"ceding" poems
Controversy started over the images this device receives. Hormones control this impulse, she's making each ***** convulse, and I can tell I'm still in love by the palpitations of my pulse.
Thus, proving that her actions indicate the prequel to her return. Her affection distant but still yearn, expressing sentiments, guess I'll never learn, spoken without biting my tongue
and now it's your turn.
Conquer hearts and take over,
**** her off when I'm not sober,
**** her off when thoughts become somber, **** her off when I say I won't be here much longer, **** her off for many reasons, **** her off once during every season and **** her off the most when in myself I stop believing.
Her perfection an extension of accessible recollection, to the woman who despises the notion of wearing articles of clothing.
Not the best at displaying her emotions, so in combination the words she's chosen seem broken, unable to withhold the growth of sentiments cut at the root, and as they now reproduce, sunflowers inhabit her garden and all the revelations of truth.
Lapse of time passes, lasting longer
than activities that involved
me being on her.
Inappropriately timing events perfectly.
Summer seems to have visited me in the fall, her memories now more than ever I recall and wishing I wasn't missing the woman who had it all.
Concluding it's a blessing, for continuing to have your presence present, writing by only depending on your recollection, and since poetry is my obsession, make new memories with me as I practice the act of ceding back to a former possessor, definition of recession.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
**Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.
Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.
... ... ...**
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
*As the surface clouds cleared
and the sovereign sun arose
My perspective was no longer fixed
on what lay below
Yet on what awaits before me…..the unknown.
I fly, with the rocky shoreline behind me.*
Maria
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the emperor of the solar system
demands obeisance
but for half of our life
ceding us to the
super moon's sequestration,
a velvet coated, cosseted,
the other-half-of-a-lifetime
remainder reminder
of the divide no poet
can supersede
yet, even these planet pulling,
tide churning bodies
are eclipsed,
their torrented powers
have human
shortcomings
orbits prescribed, predictable,
they too can only look down
upon us and wonder
what if and what lays beyond
their lawful curves
but I can look up to you
watch you, human,
so powerful are you!
you, you, you
can reset your course,
irrespective of tides, gravity
I can watch you
rephrase your life,
knowing that my eyes
cherish what ere,
before in time,
what will be your
course selection
as I write,
I wonder if
my thoughts sufficiently
clarified,
do they require editing?
no matter,
the way they fall is
how they'll be served
I live with the same orbs,
and the winds that lifted your wings,
changelings of perspective,
now but the breeze that coats me,
were the hot air currents that lifted you,
now here, days later,
my genlest cloak,
as I inscribe to you
and the waters that I see,
not lapping today,
but modestly erupting,
the same Atlantic green
you have seen days pre-me,
but my shoreline sandy,
rocks removed,
for your comfort,
awaiting your arrival
the woman sends the seagull,
French Toast is ready,
(one piece, that talkative white bird's commission)
coffee hot n' salted
all ready, prepped to your taste
and for some reason random,
clueless why on, in my Long island offshoot sheltered isle
tears wave over my cheeks,
which I must erase/disguise,
before the repast begins
Surprise!
How came thee to be at our table?
How good the meal will taste,
now that you chosen to fly/stop by!
and this gibberish nonsensical
cup of words
is your welcoming present,
for here,
humans are the sovereigns,
and the celesetes bow to our wishes,
we select our own direction,
regardless of how the orbs try our souls,
we are most powerful human,
sovereigns of our selves
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
Black Trees haikus
The lamp post leans...light,
is dim...the wind blows...rain, falls
black trees...sway on wall
loud pitter-patters
drop...pound heav'ly on the roof
black trees...droop on wall
ceding...accepting...
floods rush...spreads all over...the
black trees... sway no more
roots have lost their grip
too much water...inundates
black trees...surrender
life...is like a tree
there are many elements
water is just one
nothing's permanent
floods recede...sun returns...then
black trees sway once more.
Sally
Copyright October 18, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
How many times
would I return
in an attempt to be the storm
that claims your heart as an abode
on a day which no longer exists
How many
to create my earth
in subtle grooves upon your back
until the seeds of every kiss
begin to live, feeling your motive
and your warmth
How many
to reclaim the fruits
of tender mornings gone
contrary to the wind as whispers
from your lips
How many before the storm's
inevitable retreat
leaving only white flags
white flags in bloom
ceding to time
as scars
and beauty marks
And how many more
would I return
before the clouds break
in the sun
I do not know
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
Copper coil,
Condensed candy,
Ceding comfort,
cotton,
candy,
clouds.
Cyclical contentment,
Cool convenience,
Captivatingly casual.
Cotton.
Candy.
Clouds.
Clean conclusion,
Cheerless continuation,
Cultivating casualties.
COTTON!
CANDY!
CLOUDS!
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 12:50 AM UTC
When the abuse doesn’t look like it
then it can’t be recognised
and it parades around
in broad daylight,
in pyjamas with spots instead of stripes,
but no-one is alarmed.
When the abuse doesn’t look like it
the victim goes under
piece by piece
but it is quiet, and she feels so much empathy
and she doesn’t recognise
that she’s taken over.
When those spots look like illness
the abuse is asking for pity
and all of her effort and soul,
with nothing in return
because it doesn’t feel well.
Before she knows it,
she’s adjusted herself,
to manage behaviour, anger and the ‘illness’.
When the abuse doesn’t look like it,
it can be quiet, insidious control and
a gradual, unrecognised ceding of power.
Better not rock the boat,
there’ll be a wall of silence to dance around
for days.
It feels like responsibility, entrapment
but in just having those feelings
she feels so disloyal.
When the abuse is gone
then it takes a long time
to wake up from the stupor
and look with fresh eyes.
To change behaviours,
expect more from the new.
That was a quiet,
sticky,
suffocating,
trap.
Feb 1, 2023
Feb 1, 2023 at 9:11 PM UTC
The mob, elites, journalists
As well as poets like I
To our environment-unfriendly bent
Turning a blind eye
Also tardy in asking "Why
We strip of mother nature's green mantle,
While to maintain the statuesque
It gets locked in a sever battle?"
Equally not checking overgrazing,
We allowed fertile soil and sand
Amok,wild floods ride
To a close by touristic lake,
Whose mouth an expansion
Used to make
As much as its foreign body intake.
Soon,with the vast array of
Flora and fauna it supports,
Before we knew it
The magnificent lake died
Ceding place to a barren land,
An eyesore that looked a dump yard!
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
I bite my tongue in a room full of strangers.
Widen my lungs. Then swallow my pride.
I know my place. Where I'm safe and I'm sorry.
Behind my face is where it all stays.
And I don't feel nervous. Except for at night.
It's not like I'm ceding.
Just biding my time.
I don't feel angry.
Anymore.
Everything's nothing to me.
Everything's nothing to me.
Anything's something to me.
Everything's nothing to me.
I guess I struck gold.
My sense for suppression.
At least I've been told.
Humble and cold.
And I don't feel angry. Except at myself.
It's all self protection.
Just good for my health.
I don't feel nervous.
Anymore.
Everything's nothing to me.
Everything's nothing to me.
Anything's something to me.
But nobody's everything to me.
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
Drink me:
A shapely shifting goddess for thee.
Nerves dance,
The king is folded - now is your chance.
Take nothing you need. Lend none of your heed to arms with no hands.
Mad hounds
Crave and call your heart's ****** pounds.
On beat,
With thin air streaming under your feet.
Your echoing **** rings guilty and gilded ears in the street.
Run fast
To warn them that their idol's collapsed.
Gold spills
Deflated gods erupt from the hills.
Rich lava bleeding through but not ceding to men's fragile wills.
Ready yourself for controversial glory.
Set free the heavy hearts of those who can't flee
Go write something wrong or heal with a song the eyes that won't see.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
when it is immobile
or drunk with cerebral pile up
it goes to a window-
it drools out
wanting all the space
beyond its saddened globe
it goes when the lights
are illuminated brightly-
arranged in choreograde-
emulating streams
of dark spring's resonance
it goes to a filmy rose
shaded garden-
it sits with the beetles
tickling up lengthy
ferns-
it kicks at the dirt
and sees only a
handful of admiration
it goes up and up
and up out of my eyes
and into the hook
of my ribcage-
my left hipbone
congruent to your right-
my aquiline ears passing
fluttery notes
but then-
what-
it goes into your shoes
to reset you
and to remember
where you came from
before it handed all
to you-
infinite times
it goes to look
for something
to match my
evening empyreality-
a damp green
wood by some
pretty electronic
performance
and it reminds my
unreality why
this never works
the whole way
through
it helps to found
a traveler
with fifteen heads
and black ball eyes
spinning the wheel
with elder spirits
from dusk to dawn
it deserves
a shock-light
buzzing straight
like cicadas
without ceding
to the earth
it is swift
and thieving-
full of rot-
a great salt jewel
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
It started raining,
as if God heard my prayers and sent some rain
to wash away yesterday’s sorrow.
But even God’s will and strength weren’t enough to erase
this image from my memory.
Every time I close my eyes, that’s all I can see.
Every time I turn the music off, that’s all I can hear.
It’s awaking my demons,
releasing them from the dungeon I spent so much time building,
fortifying.
But they do say you only attract what you are willing to accept,
and God knows how desperate for love she was.
She is my blood,
she is my flesh
but there are words that cannot remain unspoken
and no matter how much I would like her to know best,
she doesn’t.
She thinks she has nothing to loose,
no one to fear for,
but the only person I am afraid for,
is herself.
She experiences the same demons that shorten my nights,
the same voices that ruin my days
and I know for sure that ceding your heart to the wrong person
will do no good,
it only enhances everything, worsening your madness.
I know what it is like to loose yourself in a battlefield,
to love the wrong man.
I know how toxic it can be,
how it alters each one of your cells
forcing them to ask for more and more
turning you into an addict.
Making it barely impossible to go back to being by yourself.
She is the only one the blame
no one’s pushing her into his arms,
his ***** repugnant arms.
Maybe I care too much about words and art,
but he doesn’t seem to master any of those two.
He is just a rough soul who never stops to think and create.
And they are the worse kind of people,
those who never write, paint nor draw.
Because I can assure you that
you will be his art, his first canvas.
And darling, you know how the first drafts
and even the following ones
are never handled with precaution.
They are yelled at,
burnt,
mishandled
thrown away.
Art isn’t supposed to be nice,
it is messy, dark and usually teared into pieces.
So darling, enjoy your time left as a single entity.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
underneath the bridge
clarity bids its riddle
ceding overpass
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 10:10 PM UTC