connect...to be known
???????
this late hour, i recall
a forked road, not far from a winding road,
from afar, a child admires a white castle
high as the clouds, its windows, foggy,
its high fence, mossy...on its front lawn
is a treehouse, perched...resting like a bird
inside a very old tree, leaning to its left side,
with a long set of steps...all painted white.
just below the white steps are gathered,
doyens of poetry...seated in their own chosen
corners...tacit, yet, empowered by their brilliant minds
the tips of their feathered pens, smoothly sliding on
paper......strange, that they're waving at me,
why, they could be dead!
???????
i must be dreaming...my muse is showing
me paths, i would think twice of treading
???????
a quartered moon selfishly glows
unsettles even more, my murky thoughts...
yet....my pressing thumb is on my journals
i must heed.........the need.
???????
"o' my elusive unknown poem,
kindly show me...lead me to your home
let my pen give light to your dim path
give second wind to my weary mind and heart,
deny, even a bit of a space......for wrath,

help me, push me...my efforts musn't cease
show me your face...we'll both have peace."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
~
Sally  

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 21, 2018

how I honor you (notes from a conversation with Patti Smith)*

~for Cné~

<•>

honor,
honor on my mind
(ran into Patti Smith last night at the Standard Hotel
in the Meatpacking District)

told her honor, 
honor,
on my mind

she said that’s
why I like you
city poet

”you, are a free range thinker,”

when you get stuck on a bubble gum word
on the sole of your shoe,
you one sticky stuck poet,
can’t let be freed~released till you get the

curve of the word,
curve of the world,
you stumble where gods get lost.  
where the divisions of the subconscious thread together,
and you got to peel the onion all the way back, while
you cry

here is what I think about honor:

there is so much added glut
in this world,
honor the reader
never write a word that
wastes a minute of their time!”*

you wrote you have only poem in you wright,
and you writ it to right the world,
thrice, and over and over in disguises.
and sometimes, I hear, even with
spaghetti sauce