"complacence" poems
..
Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its slope...at its front was a
curved gorge......one would think,
it was trying to cross over
the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.
light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...
beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered fog...like a series of
steps....like a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the cottage.....it vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...
in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...
the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic.
Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics,
Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then
Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription,
Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen,
Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission
Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves
Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth,
Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications,
Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing
Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent,
Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence
Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold
Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold
Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold,
Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told
Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined,
Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined,
Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined,
Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design
Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided,
Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united,
Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and
Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
therapy and resistance
how is it that therapy becomes the excess of class war or the oppression thereof?
When the struggle of the individual is made to seem self induced when it is easily and clearly directly a result of the failures and complacence afforded by the majority of the group.
When in a therapeutic environment it is important to distinguish the opportunities of resistance from the experience of trauma.
there has always been individuals who establish groups that are in a realm of desperation.
Understanding how this process has unfolded institutionally is just as valid as treating the individual.
This gives the individual the choice and resources needed to heal.
The healing could look like resistance rather than assuming aspects of class war or oppressive culture to be normal.
Otherwise therapy is nothing but the means to normalize the process of oppression.
The traumatic state needs to be able to decipher its organic existence from that of organized oppression and its institutional cooperation.
the neglect of deciphering or distinguishing these differences causes individuals to make a competition out of trauma. This minimizes certain trauma of individuals and causes the group to have less of an opportunity to resist organized oppression of the institution.
Those that are in the realm of desperation or traumatic state are given no choice but to repress in order to continue being social or a member of the group.
in excess the hierarchies of gender, race and class are reinforced to an almost superhuman level.
To the desperate or traumatic state…
what needs reinforcement is that there are humans just like us who have resisted oppression and caused the normalcy of the group to be more inclusive and aware of the processes associated with organized oppression.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
It’s time to take down all the decorations,
They look tatty with no celebrations
to give them purpose,
Bauble’s shine turns to rust,
The tinsel starts wilting
Like flowers left in a vase.
Fragments of sellotape cling to the wrapping paper,
And grab at the walls and window ledges it passes on its way to the fire
Trying to escape death.
At least a kind of death.
Floating up out of the flume to be part of a white Christmas for next year.
A flake of ash that ice molecules wrap themselves around to become a snowflake,
And to think you used to be wrapping paper.
So much tasted of last year,
How much is recyclable?
How much to care about complacence of wastage?
How much should I shed a tear?
How much should I care for carbon footprints and ******* tips?
I don’t want to care at all
It’s too much baggage.
All I want is to fly this year,
I’ll make a kite from the bones of the Christmas tree,
The baubles and tinsel and snow spray stripped,
Now bare of all personality.
Maybe it will fly…
If it doesn’t,
There will always be next year,
Until there isn’t…
…And even when I die someday,
Maybe I will get to be a snowflake.
And I’ll get to fly that way.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
I break my own heart with hope
that it mends stronger,
and that others reach out to help.
i cling to false independence,
and bitterly bite back blood and anger,
sadness and complacence.
i create a fortress in my mind,
constructed, brick by brick,
to shield me and complain
when no one finds their way inside.
i'm not sure what i hate more-- everyone else?
or me.
Jul 16, 2023
Jul 16, 2023 at 2:40 AM UTC
softly step through the fields of heaven,
biting through your frozen fingers,
tired toes devouring flesh,
of first born hands handicapped,
patting pants in hopes of change,
the eternal deathly doldrums,
commonplace complacence,
with cheap creeped fast food,
eternally eching for the source,
for majorities soaring sorrow.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
The faux heart on your sleeve
Goes incredibly well
With your arrogant grin
And hands full of hubris.
I find it distasteful
That you spit your highbrow
From a tongue drenched in chagrin
And lips lacking complacence.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
When one is in desperate need of sleep
With their minds churning out thoughts of upmost irrelevance
She is told, to simply count the sheep
If only the Sandman would possess such benevolence
I want only to collapse into a dreary heap
When one is desperate need of sleep
She is told, to simply count the sheep
In the waking hour of dawn, weary from Sandman's malevolence
Inexplicable panic begins to seep
With their minds churning out thoughts of upmost irrelevance
Sunshine caresses the houses steep
If only the Sandman would possess such benevolence
The neighborhood yawns, the birds begin to cheep
Night refuses an acquiescence
When one is in desperate need of sleep
I wish for once, Night and I will come to a complacence
Languid to the point where I will weep
She is told, to simply count the sheep
One wants a gloaming of reposing divulgence
With their minds churning out thoughts of upmost irrelevance
When one is in desperate need of sleep
She is told, to simply count the sheep.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
i wish i were a chemist,
so that i could hypothesize
& limit my attempts &
my experiments in futility
so that maybe, I could
tell you that your mere
presence was a catalyst
to my volatile elements
provoking reactions,
left & right, endless
explosions in my head
& mostly, in my chest
or that you tasted like a
antidote to the mundane
bringing me back from
this quiet complacence
i could drink your tonic,
swallow your smoke,
& devour your scraps
like a starving bulimic
or how your poison
made me slip, drip like
mercury, through your
skillful & soft fingertips
like sodium, this persistent
salt that refuses to quit
from my veins, a reserve
remains after the detox
or why i would oscilliate
between the alkaline &
the acidic, never quite
stabilizing at a safe degree
if i had know all this,
i would not have played
alchemist, concocting
a worthless elixir of life
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
Emergent and forming I feel a storm is imploring that soon without any warning you beg to cross a line
Every time, nothing is sacred but sacramental complacence is marked as roles of the shameless
Mean to skip a line another time? Is this too rough and obtuse for a cutie like you to boost the power line?
Number 9, completion is power and stricken chords every hour proceed to timeline devour those daily entities
I do decree that opposition to me is free and withered beatings to meetings, detours and dealings
understanding demands of variable plans is held by the hand that feeds the depleted need
I see it from every angle, the tangle, the multishifted frame though it dangles, I can't be stuck in my own head when
I see the reflections of me in the treasure it jangles, brings into focus where my head fell to float in the
moments set to wrangle, pull it in, dwell upon the good and discard where it hampers new fangled notions like
truth effusions of love and devotion are swallowed up in the daily ocean of noise traffic, the more verbose,
Graphic dispatches matches blasted disasters dashed and rash past distractions amass magic attacks balanced
Secular motion entwined with metaphysical potions, divided what is your quotient? It doesn't add up in this
moment.
Interpersonal, intergalactic, universal assertions disturbed by verbage of outrance
Message mismanaged mischief mallaeble mayhem managed maganamously mallicous mannered when I
would proclaim them. Members materialized meriting masturbatory movements and monetized
malappropriation I have no patience nor pathos for indiscriminant egos demonstrating a tangent as canon and
paralyzing progressions toward psychic visions of heaven, eyes as the cosmos, and pressures upended.
I'll cope with associations disastrous and tainted, but keep in my visage all that scratches my lenses
I know far too much to be content with the situation, but far too little to shatter falsehood's intitiation
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
Is it wrong of me to be sexually satisfied,
merely by the expansiveness of your mental capacity?
Intrigued by your complacence.
See, at first you were just this figment of my imagination.
But now you've transcended,
into this complete sensation.
No matter the misconceptions that others may have about you,
I could never replace you.
I could go on and on about the metaphors
that compare you to the sun,
or other gleaming objects.
But really, my attraction for you is far more complex,
to just subsidize you to comparison you probably already met.
I no longer base my relationship on ***
I now seek intelligence,
an intellectual, oratorical genuis - one who knows what the birds say,
why the ocean waves, why society emphasizes self-hate.
And ever since I've sought all of those determining qualities in you,
I've since, loved you.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
So you sate your inadequacies
With excuses and those poems
And you pretend that tomorrow you will be better
But you are unstirring from your heart
And the stagnant puddle you call your life
It is your air, what once was bitter
Complacence takes hold and you watch
That view from the window forever the same
Sunsets and seasons blurring in the horizon
One more hour, another sleepless night
An unfinished day and muted uneasiness
Is this apathy the only thing you rely on?
“Life drains my enthusiasm away bit by bit”
You complain, and to refuse reality
You firmly repeat it like a charm
But you know, one heartbeat away
One step further from where you fell last
Will crash into your illusion of calm
Numb your conscience with art
Devour everyone else’s talent
And take nothing but tears from their story
Leave truths to dent your steel façade
Yet bury yourself in denial
Safe, shielded, in your delusional glory
Bleeding heart, battering in its cage
Its screams drowned under ****** veins
It’s scary silent, your shell
You’ve locked down hard
Your defences caked with dreamland dirt
Too sturdy for reality to fell
Search like a madman for something
To ease the voice of discomfort
Try to bind it to a letter
And so you sate your inadequacies
With excuses and this poem
And swear that tomorrow you will be better.
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
I've discovered a sense of loss and acceptance.
I hope this is only a new lesson in patience.
The last thing I want is mindless complacence.
So, I let go of the edge, and launch out to sacrifice
A few degrees to the right and, Houston, we have compromise.
Let's drop off the arrogance in the cold dark of space
And pick up humility on the way back to intelligence
The unreachable dream becomes once more tangible
I swirl it and spit, the image is palpable
Happiness isn't lies, it's something more valuable
I plunder my mind's eye, I find silvery judgement
Trust issues aside, I have to know my own justice
Grasp and define, I search for some substance
I remember a time when I spoke up in classes
Asked too many questions, written up for being curious
Well, I found a voice
I am a force
Reckon with me
You have no choice
There is that pride
I must apologize
If you can still speak
I'll listen, I'll try
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
I won’t forget the way you shared your bed with her while I carried your child in my womb
I won’t forget the way you bulldozed my grace and love just because I would rebloom
I won’t forget the way you left me standing in the streets of Montreal—the reckless, frigid free-for-all
I won’t forget our heart-to-hearts, fall-aparts, fresh-starts
I won’t forget our once shared-dreams, fire-water color schemes; tip-toeing, balance-beams
I won’t forget your lack of self-acceptance; your fear, resistance, dependence
I won’t forget the way you disguise your loneliness; insecurity, disappointment—
your selfishness; inconsistency, vacant empathy
I won’t forget your impatience; porcelain ego, complacence
I won’t forget the way you’d kiss my feet; plead for forgiveness; make promises, repeat
I won’t forget an honest memory of you—instability, volatility
But I will only ever wish you depth, perspective, and humility
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
The churning *** keeps my family one
The fog of delight hides us from the sun
A taste of complacence to keep me compliant
Frames of despair keep the hallways’ alignment
This battleship lands in Australia for now
And burns its own flag along with sundown
The captain is weak, the crewmen have perished
The telescope frowns when it scans the cherished
The cook yells, “My, with the onions, I cry!”
The maid is convinced,by her use of lye,
That this is a happy crew of the sea
Where everyone’s something to puke except me
I stayed on the bridge with a knife in my eye
The pensive maiden disarms with a sigh
Here lies the painting of a family brew
The mirror, indifferent of me, is true
Metal footsteps of a boy led blind
The chef and the captain maintain their grind
And thrive in contrivance of a world kept stable
Where all the rules lie in the food of a table
The boy has been strung across the bridge, politely
And left to a tool of love, coded tightly
There is nothing in the night’s facade of blue
I’m a ***** to the smell of the ship-crew’s stew
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
it hangs sullen from ropes made of judgment, discord is tangled in every breath
guesswork at the outcome, uncertainty the only thing that is certain
trials and hearings hold the lives of others in the hands of men, bent on working some out
society, as a rule, ***** at extending compassion
they cut off the hands that feed the monstrous system
and the eyes of stereotype crinkle, bemused and complacence smiles sly
true justice is a shy thing, skittish and absent
standing on the sidelines, it's a hopeless mess!
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
i abhor my existence
yet i was swayed to adhere complacence
throw me onto the pathway
fade the blinds; for i have faltered.
I'm merely a drazel in distress
it would be ideal to slaughter all the rest.
my mind is at the altar
sacrifice, if i suffice. hang it high
and make a profit from your feigning saint.
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
I was told once that apathy was in my blood.
Climbing like squid ink midnight black through the ocean begging for the forlorn sun.
I have seen atrocities in these veins of mine, calling to the moon for forgiveness, I have howled a hollow cry- it has made my bones crack.
There is no room in these ribs for complacence. For apathy or for those who don't protect the petals of the heart that I wear like a fruit ripe for picking.
I am delicate but I am not hollow. I am full to the brim and I will run my tongue across the dripping pearls of honey which leak from my sides when roses coated in gold ***** me with their thorns.
I am not scared of the weight I must hold to carry these onyx bones. I am not worried about apathy. I am not worried about the way my blood will curdle when it is tainted with poison or lust or desire. I am not worried about the way that I will sound when my heart is ripped from my chest and held between calloused palms.
I have never worried about the song I will sing when I have nothing left on my lips except the shallow cry I will leave to the world- the one that says
I have loved and I will never have to be enough for you.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
The tree is not refreshed,
by a tyrant falling at the gallows.
No, the ground we tred is hallowed,
And defended by the imortally blessed.
Until we celebrate our victory, wading
Waste deep in crimson streams.
Listing right, the tree now leans.
Left to decay and slowly uproot,
Gravity bends and twists her low,
Disfigured and mangled,
Into freedom's final death salute.
A tribute to the desert ghosts,
Tis vanity in death they share.
And the merchants of repression
Who peddle their fancy wares.
No tree shall ever flourish her,
Beneath the broken bodies, and billboards,
That blight the sacred sands.
A backdrop for the death of democracy,
And cryptic Christian comedy.
Where the actors act,
And the players play,
The truth is altered fact.
The audience sees but doesn't look,
Except to look the other way.
And in the glare of the Draconian light,
The neo-imperial guards, uphold the word of the right,
And little is seen from the scene of the plight,
Because the fist that won't feed is the same fist night,
With its finger on the trigger and the world in its sight.
And our father's fathers will roll tonight,
As we march to battle under unraveling stars and stripes,
To illuminate our sins in a holy fire fight.
We are blinded by the glare of the Draconian light.
We come in peace to **** you,
To **** you and your land.
We come in the guise of democracy,
But it is malice for which we stand.
Such a devotion to arms, is an ode to the Prince,
Antiquated and malignant.
Condemn us all for the harm we cause through our complacence,
Craven and ignorant.
We are far, too far, to care in the least,
Too far for screams and cries to reach.
Out of mind, out of sight,
But the blood is on our hands tonight,
Translucent as it may be in the Draconian light.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
Do you see the reflection of my face?
It is red. Simply red.
I care not to change it, it can be red
If red is what it would like to be.
Unreadable red—the stereo type
Of love and of passion.
I am sick of such redness—
This red I am not.
Can you see my fight inside?
It is orange, simply orange.
It is fiery and weird—
The orange place I have not explored
Orange, orange is my indecision
Orange peels in my place
In my burlap stomach
Orange my guilt.
Can you see the light on my chest?
It is yellow, simply yellow.
Yellow like sun in January
When grey passes.
Joyous yellow, where marigolds play
Where milk is churned to hope
And where smiles wade,
I roll in yellow.
Can you see the rage in my eyes?
It is green, simply green.
Green like emerald glens
And raggy earth.
Seductive green, my flute
My dancing color
In gentle waving grass
My green bed lies.
Can you see my shallow cheek?
It is blue, simply blue.
Blue like frost bitten morning,
All a’ sparkle
Patient blue, the color by which
My skin is velvet.
Blue interrupting my eyes—
Inconsiderate blue.
Do you see my sagging arms?
They are purple, simply purple.
Purple like complacence.
My purple love.
Pristine purple, holding on
To all it tends
My confidence, sweet,
Dearest purple.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC
Silence;
a blank page
without whispered textures
upon its face
A settling absence
of auditory stimuli
or a nerve-wracking presence
between your temples
The stillness in the air
conforms around you,
dousing you with complacence;
A lingering tone
will commence the mood
and cause a stir inside you
slaying your sanity
to bits
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
I posit the bliss of my form to your own
Rendering novelty without pretension
Pressed between tongue and mouth roof prone
I divulge eloquence to uncertainty of evoked tension
Urging understanding of the necessity of patience
As moments of bliss are built on anticipation
Unearthing potent pith and fragrance
Encouraging transcendent stimulation
As we become more than mere acquaintance
Effulging pollinate conveyance
Lingering in pools of succulent temptation
Seeking negation of complacence
I proffer thusly this bequest
To quell your soul and mind upon my chest
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
Your utter complacence is
Perpetually mitigated by your patience;
Yet, since we've met,
Your ubiquitous,
Splendidly liquidous,
Serendipitous humor,
Like a tumor,
Has beguiled me,
Defiled me,
Riled me.
Your delicious,
Surreptitious,
Obfuscation of superfluous condemnation is
Erroneous and felonious
A frantic and pedantic antic.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
Pressed into the issue is my neck into the block
They said "you'd lose your head if you 'unhinged' it" so they'd mock
I'm set to wreck defenses of the bets deception in the case of my detected
degradation in the path of my elation
waiting for annihilation is my sense of violation
I define the vices as a time to track, stack, and counteract my existential missile crisis
Dress this deflected duress invented by these compressions
and pulsing bloodlines distressed, with toxic vision's direction
Repeating the motions but coming short with the payoff
I'm stacking foundations, but the proof seems a way off
I've said to myself I've ordered glory by priority
If it's lost in the mail, good ******* luck with conformity
Candle ends burning and hold my crest til it's fallen
Burn the witch at the stake, cut my head at the block
I'm holding out for the truth, and keeping this as my rock
Your pilgrimage building, and running off with complacence
I'll make a Mission of me, my temple and my new nascence.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC