#blacksaturday - Hello Poetry

Mientras no estás, tengo confesiones que hacer. Y mientras estoy aquí, también tengo unas preguntas que hacer. Estoy esperando tu regreso, ¿tú también estás esperando el mío? ¿Crees que el verano también extraño el invierno y el frío? ¿Crees que la luna extraña el mar, por eso sigue tirando de las mareas? ¿Son las conchas las lágrimas de la luna? ¿Son las olas el sonido de sus gritos y peleas? Estoy esperando que vuelvas, ¿O tú también estás esperando mi llegada? ¿Crees que Dios también extraño el mundo tranquilo y vacío? ¿Crees que el sol extraño al mundo, es por eso que hay flores y frutas? ¿Son las flores los besos del sol? ¿Y son los frutos la prueba de su amor? ¿Crees que de todos modos Dios ama tanto el mundo desordenado, que nos dio a su hijo y la luna y por eso pintó los colores de verano para el mundo? ¿Crees que Dios te ama tanto, por eso te creó perfectamente, nos dio la vida y el sol y por eso me creó para ti, no el es justo? Mientras espero tu regreso, yo haré vuelto a nacer. Y cuando estés aquí, no tendremos más que placer.

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Mar 30, 2024

Mar 30, 2024 at 8:28 AM UTC

ang_lakambini

Sábado de Gloria

Mientras no estás, tengo confesiones que hacer. Y mientras estoy aquí, también tengo unas preguntas que hacer. Estoy esperando tu regreso, ¿tú también estás esperando el mío? ¿Crees que el verano también extraño el invierno y el frío? ¿Crees que la luna extraña el mar, por eso sigue tirando de las mareas? ¿Son las conchas las lágrimas de la luna? ¿Son las olas el sonido de sus gritos y peleas? Estoy esperando que vuelvas, ¿O tú también estás esperando mi llegada? ¿Crees que Dios también extraño el mundo tranquilo y vacío? ¿Crees que el sol extraño al mundo, es por eso que hay flores y frutas? ¿Son las flores los besos del sol? ¿Y son los frutos la prueba de su amor? ¿Crees que de todos modos Dios ama tanto el mundo desordenado, que nos dio a su hijo y la luna y por eso pintó los colores de verano para el mundo? ¿Crees que Dios te ama tanto, por eso te creó perfectamente, nos dio la vida y el sol y por eso me creó para ti, no el es justo? Mientras espero tu regreso, yo haré vuelto a nacer. Y cuando estés aquí, no tendremos más que placer.

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On the day of the great silence, the sun did not rise; the earth is wordless; all of creation holding its breath, making sense of the brutal execution for the entertainment of the savages. “Was it all a folly?” Devout acolytes hide dismay in faint breeze, oscillating between fear and faith; Restless, feeble, panting wraith men of god they were, ‘til swayed disoriented for the God-man lay dead in a tomb, whilst Hades danced in voracious darkness. Anxious as they await, anxiously I wait for any sign of hope from the supposed Begotten A day without hope is a thousand years of hell, thence, we cling onto memories, allowing them to pump out of our eyelids, but pain seems to blur past graces too soon; soon enough, for the hurting to believe he's forsaken; soon enough, for me to demolish thine words and reconstruct my own creed-- One that which may serve many; One that would bring me assurance, if any. But the heart never stops hurting-- beating, however, decaying; the recess of life still awaits Your touch, Why have You gone silent? Weren’t You the promised One? I beg for a sigh, a proof of Life Better is a heavenly groan than hellish melodies Call it black Saturday, Call it dark, crestfallen age until Thy prove it otherwise.

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Apr 19, 2022

Apr 19, 2022 at 7:32 AM UTC

redrobregado

Black Saturday

On the day of the great silence, the sun did not rise; the earth is wordless; all of creation holding its breath, making sense of the brutal execution for the entertainment of the savages. “Was it all a folly?” Devout acolytes hide dismay in faint breeze, oscillating between fear and faith; Restless, feeble, panting wraith men of god they were, ‘til swayed disoriented for the God-man lay dead in a tomb, whilst Hades danced in voracious darkness. Anxious as they await, anxiously I wait for any sign of hope from the supposed Begotten A day without hope is a thousand years of hell, thence, we cling onto memories, allowing them to pump out of our eyelids, but pain seems to blur past graces too soon; soon enough, for the hurting to believe he's forsaken; soon enough, for me to demolish thine words and reconstruct my own creed-- One that which may serve many; One that would bring me assurance, if any. But the heart never stops hurting-- beating, however, decaying; the recess of life still awaits Your touch, Why have You gone silent? Weren’t You the promised One? I beg for a sigh, a proof of Life Better is a heavenly groan than hellish melodies Call it black Saturday, Call it dark, crestfallen age until Thy prove it otherwise.

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ang hangin ay merong hatid na amoy at pawang init naman ang nasa apoy sa tubig, mayroong ahon pag nalulunod sa lupa, may bangon yaong mga na-talisod Bilangin Nawa Tagong Bituin ,,,, upang hiling wagas makapiling !!! buhangin din tila pumag-ibig ,,, lutang ngunit saganang alamin !!! Tulak ng bibig kabig ng dibdib kung ayaw daw maraming dahilan Puspos o kapos, bawas o Tigib kapag gusto raw, merong Paraan para umigi kapupuntahan,,, lingonin lagi pinanggalingan sampuan man 'tong pagpapantigan, Takaw-dinggin sa naninindigan !!!

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Apr 16, 2022

Apr 16, 2022 at 6:43 AM UTC

TanglawatPanglaw

"Sabado de Gloria"

ang hangin ay merong hatid na amoy at pawang init naman ang nasa apoy sa tubig, mayroong ahon pag nalulunod sa lupa, may bangon yaong mga na-talisod Bilangin Nawa Tagong Bituin ,,,, upang hiling wagas makapiling !!! buhangin din tila pumag-ibig ,,, lutang ngunit saganang alamin !!! Tulak ng bibig kabig ng dibdib kung ayaw daw maraming dahilan Puspos o kapos, bawas o Tigib kapag gusto raw, merong Paraan para umigi kapupuntahan,,, lingonin lagi pinanggalingan sampuan man 'tong pagpapantigan, Takaw-dinggin sa naninindigan !!!

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(parts of an old poem-edited) ::::::::::::::: Was awake, 'til Black Saturday's tail end, through Easter Sunday's dawn...a day potent with rejoicing, renewing faith, and the essence .of one's presence while seeking quietness amidst the busyness of one's existence how does one forgive....forget the wrong, when it still affects, and upsets? how does one love tirelessly, without regret? ::::::::::::: these thoughts come to me when writing prose, or poetry. when turning to shelley....or rossetti the hours turn to a sentimental journey. while understanding their lines, i also ponder on my life...my own lines. a mug of steaming creamed coffee, clears the old English cloud, shooing away my fears, ......if it's my day.......if i'm in luck, a few lines arise easily.....or, i could get stuck. ::::::::::::::: when winds aren't in my sail, they stubbornly steer my boat towards that river lull, so droopy. i paddle away, painstakingly, when river runs dry, or dryer... i just let it be. as long as coffee steams on......brewing, my mug, i keep refilling...leaves me thinking of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "sonnet 43..." facing a mirror, i'd ask: "how do i love thee?" i'd say back: "lemme count the ways, dearie." :::::::::::::::: i see me, reeling on the bar of life's daily circus, counting the ways, loving, going off key... rather than fall, i turn those moments into poetry keeping silent for hours....climbing dark valleys, rising the next morning, to start my litany, i ask myself anew: " how do i love thee? " ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Sally ©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan April 28, 2019

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Apr 28, 2019

Apr 28, 2019 at 1:31 AM UTC

sally-a-bayan

How Do I Love Thee?

(parts of an old poem-edited) ::::::::::::::: Was awake, 'til Black Saturday's tail end, through Easter Sunday's dawn...a day potent with rejoicing, renewing faith, and the essence .of one's presence while seeking quietness amidst the busyness of one's existence how does one forgive....forget the wrong, when it still affects, and upsets? how does one love tirelessly, without regret? ::::::::::::: these thoughts come to me when writing prose, or poetry. when turning to shelley....or rossetti the hours turn to a sentimental journey. while understanding their lines, i also ponder on my life...my own lines. a mug of steaming creamed coffee, clears the old English cloud, shooing away my fears, ......if it's my day.......if i'm in luck, a few lines arise easily.....or, i could get stuck. ::::::::::::::: when winds aren't in my sail, they stubbornly steer my boat towards that river lull, so droopy. i paddle away, painstakingly, when river runs dry, or dryer... i just let it be. as long as coffee steams on......brewing, my mug, i keep refilling...leaves me thinking of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "sonnet 43..." facing a mirror, i'd ask: "how do i love thee?" i'd say back: "lemme count the ways, dearie." :::::::::::::::: i see me, reeling on the bar of life's daily circus, counting the ways, loving, going off key... rather than fall, i turn those moments into poetry keeping silent for hours....climbing dark valleys, rising the next morning, to start my litany, i ask myself anew: " how do i love thee? " ::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Sally ©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan April 28, 2019

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