Everyday is an uphill *****
—a vertical some days
—always picking up the slack;
picking up the pace.
Desperate, delusional,
acts of disgrace,
but how do you ask for forgiveness
with a struggling face?

I wish it were easier
living, that is;
I force life to be easier;
surviving, it is.

How do you tell people
you're suffocating,
when the air on the *****
is dissipating?

Push in and up against the *****
Loosened grip clasps a hold
Repeat intent between each slip
The tricky path teaches quick
Learn from within frustration
Then lean beyond a stationed pose
Hard tasks are masked in broken bits
With no one above to call upon
Possess the will to calm your fears
Retrace the steps that brought you here
Reach out across to peers instead
For each possess a thought process

Where some unmatchible ideas
are found
tying missed-match pairs
in knots
of complexities, easily
unbelievable.

--Repairs of missed-matched socks
wear well on chill days when
darning's all we find
worth doing,

and nobody knows how any more.

Thread bare heels and toes

don't send the mender's dancing thimble
through loops and whirls
at fantasy ***** with

grand pianos and flutes and strings,

and angels in mismatched socks,
singing of somedays like
these, we imagine.

Still, we can.

Souls clad in well mended mismatches,
skate on grandma's wooden floor,
as we recall the deed,
and the equipment.

Grandkids are coming today,
why else would I wax floors and imagine
polishing them, with socks rescued
from uselessness after the other one
was carried off to sockland

through the dryer.
All dryers in America have portals to sockland.
And no one knows how to ****, but
we can redeem stray socks and and and

rescue the tradition of waxing wooden floors,
shining the souls of the trees with the souls of our feet,

trippin' with hippie granny, who married the wolf,
who uses the same portal to sockland for ****.

Just once, everybody should paste wax a wooden floor,
and polish it in mismatched socks, with
five, six and seven year old princesses, (some missing teeth)
none of whom ever skated on tree hearts before.

Or you can imagine. It meets the need for reminding,
common to us all, as time goes by.

Passing by, just the same,
woods are blue and unforgiving,
The wilderness has no name,
That would be known to the living.

By the mountains proud and tall,
Dare you call the prophecy,
Take a silent, quiet stroll,
And don't bring snow down at me.

Walking up when it pulls down,
The sad truth about gravity,
The abyss is calling now,
The voice of still depravity.

Down the mighty side of her,
Dare you climb the way you came,
One wrong step and little birds,
Will eat you and worms, just the same.

riding out the highs of life
with manic ferocity

until

the minutiae of life
drag you down into the depths of despair

a pure loyalty like no other
hidden by a dramatized emotional facade

always there to bring you up,
simultaneously bringing themselves down
it's a slippery *****--
emotional support

Oh, to be Mercutio--
is to be the eye of a hurricane,
winding about a center
--that may not be
as stable as it seems

Clamber! You are a Shambles
Scale the scree
Tilt the axis of your *****
Up turn your gravity
(It's a matter of urgency)

I want to break your brand
And scare you up a heart
...but that task is for you
And to be achieved
In your time

I still feel criminal as an onlooker

..


Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its *****...at its front was a
curved gorge......one would think,
it was trying to cross over

the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.

light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...

beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered fog...like a series of
steps....like a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the cottage.....it vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...

in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...

the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018