Retention of repetition in modified replication reflects the information of evolution's disquisition demographic disposition to ferry the merry who listen
Psych out the vex and hex the wicked complex
Circumstantial reason in the season its civil unrest
Complacent implications ignited by degradation
The muted separation of lungs and aspiration
A few maybe more to mob the truth be unexplored
Forsaken by tradition of wishing never more
Disputing time and relativity inability to be given free
Verse the heart though be not amazed by the lack or hidden empathy
Commiseration of unmitigated hesitation casting darkness before the integration of our heart is a meager part devoted to the subtle structure of ones nature developed underneath the poise of well built character to divide and conquer if one were to try and squander the real power and only wander for it's those very same demons of the past that are now used as fuel for the fires of the future. How will you temper the flames that burn so?
Precious little things of life,
little moments we spent together at some point in time,
somewhere prior in our life.
Strange are the ways of life,
since memories are cherished,
irrespective of the fact that both belong to the same period of time.
Definitely discretion is part of human nature and also part of life.
Life continues along with the same in mind,
moments we spent together at some point in time,
life continues remembering those moments as of now at the present moment in time.
Life continues along with the present moment in time, which very soon will become a thing of past
Life continues from one moment to the next
Life continues from one day of a week to the next
Life continues from one week to next week of same month
Life goes on from one month to next month of same year, so on and so forth.
Life goes on
The search is for a desire of which once there was a complete desire to get something like this done with regards to what was thought in the mind at that point in time and at that moment.
As of now at the present moment in time in the present, the same desire seems to have settled down.
Definitely time and tide waits waits for none and so does life, which continues to move ahead along with the passing moment in time.
Life goes on.
Life follows with regards to what happened prior at some point in time in life, somewhere around in the past.
A white egret, slowly treads on marshy land...picking food
unafraid, beside a big carabao that munches grass...
...the tall reeds grow on their own, along riverbanks
........or on wide, unattended, sodden areas
no barbed wires control them from leaning, or sagging
they sway........where the wind goes.
Butterflies, dragonflies, birds
and bees in bright colors, hop on open blossoms
feasting on ripe seeds, nectar, and pollen grains.
and i, am wandering, flying, with these creatures,
perching on top of stalks.....even on carabaos' backs...
i am out there, in the open...swaying with the reeds
while dreams and inspirations spill over.
my mind roams free...no reins, no bounds,
above, and below....or, even sideways,
i inch, and feel my way
through the breathing,
...and the non-breathing...
i am a poet...i write what i feel...what comes to my mind
i follow rules set before me...though, i have
my own existing rules inside me...born with me
an innate knowledge of my limitations
as a person, as a parent, as a writer;
what should...and what shouldn't be,
what to reveal...and what to conceal,
how it is to be compassionate...and
how it is to be indifferent.
i am a poet, still hearing my late mother's voice,
emphasizing..."amor propio" and "delicadeza."
an invisible pot of fresh yellow daffodils,
lives on in my mind...a discretion ingrained in me
a kind of freedom, i opened my eyes to....
Copyright September 20, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
You didn't kill me like a murderer would.
When you did it you thought that you should.
But this was far more painful, this was your style.
You went ahead and killed me with your smile.
You weren't wearing it, it wasn't an accessory.
You were using it as a weapon most effectively.
With a smile most loving.
It wasn't cold or chilling.
Just completely undying.
It was unnatural, false and wrong.
The way it clung to your face so strong.
It hurt me and you didn't share that pain.
When you said good bye and boarded that train.
You just left with a smile and eyes of emptiness.
Which only amplified my feeling of loneliness.
No tears fell from your eyes, you were happy;
it was sad, but you said it was an opportunity.
With lies most fitting.
It wasn't warm or loving.
Just completely dying.
It was secret, sneaky and discreet.
The way you smiled and stared at the concrete.
Your 'opportunity' and important 'work plan'.
It stank and made me suspect the worst of Iran.
Had you joined the army and left me behind?
Had you left me despite hearing how I declined?
I didn't want to lose you but I fear I have, my baby.
Why do you never pick up your phone? Answer me baby.
Probably with a gun fitting.
As bullet casings are piling;
from the floor, like the tears I'm crying.
It was monstrous, insensitive and cruel.
The way you took my good bye kiss like a fool.
This is how I know you're dead, how the war killed you.
I know my son and he was discrete with everything he'd do.
You didn't even tell me what you were going through!
Lied to your mother and went to war like I told you not to.
But you could've let me know on that platform of tears.
You should have told me and spawned one of my greatest fears.
Yourself with this patriotism.
All else with this condition.
An enemy with differing tuition.
You're killing me like you're killing everyone else, my son.
Only when faced with me you pick out a smile not a gun.
The same smile you wore when you were little and having fun.
I was scared that the monsters you fought you would become.
But now I know your subtlety to be murderous and vile.
The way that you tricked me with that sly and hollow smile.
There's a man walking up my path.
Wearing army attire and medals that glint in the sun.
But what news does he have for me; is he the undertaker or my son.
He'll shine light on the truth, sun or son; he'll feel my worried wrath.
For when I was stabbed I never died, never forgot.
Though he tried to kill my worry with that smile, he only inflamed its blot.
The worry grew, it didn't shrink;
as the doorbell rang my worry was on the brink...