Jun 9 Iska
Sally A Bayan
No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile

readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,  
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...

a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on,  shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.

sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words,  a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....

a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    January 29, 2017
Iska Jun 7
Boys or girls,
to the bathroom scale we all look the same.
Muscle or fat
the numbers won’t change.
Pair shaped, square shaped
the mirror will show it all, and the broken soul will count the flaws...
Iska Jun 7
What is pretty I wonder?
what is ugly?

What is it about those six letters that cause such desire and pride?
What is it about those four letters to make one so sad inside?

Six makes you beautiful for a day,
Four makes you self conscious the rest of the way.

Who set the standards?
Who created this lie?
The lie that it doesn’t matter so long as you look good on the outside?

How can four make your soul crumble?
How can six make your soul sparkle?
Why does four make you die inside?
Why does six breathe you back to life?

So yes..
what is pretty I wonder?
What is ugly?

Is it silky hair and velvet skin?
Is it smooth voices and shining grins?
Is it bright eyes and twinkling laughs?
What is it about six that four will never have?

Is it little freckles and crooked teeth?
With little regard to what lies beneath?
Is it bright red acne and stretch marked skin?
With no thought of the soul within?

They say four is a poison,
So they made six the cure...
But they had no idea
what six would make us endure.
  Jun 7 Iska
A midnight poet,
she calls herself.
Because the cascading words,
come to her
wrapped up in shiny moonlight,
served on blankets of darkness,
stars dusted lightly on top.
Her inspiration
rides the midnight breeze
swiftly and gently
to her window,
waiting patiently for her
to lift the glass up
and greet them warmly.
So there she sits,
next to the open window
waiting for the perfect moment
to say hello.
To invite her loyal inspiration in
for some midnight tea,
and although she says
she’s not fond of midnight snacks
She pours herself
a steaming mug of metaphors
and serves couplets
with the drink.
After a comfortable chat,
Inspiration takes its leave
out the window
on the breeze in which it came.
And so the girl
is left lonely once more,
but not truly alone.
She has her words,
her rhymes,
her metaphors,
and her couplets
to keep her company
as she forms it all
into beautiful verses
that capture the heart.
As she sits by her window,
the midnight poet
notices how soft the sky looks,
dark and freckled with stars.
The sweet sky comforts her
as she mourns her bitter loneliness into verses,
or envelops her in maddening, exciting emptiness
as she writes
or simply sleeps
by her window.
The midnight poet
sighs gently
catching the wily night’s attention
And draws poetry from its
yet sly,
The girl catches falling stars
made of verses
from her pretty window seat.
She finds lines tucked behind faraway planets,
makes metaphors from the moonlight,
comfortable in the darkness’s embrace.
The midnight poet
coaxes poetry from the freckled night sky
And tucks it into her pocket
For safekeeping.
To keep
as an ever loyal
A reminder
of her home.
A poem of the night.
Iska Jun 6
This world is such a beautiful place. So bright and full of wonder. And color....
and I am so devoid of it all. I am the smudge of grey, the bolt of imperfection in this breathtakingly beautiful picture.
And it makes me wonder.. why me? Why can’t I just be.......
I am constantly reaching out, as if attempting to grasp the colors into my hands.. and maybe smear the color across my skin. So that I may feel “happy” again.
And if I’m lucky maybe it’ll stain. Then perhaps I wouldn’t feel so “grey”

So I have come to the conclusion, and this is just a thought, that maybe... I am not made for happy. Perhaps I am made a little for sad. To forever be that smear of grey as I drown in a sea of color, slowly dying from the very thing I wish to be the most.....
  May 22 Iska
Cyprian Van Dyke
Kissed by the mask of a man
Like the face of a mannequin
In the midst of a masquerade
Clouds in the night
Make things on the horizon
Look black and white
The wind sings like a bird
Giving the spine a cold chill in her
Cuffing the hands on the clock forever
Her words bubble
Like a car engine stutters
She gets her words to come out together
What is your name?
Where did you learn to dance so divine?
What did you say, tell me one more time?
This feels so real at night
But so unreal in the light
In the dark, I’m at a ball
(With a man)
In the light, I’m at the mall
(With a mannequin)
In my mind, I’m the woman of his dreams
Thru my eyes I’m just another mannequin
May 15, 2018
What made reading this worthwhile for you??
Iska May 22
One slips down
Smile lasts a little longer

Two slip down with a gulp
Now I am giddy.

Three go down one after another
Now I wonder have you noticed me stutter?

Four go down
And maybe one more...

Five go down with a gurgle
When do I start feeling alive?

Six is a struggle
But it’s worth the trouble

Seven go down
Yet I still drown

Better be eight
And you won’t feel the hate

Then goes nine
To feel this time...

Ten go down
And I start to D R O W N
In giggles and gurgles
In chimes and rhymes
In sad and hate
In numbing pain

Happy pills why do I still feel the same?
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