"aftershocks" poems
Another night staring skyward where
Every creaking shift fills the world
And the ink-black sky's toothless maw,
Shocks and aftershocks of sound
Where a moment's discomfort swells
To a frenzied crescendo, incessant,
Pressing against skin from within
Until a saint's patience would break
Like lips parting for a stifled sigh.
Midnight falters and fades to dawn,
Surrenders to the unconquered sun
Who, grinning wide as the horizon,
Watches the twisting, turning world
Tear away from night's dreamless womb
Sleepless, stumbling away in a daze.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC
The waves hit
Aftershocks
Crying, screaming
Then still waters.
Silent cold freezes our perceptions.
We walk on the water hand in hand.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
I collapsed the seats of my Rav4
You watched my *** the whole time
And saw an opportunity
As I bent over between the front seats
One, two, then three fingers
While fumbling to turn off the hazards
Biting a seat to keep quiet
Accidentally turned the music back on
"Stay In My Memory" by Bim
The song from Him
**** him, I'll **** you instead
The hazards were off
The music still on
Your fingers making my body quake
From the inside
Twice
Strong enough to throw me around
Like I was someone cuter and smaller
And put me on my back
With a hand around my throat
Kissing at me like a dog
Making me submit like a *****
Three, four, five
"On your knees"
And you threw me there, too
Six
Around we spun
Getting rug burn
Lost count of the quakes
They started to blend
With the aftershocks
"Are marks okay?"
And then you left one
A hickey on a weeknight
And a Monday, no less
Next time, we need a bed
Rug burn is a *****
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
Virginity
My virginity was bang, a brain against a glass-tinted window. It was child-locked doors and ax cologne. It was too much muscle and a 13 year old body to weak to tussle.
My virginity was a man who made **** seem like an art, the same systematic way the mortician dissects the cadaver. Striped from a name like i was nothing but a corpse
It was the bruises left for weeks. The ****** teeth marks left upon my once sacred body. It that deep voice with Alcohol on its breath.
Yes. My virginity was a ******* earthquake. It was 7 minutes of the worst kind of hell. 7. Where I stopped believing in heaven. Trust became the law, fear my bible. I watched as my foundations crumble. and I knew that this Earth was no longer safe to walk on. It was the aftershocks running down my spine and me, a vacant building constantly about to tumble
So here I am. 3 years later, standing in his rubble. mistaking a kiss for his fist. It's been panic attacks in grocery stores. It's been 3 years of hating myself more than anyone else possibly could. It's been 3 years of
Self blame
And the shadow of a girl I became
Unworthy is a word that takes up so much space
It was the carrying the scars of my last binge.
The night I convinced myself if it burned going down it must be holy water.
Finally Salvation
drinking so much I couldn't stand.
Drinking so much I could no longer stand myself.
I familiarized myself with the taste of concrete and forgot the smell of old books.
constantly looking for a new hook.
Blowing halos of smoking trying to make death look beautiful.
I found myself in a deep dark hole
Oblivion.. My only goal
Lately, It's been learning my body isn't an apology.
It's been learning that bravery cannot be measured my a lack of fear;
some times it takes a ******* soldier to look your demons in the eye and say.
This is my body.
I am the beautiful owner of busy breath.
I'm that shadow girl with a storm inside
No I am not that bruised soul in the empty bottle.
It's been 3 year of convincing myself that This world, it needs my voice.
It's been learning I am a miraculous dance floor of glittering molecules.
It's been learning that You will never have a greater opportunity to learn to love thy enemy, when your enemy is own holy, holy self.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something
i should already know.
and when she says it,
the shift inside me is something i wish i could compare
to the grinding of tectonic plates,
if only i were strong enough to bring about an earthquake.
but since i am a stranger even to aftershocks,
i keep quiet.
my earthquake is stillborn,
expressed instead as a nod,
as a chewing of the lip,
as a silent, compliant “mhm.”
and the urge that nestles itself at the pit of my stomach
is not an urge to disagree;
it is an urge to forget.
because my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something i should already know,
and she says it in a way that is not meant to make me feel incomplete,
but it is a way that still does,
and if i can forget this,
even for a moment,
i can forget that i am not okay.
i do not like not being okay;
i do not like having problems,
and my psychiatrist,
she tells me i have holes in me and she says it
as though it is a problem.
and so begins a slow disintegration:
i become but a bearer of problems,
a garden growing only weeds —
something in need of fixing.
i see myself a war-torn landscape,
dry and cracked and lacking life.
i see myself the kind of ground you step on and say,
“remember when things used to grow here?
remember when it used to be green?”
i am still trying to be green,
always trying to be green,
but my psychiatrist tells me
i have holes in me,
and suddenly green becomes a color i will never know how to paint.
outside my psychiatrist’s office,
on the wall of the waiting room,
there is a painting of flowers —
irises and a geranium —
and the leaves, i know, are supposed to be green,
but the paint is old and faded
and they don’t look it.
and for a moment,
i think
that maybe,
whether iris
or geranium
or boy riddled with holes,
maybe it is possible to bloom
even if you are not green.
(a.m.)
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Finally,
It happened.
Laying in bed
I can feel the emotional hangover coming on.
Words play on repeat in my head
Words like "one night stand,"
"Guilt," "Pain," "Solitude."
Over and over
Intermingled with the aftershocks
Of Mom's messages.
An emotional hangover.
Guess it's time to start
Picking up the ******* and broken things
Left over from the night before.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was in a letter (you
and you didn't dare even write the word. never were brave enough
to love me
openly.)
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was when you were leaving me for him. (i wasn't worth
the price;
you did a
cost-benefit analysis
you never left me, really. and cut your losses.)
he left and we returned to what we were before
him, as if we'd pressed pause
if i closed my eyes i could almost believe
it would be okay
we were still glowing-gold
and perfect.
but instead of the synchronicity,
some unnameable tension, the jarring sensation
that something in us was out of alignment. (i asked you to wait:
give me time,
some days more to play pretend.)
the first time you told me you weren't in love with me
was just after you told me you would have married me
would have run away with me
(as if i weren't the
teenager, here. as if it were my fault
for not being selfish
the heartbreak, the loss of ignorance and asking you to.)
was what brought us back in sync. you wrote once
about the end, the devastation that the city of us
was victim to. (we're finding that the damage is
less like an explosion
and more like an
earthquake: broken glass, aftershocks, and
the first time i told you i wasn't in love with you cracks in the
anymore, foundation)
i didn't know why, hadn't noticed the cracks in the pavement;
i had only just started to see
the shards of glass.
you kissed me ten days ago, and said you didn't know why
it didn't feel wrong, why it didn't feel like cheating.
it's starting over again, i told you. the glass is being swept up,
our pieces falling back into place. (it's the natural order for us;
this, darling, our effortless cohesion, will always
rebuild the city.)
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you
I missed the feeling of your **** between
my lips
and your ***
when it drips
down my chest
and my thighs, pressed tight
are still slippery on the inside.
I’m an eel moving
with the pull of your current.
I’m a siren
singing full volume in the desert.
I want your elixir
your kingdom ***
in the bedroom,
but you’re not dreaming.
Late night snacking
on this *****
you’ve got a craving
and my hips
won’t quit
until you’re shaking
reeling
from the thrill of it.
Daddy goes down,
but his last call doesn’t come til’ sun up.
Shape me and mold me
every color of
your ****** deviancy.
I’m not a cure,
but I’m fixing
to explore the furthest reaches of your boundaries
of this bed
of your – flexed fingertips.
I’ll wake you with my mouth
if you put me to bed with yours.
I’m pleased to please you,
sweet release in these sheets,
tangled up inside me.
Your aftershocks got me shook.
To the boy with the eyes,
the color of the sea –
I fell into more than your bed.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC
Her breath catches. she turns over. it doesn't matter, no matter what she does, she won't sleep. that itch is there.
she lies on the flat of her back, staring at the colours swirling on the ceiling with the shadows dancing with them. she starts thinking about him again. the way his hair curls at the end, the way it moves when the wind blows around, the way his face scrunches up in amusement, the way he holds himself, how he leans in when he speaks, his lips, his face, his eyes...she lets her mind wander...aswell as her hand...
her breath catches again, but for an entirely different reason.
setting a steady pace she drives herself insane, physically with resistance and mentally with reminders of who she can't have.
two years gone and she still can't stop. she loves him. everything about him, the air around him, even. she adores him and it's killing her.
her legs widen to accomadate her rising arousal, a low moan grows in the back of her throat, pushing her forward making her desire vocal, unlike the love that has crushed her heart over and over, again and again, she can't stand it anymore.
her speed increases and she breaks a sweat. she's crying now, thinking about the rehashed fantasy she built in her brain. how she'd loose herself to him, give him eveything, let him take her to places shes never been before. She cries because she knows it'll never be so, all she'll have is her own little bed and her own hand for company, no strong arms to hold her as she falls asleep, no sweet lips to kiss goodnight, no growing passion pushing into her ever so warmly.
suddenly she bucks, screams out in pain and passion, and curls in a ball to live through the aftershocks and the screaming agony her heart holds, she pretends he's holding her and slowly falls asleep.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
With an Earthquake,
the deadliest moment is not during.
It's the aftershocks.
Rocking those weakened foundations
to rubble.
The same is said of Love.
No matter how shaky
or rough.
When the motion stops moving
that's when truly life is tough.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
A rose of glassblowing transparency...
air-born as the color eyes see
when closed to the sun.
Petals pressed open shatter in place...
as red silk intermingled.
The color of passion and alarm,
that an earth transpires--rose...
occasioned by that transpiration.
Put to amnesiac white wings--
aftershocks of contrast...as blood to
snow, and all its angels.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Every story I write
has a quiet boy who loves words
and a girl he doesn’t quite understand.
She has a laugh that ricochets
and she makes the quiet boy smile.
She looks like algebra but is more like calculus.
She is deceptively hard to solve.
You don’t see her fault lines until you think you already know her,
but her plate tectonics only cause aftershocks,
never full earthquakes.
I always thought she was me,
always thought I wanted to be
that kind of captivating.
Enough to make the quiet boy happy.
But then I met you
and your quarter moon smile.
I always thought the girl was from some coast
but the first time I saw you in a bikini
I realized you don’t have to be from California
to have drops of seawater glow like individual suns on your skin.
I want you to drip dry
on my clothesline arms.
I’ll hold you up to the sunlight,
let your bare legs dangle in the wind.
I want to straddle your fault lines
and hold you through the tremors.
I always thought I wanted the spotlight
but I’m content
being the quiet one beside you.
I thought I loved the boy who loved words
and I wanted to be enough to inspire him to write
but you make me want to get published just to share you
with the world because
something so beautiful should not be kept secret.
You said you wanted to make the history books
and you will, but for now
I hope my poems are enough.
You are rainy day inspiration.
I thought I was the girl
but it turns out I’m just a quiet boy
who needed someone to
inspire me.
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
my bedroom carries the headiness of stale captivity. the teeth of a years old trap are gathering debris where they’ve gnashed on my leg. my loved ones come to relieve me of my suffering.
the gentle winds bring me dead leaves in layers of red, yellow, brown and the occasional purple. “look at how they’ve changed,” the winds say. “things can change for you, too.” i brush them away. indignant, the winds whip dust and pebbles that become bullets at the right speed, threatening tornadoes that will never come. i wait until their lungs tire.
the cleansing rains rinse the matted blood from my wound and refresh my hot, mangled skin. “doesn’t that feel great?” the rains say. “you can feel like this all the time if you put in a little effort.” i dry myself down. angered, the rains disease the trap with rust and drench me until my bones attempt to float away, threatening tsunamis that will never come. i wait until the water recedes.
the giving earth sprouts a flower in the corner of my bedroom. “life is still growing, waiting for you,” the earth says. “you just have to come to meet it.” it’s a beautiful reprieve for my senses, i almost go to pluck it. as i come to realize my motions, my heart drops to an unknown place away from my chest. i hesitate. furious, the earth wilts the flower until it blends in with the rest of my bedroom. it shakes the ground violently, deepening the pain of the metal in my flesh. it delivered on earthquakes but threatened no aftershocks.
the lively sun dries me of the failures of the wind and rain and earth. the sun says nothing. i make no effort to repay its warmth. it reciprocates that lack of effort.
i have exhausted the affections of the elements, and in their abandonment now rests a deep stillness that urges me to look around.
over time, i have accumulated the barest of pleasures — some unread books, some unplayed records, some small tokens of loves long gone — that mimic a home, but bring you no closer to what that is supposed to feel like.
the odor in here is disgusting. unsophisticated in my aching, i wish for a sweet-scented breeze, or a balmy rain, or a fragrant flower.
or maybe i will just order a scented candle.
Nov 11, 2022
Nov 11, 2022 at 3:03 PM UTC
the lyrics intimate, me inside recognized,
and I find it hard to believe,
not to recall my chest actual
aching from a lost love, a busted
heart,that my family physician told
me not a thing to be done, and time
the only known cure and that was
only twenty five years,
a just short “long time ago”
but there is no such a thing as time
when the wounded heart is pierced fierce, there is no round the bend visible to tell
you, love will come again; and you’re so
cautious, won’t trust, to open, but irony it’s
the only way to find it one mo’ time, to
give yourself up in whole, not just parts,
and you “discover” writing poetry helps,
and a new life long habit is forming that is a kind of meds that you disburse to oneself
later be
this song below, Bonnie Raitt
makes you ache with her rendition
keeping no secret she’s been there truly
used to look to ascribe fault, but learned,
t’was a time waster, more accurate, each
of us had our own fault lines, dormant,
till not, and when the lines touched and connect, it was an earthquake off the scale,
and the tremors just keep on coming
but the chest ache was so intense, close
my eyes, and relive it, and makes me
feel kinder, more human, less angry? more forgiving cause there is no mark of Cain
on someone’s forehead to indicate that
one is suffering the aftermath, the aftershocks, of this loss, so be patient
when encountering a human who sighs
out loud often, as often as as
every breath
listen to the song, it will untie your chords,
maybe making some memories resurface,
for better as it is part of writing
only love poetry
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 9:33 AM UTC
Some last spams
from those muscles
I haven't used in a while,
makes me feel alive.
My heart,
naive,
believes it can still love
like it used to.
It is just that ****
muscle memory.
Your words hit me.
Hurt me.
But no longer
pierce me.
Short range
now they are.
My denatured enzymes,
possessed by salt,
just want to drown.
Anything that stops
the aftershocks in my body
that follow the earthquake
our love once was.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
I yurn for you to fill me up
With the knowledge that he forbade.
To touch me;
Soothe my soul in such a way that i am condemned.
See me with your ravenous eyes;
Wild and searching from the woes of damnation.
I beg of you to lead me in this valley and show me where to lay.
Guide me;
Sway me in the darkness and bury me inside perdition.
Hold me down with lustful longing;
Dominant and surging through the hands of greatness.
I need you to choke me with your forked tongue.
Whisper in the air;
Taunt and tease me with promises of sweet rapture.
Build me up under your lips;
Allow me to splinter and shatter in the aftershocks of your kiss.
I desire the release that you have promised me.
Soak me;
Drown my sorrows in your philosophical misdeed.
Promise me;
Write an ode to me and swear it must be prophecy.
I crave your full undivided attention.
Moan in my ear;
Sweet talk me with your biblical verse and *** loudly for all to hear.
Gut me;
Cut me and fill me with your untainted seed and know that ill only bleed for you.
I have fallen from grace and i have done it all for you.
I demand you tell me that you dont love me too.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 4:08 PM UTC
I wonder about the eyes and the lips.
If they would have held a reflection of yours.
Maybe the hair was the same texture,
a replica of your youth
which you have lost.
Would you have changed your mind?
If you had seen the fingers and toes,
a perfect count of ten,
and the cream of it's alabaster hands.
Sometimes I wish there were small words
to call my name,
and sometimes I am glad
for your barren womb
for I know of your temptations and weakness
the dust in your bones
as your young body ages beyond
reasonable years.
For the smoke was toxic in your nostrils,
did a bundle of Jefferson's
burn a hole in your pocket?
Only virgins wear white on their wedding day,
was your a dusty beige
clashing with the grey tux
of a criminal?
A man who has a title branded on his
filthy hands, that he touched that girl with,
til death
do you part?
How much justice did you desire for those fingers
after they were clasped around your thick neck?
So I pray your blood keeps pumping and your
brain still buzzes
after every hit,
and I pray the fog clears before your checks don't
and maybe you will extinguish the flames
before your lungs give out
just like your knees did that day.
They ignore your dodgy glances to the side,
your hands, aftershocks of the quaking nerves inside you.
They see past your sudden skeletal visage
and the grey tint in your cheeks
like you have sat on a shelf, sagging and
collecting particles.
But I taste your abuse,
every flavor of it.
As long as you live through your high,
you wont have face your low.
We are thankful everyday
for your blessing
of infertility.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
Piercing sounds like the night howls of red foxes
where do the screams come from
echoing on the rooftops of the ghetto
how do we make them stop.
Where do the screams come from
more stunning than suicidal bombing blasts
how do we make them stop.
Turn tears into children's laughter.
More stunning than suicidal bombing blasts
eyes fixed - stand still. Until realisation hits
Turn tears into children's laughter
it makes more sense.
Eyes fixed - stand still. Until realisation hits
blocks crumbling, bare foot on concrete rubble
it makes no sense.
Fear clings to the air, casts shadows like rain clouds
blocks crumbling - bare foot on concrete rubble
splitting skin on rock, struggling to free them.
Fear clings to the air, casts shadows like rain clouds
Waiting for the raindrops.
The aftershocks.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 5:09 AM UTC
your eyes send signals forecasting a tremor.
so i pull you close and kiss the cracks
on your parting lips tonight.
broken glass and land slides,
tidal waves and ruined city,
you taste like catastrophe
waiting for a trigger.
but no, i am not complaining.
your mood may change like tectonic plates,
drift apart and rearrange
but never will i fear
your unpredictable seismic waves.
for this is a part of you
i have accepted long before
my heart began beating your name.
you may shake my world to pieces,
rive it with aftershocks and sinkholes,
but for now let's turn off the lights.
let me lull your troubled fault lines.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
after tastes like aftershocks,
pineapple lips and papaya tongue.
sunshine sloshing
all over us like liquor and
your hair so like shale
soaking beneath the sun.
Artemis is goddess of the moon:
where did you think lunar witches came from?
xanax bar after xanax bar
laid upon the vanity, crushed
and powdered up, snowdrifts
in blue and white.
oranges and blueberries and mango
in your lap, juice
across your thighs and earth in your mouth.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
The aftershocks
Ripple rash anger consuming my frame.
****** duels with metal swords of rage
That slice innocence in half.
Irrational self-destruction,
Showing signs of weak malfunction.
Boiling blood gurgling through my veins.
How do I dare let such a horror rule my weak blackened hands?
Snarling fangs,
Foaming rabid with distain, puncture my brain.
Ripping pride and ego to bloodied shreds.
Failure, weakness, defeat,
Their sharp clawed feet incessantly transfix me.
Agonizing.
Inflicting purposeful pain,
The need to destroy shall grind me to a pulp.
Evil is ruling a twisted game.
Queen of Hearts.
King of Spades.
Gnawing at my bones, my tendons snap.
Eyes of fire that could torch one’s soul, encase a beastly rage.
I roar,
Thrashing and afraid.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
How is it that once a heart breaks,
It's like an earthquake,
And you'll forever feel the aftershocks
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
The shockwave hits your throat
so fierce, it forces your own voice
from your own body.
The momentum it contains, unconstrained
by your silent spectre
rushes forward like thunder
into the levee of your knees, and strikes
the way lightning fells trees.
You're nothing but lymphnodes, flood
and weight, now.
The rest, like last night's dream
washing away the moment before you remember.
The aftershocks ripple like echoes,
capsaicin in the nerves
of all your timber limbs
dismantled and thrown to the horizon.
You hover above
what it felt like
to exist.
It rests on the tip of your tongue, a moment.
Nobody really knows the difference between
a moment and eternity.
Below the folds of water, sweat and skin
the ground is offering whispers
bubbling soggy underfoot.
They might be yours.
They say it comes from the ground up
Channels reaching channels to connect
in a flash
a crack
again
to body
even
if only
a moment.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 5:53 PM UTC
Sun slowly peeps
sunbeams, yet to waken
sleepy eyes, minds
sky is gray this morning
several hours past a tremor
no wind to stir action
bamboos, fruit trees
are stilled
currently
awaiting movements
worse than 5.4
it's crazier,
awaiting aftershocks...
Sally
Copyright May 26, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC