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Iska Jun 2018
Free as the wind,
Changeable as the sea,
The beach holds memories,
Of you and me.
Sands that shift
changing our lives
Sunlight glints,
blinding eyes.
Oh free spirit spread your wings
And fly above this stormy sea.
Far as the winds will carry you
To wherever the moonlight leads you
May the blush of dawn bless you
May the fire that burns inside
never flicker or die.
May the stars bare witness
As you chase the horizon
And fly above the clouds,
Over the sea and
To the place where your home may be.
And When you have found your place among the stars
There you shall wait for me.
Kissed by the mornings dawn
Blessed with the fiery sea.
Free spirit spread your wings
And one day return to the beach with me.
For Juliee,
May you never face the stormy sea alone.
  Jun 2018 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...





Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    January 29, 2017
Iska Jun 2018
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 2018
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.......
Happy?  
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.....
Iska May 2018
One slips down
Smile lasts a little longer

Two slip down with a gulp
Now I am giddy and feeling stronger.

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
I wonder..
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?
Iska May 2018
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Can you hear it?
This sweet and sorrowful serenade?
This melody of melancholy.






Of course you can’t,
How selfishly presumptuous of me.
To assume you see the solitude I see
Day after day
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