Another sleepless night you have taken from me.
Stolen. Along with my heart; I cannot be set free.
Why does it continue to happen - the thoughts, that flood my head.
As I lay awake and restless in my bed,
I remember the honeyed lies you fed me,
Sweet poison to my ears.
But now you have finished serving your bitter sweet lies
And the aftertaste is sour, as I lay here unable to close my eyes
Another sleepless night you have taken from me.

This murky grey of the everyday, of the ubiquitous pattern and structured time - these are the illusions, the straws to which I clutch and cling like a child at her mother's skirt. Afraid of the unknown, afraid it will hurt. Looking only backward at my old stories and truths, growing shabby with constant use, poor curating, and increasing age; I wear my willful blinders like a self-constructed cage. Wide roads open ahead, ready to explore, and yet I cringe, I cower:  weak, small and unsure.

Small spikes of... awareness, sharp sudden connections to the divine, in the midst of mundanity I am hit with moments of expansion, of elevation and escape. A soaring stretch of the soul, reaching its arms upward, yawn and strain, trying for something, reaching beyond its usual scope as if hoping to catch a half-remembered dream, yes -- chasing the remnants of a fantastic dream --

Is it still within my scope? This rush of potential, this flush of excited possibility, of hope? Am I walking into it, or waking from it? That feeling of joyful freedom - surely that is our natural state, when the mind and its anxieties are forgotten or put to rest. That heady elation that makes me feel larger than life: I will it to be so, for that stretch to stick, to rearrange my shape, the space I take, to alter the way I think, the decisions I make.

It could be, can be reality, can be more real than the press of uncertainties, the weight of worries and restless unease.

This morning was cold and a foggy one.
It reminded me of a past colder morning,
When the holiday hustle and bustle had just ended.
I was here....at Windwood Park,
My arms squeezed across my chest.
While briskly I walked, a strong wind blew
And by me, a flock of black birds flew...

I passed along house gardens, with Christmas trees,
With angels and stars on their tops still lighted.
Further on was a row of evergreens,
Upright, unaffected by the cold December winds,
High above the Magnolias and Hollies.
Beside the orange-purplish Birds of Paradise
Stood two smaller, obliquely grown pine trees;
Leaning, but undaunted by the sway of the winds,
No angels, or stars to show....instead, I watched as
The Crows approached, and on the tree tops, they alighted...
And then came another group of three,
And then several more followed suit,
And settled
On the nearby trees,
Blurring the tree line...until
The treetops were darkly shaded....

High above, they perch...on the grass, they search,
On the streets, they cross, pick up food, doing
What birds of the same feathers do---to survive...
A group of beaked, footed, dark crescent creatures
On top of those trees, so green with life,
Against a sky pleasantly clear and blue...
The contrasts, the events I witnessed, lingered with the cold...
A small patch of darkness...emerging,
Widening, prevailing, gaining power,
Can eventually conquer a whole world.

The White Egrets, Herons, the Finch,
The Bluebirds, Junkos and the Parrots
Usually grace Windwood Park with their presence...
Only the Blue Jay was brave enough that cold morning,
While a large number of Crows scattered,
And bravely, skillfully scavenged,
Through the wet, verdant grass,
Through the tall cans of thrash...

This morning, the cold brought back these events...and
I thought of the violence and starvation existing in places worldwide,
The prevailing restlessness, the senseless killings...the children....
No more concern for human lives...and
I thought of Nigeria...
And Pakistan,
And Paris, France,
And those that happened before them,
And those that are about to happen...

Sally

Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan


...we never know what we may witness when we step out of our
   comfort zones...

I am unaware of the time right now,
I haven't got a clue.
The sun is gone.
The night is black.
And all I can think is you.

Usually the night time
is time for my escape;
time for me to slip to sleep
and dream of better things.

But lately I've been hesitant
to lay myself to bed
for I can't get thoughts of you
to stop spinning 'round my head.

I cannot fall into sleep
once switching off my light
for thoughts of you
and what we were
keep me up all night.

Until exhaustion finally pulls me
into long awaited sleep
where I wander aimlessly
through memories that I keep.

And, though I want it badly,
I know my rest can't last
for nightmares quickly drown me
in memories from our past.

Once again I am awake,
stirred restless by my mind.
I count sheep, not to sleep,
but to simply pass the time.

I am unaware of the time right now,
I haven't got a clue.
The stars have gone.
The sun is bright.
And all I can think is you.

in the middle of the night
when everything is at its quietest

i feel a tug at my hair
i feel a nudge in my side
i feel the pull of my hand
i feel a restlessness in my body

something is calling me
a distant land or perhaps a forgotten muse
something is calling me

and i cannot wait to answer

I have so much to do
But I am a statue.
I'm frozen.
Words are held just on my lips.
Power peppered on my finger tips.
When much is given much is expected.
Prose. Prose Prose Prose.
No one knows.
What do I know.
Am I a God.
I am a God.
Gods lead, Gods create.
I create.
I create at will what I will
I will what I create.
Not good enough. Too late.
I have so much to do...
When you're a God
Who do you pray to?

What "it" is exactly;
The world may never know.
But through clever subtle suggestion...
I hope to bestow or show.
Let it begin
To some it pushes;
Others he pulls.
It's the longing of writers
And the desire of fools.
The artist must scratch it
Creation its only appeasement.
But the industrial man
pretends he never sees it.
It stabs at my feet
And rouses my sleep
Like finding the peace
In the crashing of seas;
Shore; it has a name
But to know it would conjure blame
And we can't have that!
Or "it"
So make.
*ART

I'm restless and *******
but ******* isn't even really right
because I'm not angry,
I'm just not remotely content.
Frustrated, but it's more than that
and I'm unable to put into words
the inability to fake more
enthusiasm or happiness.
I'm not ok with where I'm at
not just in life, but literally,
geographically.
I want to pick up and run,
run far away, fill up the tank
and drive until I'm on empty,
and I'm not sure if I'm referring to gas.
Where would I end up
and could I find some semblance
of an adventure there,
something to kickstart
me back to life.

Give me rest.
The kind of slumber
that toddlers protest during naptime
but succumb to with a stream of drool
on their rested faces;
the kind of slumber
that enables my grandmother
to nap in a rocking chair
with a book teetering on the edge of her lap,
the sort of sleep
that wakes me up
an hour before the morning trumpets blast;

give me that,

because I'm tired
of the sheets clutching on to me
like handcuffs
engraved on criminal wrists.