"countenances" poems
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There is power over what's in front,
what's behind, cannot be vouched for.
any one, anything that accost me, are
all taken at face value....just as they are,
disregarding love, or dislike,
or, what dwells deep within.
when not shrouded, i am most useful
some say i'm cruel
others think, i'm kindest
but, i am just being honest.
with the least of light, i try my best,
i earn praises...they come back, they need me
sometimes i am bathed with hatred
i end up in the attic...or given away,
just because the truth is unacceptable.
the area across is most times regular,
a man on his table...what hungs on his wall.
occasionally, it becomes spectacular,
countenances, joyful, or sorrowful
come to and fro...all sorts of accolades
a mix of emotions...each day, an array
of lively colors and moods......a parade
of varied appearances feed my view
it's not what i want...it's what i am given
any time of any day...any season.
whatever the reason
someone or something
stands to face me.
when night is late, and in complete silence
that man by the table....ever writes on paper
and gets them all wet...with his falling tears,
he writes of volcanoes spewing fire, of rain pouring,
speaks to himself, then to me, of betrayal, promises
lost, of broken vows, and shattered expectations.
i am speechless, yet filled with his pain ....he is restive
til the wee hours of the morning....then i see light in
this visage, his face...giving an end to the dark
giving way to another day's noise,
......a facade.....
Sally
Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
October 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
604
Unto my Books—so good to turn—
Far ends of tired Days—
It half endears the Abstinence—
And Pain—is missed—in Praise—
As Flavors—cheer ******** Guests
With Banquettings to be—
So Spices—stimulate the time
Till my small Library—
It may be Wilderness—without—
Far feet of failing Men—
But Holiday—excludes the night—
And it is Bells—within—
I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf—
Their Countenances Kid
Enamor—in Prospective—
And satisfy—obtained—
2.6k
Tired faces shuffle home,
Unsmiling countenances,
Irritated by impoverished nuances,
Stress, like a hanging, stifling dome.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
I shall write of simple things.
I shall write of dark skies and
black dogs, gardens full of red
tomatoes and green spinach,
of small streets where children
walk through the haze of distant
summers. I shall write of mountains
and men, of the sea, of fishes and
porpoises and whales. I shall be
among the plains and write of
old ranch hands with gnarled
fingers and leathered countenances.
I shall tell of cities and concrete
and lies, of schools and scoldings,
of hurts and healings. I shall whisper
of things human, of love and lone-
liness, of suffering and supplication,
of tender moments and terror. I
shall write of the simple and profound,
for they are one, borne of the same
center, which we call infinity.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 11:46 AM UTC
A dark night
Littered with stars and rain
freshwater claims a sliver of consciousness
A simple word
a lonely question
"Why?"
You take my face into your hands
letting your eyes close on minor chords
It's almost silent
save for piano
and nervous breathing
Your forehead on mine seems to speak
directly to my thoughts
an arrow to my subconscious
An injection to my strength
weakness in quiet trembles
lovely petals of black and grey
falling on our awestruck countenances
augmenting the watery streaks of light
strewn sideways across your freckled skin
A hesitant thirst
not eager to be quenched
finally satisfied
Consent in closed eyes and soft pressure
Fingers caught lovelily in strands
of tired hair
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
Since adolescence
I have been an insomniac,
something sought after
these days,
by ignorance
masquerading itself as
open-mindedness.
An hour to me is not an hour to you.
The same standards apply,
only because those
restrictions can not be lifted.
Such a beautiful tragedy,
concerning a man made
mandate,
that dictates calendar years
and sixty second intervals.
The sound a scribble makes
at three in the morning is
a continuing story of dark circles
and ever slowly forming indentations
that are everlasting countenances.
The sound dead leaves make
as they're stepped on quickly
shows a path yet to be discovered,
leading to an uncovered face formed
by bark, mottled with sweat
as sweet as syrup.
A petrified face.
Covering a worn sponge.
One willing to grow and absorb.
A tired brain.
Swimming in Dextromethorphan.
Controlling a hand
that extends to yawn.
After counting
sixty sheep,
I'll start my next interval.
One nod to know
it worked.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
Punxsutawney Phil
You're so furry
And adorable
But your forecasts
Are deplorable
Thirty-nine percent true
That makes you a fraud
But cute eyes have you
Therefore a god
Early spring you say
Yet snow and low temps
Flourish today
So conflicted
By this contrast
Indoors now restricted
Godhog is Devine at last
Tomorrow swimming
No matter the mortal's forecast
You say the sun is brimming
The masses praise
Nearly naked in the snow
Why the wintery haze
No shadow, it is so
Now we stand
Swimsuits adorned
Frozen faces
Countenances Forlorn
Faithful in our belief
In you and yours
In fur and sharp teeth
Buds and flowers restore
Trees and life anew
What could go wrong
A groundhog we pray to
In Phil we trust
What's wrong with us?
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
a thousand miles we traveled to see
your jack-hammered giants--we arrived at dusk
just as the torrents began, bathing your
chiseled countenances
we hid in our chariot of modernity
wipers flapping in syncopated time, Bluetooth belching
out words from kin, "have a good time,"
"sorry for the storm..."
but I wasn't, for lightning struck
a blackjack pine, and four mammoth men
came to life, their sheen now electric, their long
mute voices once again a resounding roar
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
you remind me of a dark place-
my mother’s village
far away,
first day of third grade
blonde girl cried through eyes
the color of my country’s basins.
she wasn’t new to this world,
she wasn’t lonely and confused,
tripping through a concrete forest of
false idols and plastic shadows,
just missed her brothers.
a pitiful excuse for survival.
and i
(olive skinned, hair on my legs,
stubborn, reckless,
fire chugging aries,
everything a jagged rock to scale,
all the bodies must be sniffed
before i release my eyebrows)
always hear your muffled whisper,
coating the air like dew
the intimidated glances
hit me blunt in the face.
but holding my tongue is not an option.
your baffled countenances nothing but
fans tickling flames.
you people are connected like iron on a magnet
and god forbid one of you steps out of the line
one of you speaks your sick mind
one of you opts not to shock the man behind the wall
and devours the corpses instead.
i want to cry, i want to throw things at your face,
i’d want to show you my tribe is better than yours,
if i had a tribe to speak for.
i want to walk into a portal and never see
any of you again.
you think your smile conceals your malice
your innocent voice a curtain at intermission,
but the aliens see everything and
when they arrive, they will only take me
back with them.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:41 AM UTC
93
Went up a year this evening!
I recollect it well!
Amid no bells nor bravoes
The bystanders will tell!
Cheerful—as to the village—
Tranquil—as to repose—
Chastened—as to the Chapel
This humble Tourist rose!
Did not talk of returning!
Alluded to no time
When, were the gales propitious—
We might look for him!
Was grateful for the Roses
In life’s diverse bouquet—
Talked softly of new species
To pick another day;
Beguiling thus the wonder
The wondrous nearer drew—
Hands bustled at the moorings—
The crown respectful grew—
Ascended from our vision
To Countenances new!
A Difference—A Daisy—
Is all the rest I knew!
994
~~~
someday soon gonna reread
the four figures of my
poems over lifetime inked,
divvy them up by what each is about,
assemblage of
the themes of me
review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
multiplying confessions
of graces and disgraces
particular to recover,
desirous of collecting those poems that:
*valorize society’s strugglers
and stragglers...humans doing the work of living*^
don't know how many will be uncovered,
but here's hoping there are plenty,
needy of recovery and uncovering the poet
and worthy of pointing too,
valuation markers of a
decent human
strugglers, stragglers,
those from all over this world
and lives that can only visualize
no-horizon-in-sight oceans
sailors, from ports unvisited,
some even, still undiscovered,
working ****** and women,
not those,
don't owners
of fancy dress whites,
topped of by jaunty angelic-angled caps
the ones I sought and seek,
grime and coal dust etched into
every ****** crevice, ink under fingernails,
in obscurity, toil in windowless engine rooms,
in the nooks in libraries hiding,
satisfied with
a moment of glory,
and a lasting
hand upon
their wracked minds
these are my mates,
sharing fates
of woeful countenances
of bruised bodies,
recipients of hardest blows repetitious,
comrades in open arms
the unflavored, unfavored of
sons and daughters,
unblessed with sobs and smacks,
who rare lift the head in hope
the sufferers of ignominy
of the
prison of their existence,
for those I write,
have, will, and willing
to do it till I see a
chin rising, white of eyes gleaming,
a hand delisted,
arms defused of black weights
come to me,
words, encouragement, perspective,
that this too shall pass
believing ain't easy,
take it from one who couldn't see
happy endings, but had no choice but
to choose to,
now prepped, ready
for my arms to do some serious uplifting,
shoulders heavy-loaded and wide of loads,
eager for honest work,
aiding and abetting
the stragglers and and stragglers...
humans doing the work of living,
deserving for valuation,
awaiting their salutation,
and relief, even if,
tiny and small,
a slim volume of poems,
that but one
poet
provided
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
my mind grasps for words
floating on the wind
thoughts come and go
like great indifferent clouds
ignorant to
the insignificant miasma
roiling in the petri dish
below
temptation and trepidation
volition and admonition
regretful countenances
conduct the vessel
while gently noted
by something beneath
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
I back track my steps until once again i feel cold pavement on my heels and the dewy grass has retreated to once again stretching to receive the sun. I bump into the same glass door, the *** still warm as though i had just let go if it, it jabs me in my side forcing me to acknowledge my collision as I face the transparent barrier to what I once thought was home. Its so smoky in there that I can hardly recognize the countenances of my old friends; greed, lust, hate, ****** drugs, envy. I shake my head squinting to read their name tags but the air is too thick for oil stone to sharpen and they're so busy till I realize they don't see me right there. staring. I want to say hi, tell em' the world is cool they shoulda' wisened up like me. All I did was tell a lil white lie but if you're like me, and you wisen' up, you too my dear friend may smell the crisp scent of the greener side. And boom there I was back with my crew. Formerly known as lies, my tag clearly now says pride.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
We are not many,
Only departures fill the meaning of the stops,
But we occupy enough sits to be a few
And for the distention of a silence of simple sounds.
The dimension of the others
It´s not much more than departures and destinies.
For now, we are only illuminated
By the last orange lights of another village.
All of us abstain from the others,
Not too much,
Not to the point of forgetting from the their presence,
Until the next straight road shrinks us
With one more gush of blackness.
(Warm lights
Emanate a comfort
Shared by all.)
The journey stretches along the premature winter night,
The bus goes embroiled
By the sequence of light and darkness
And we go with it.
Each variation in the spectrum of luminosity forms a layer,
More the layers, more the bus is light and darkness,
Thicker the journey and the denser the enchantment.
The countenances gain new expressions
As they cross the contrasts,
Though the looks never fail to gaze the vast night.
The looks…
The looks on the scattered night,
The night profoundly diluted in the existence of things,
That form the whole.
(Fingers on the glass
Searching for memories
- They only want life.)
One by one, they leave.
The sleeping consciousness wakes up,
From the breaking out of the world,
For the bus stop.
What do they take with them?
Where and for what they go?
Do they really want to go?
They all fade away in the distance.
There will be no one who wishes,
Like me, an endless night
So that the bus can go without destination?
Time does not even have to stop,
Just a single belonging to that bus.
I should not say it,
However i only want the outside life outside of me,
A mutual indifference
Than can fall asleep all the fatigue and exhaustion.
Let me turn into a silent echo to resound indefinitely,
In the vastness of the night.
(Eternal night
Raises chimeras seeing
Some solace.).
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
fluid cries erase the night
in a merciless drought
of blinding Gods
sporadic firefly lights engulf boisterous fights—
hooded vultures choke on trivial grains
kisses of amber tissue complement
contrite countenances
inconspicuous soles merge
with coarse protruding talons
while lithe specters fleet around
yet the
walk of humanity prevails no fall
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
How Marjorie dances
cheek by jowl,
we could never be strangers-
her face countenances
with comely candle light .
Parfait Oysters and Rose -
a double diamond of moonlight.
Only in France's nord pas de calais
could we rejoice,
redolent in vintage Boulonge
our hearts aching for one another.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
Is this blood mine or yours?
I want to go home.
I don't know you, and I don't want us to die.
We both lay here, barely alive.
You look scared, a deer glowing faintly in the headlights of a rusty green vehicle.
I can see the tempest of my own fear reflected in your chocolate eyes.
Must we be enemies, only because our homelands are?
I see you finger something under your shirt.
It's probably a snapshot- mine is.
You keep it there to remind you of your promise:
Your oath to lay eyes on them again.
I know that we fight for our countries.
For what we believe to be right.
But...
Do you suppose...that only for tonight
--presumably the last night of our lives--
We could ignore the politics, and just fall asleep together?
In the morning, if either of us wakes up,
We can once again plummet into the ocean of duty and justice and pain.
We can drown in it then.
For now, could we take a swift breath at the top of the waves?
That would be nice.
Neither of us has said a word, but no matter.
Language barrier has not kept you from agreeing with me.
A simple series of countenances has signed our temporary truce in our place.
A mutual gaze of farewell,
As I drift...
Into...
Sleep...
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 11:54 PM UTC
Our souls were like
The eyes of children
Long before
Careless hands stirred the
Dust that settled in the
Bottoms of our hearts.
Out of sight is out of
Mind but
We have consciences for
A good reason.
We studied our plain
Reflections in the pools
Of our tears mixed
With the morning dew
Until the glittering turquoise
Water made our
Countenances look like
Gemstones.
Our greedy lungs
Grew tired of oxygen,
So we sunk deep into
The bottomless puddles
And inhaled deeply.
We soothed our throats
At the expense of
Our lives, but
Sometimes we ****
Ourselves father than
Endure painful betrayals.
Follow me as the
Watery stars lead us
Deeper into darkness,
For they will purge us of
Our prosaic existence
Right before our eyes,
Which were once as
Pure and lovely
As polished chalcedony.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
When we cast our minds eye deep into squared stone,
into bleached canvas or lumped clay...
into shiny new spools of thread or empty manuscript pages,
we sometimes hear the silent electricity of some elusive spirit
calling on us to shape it from the emptiness before us.
Dragons and fairies beg us for eyes and wings.
Clouds beg us for open air.
Wolves and women beg us for large hungry mouths.
Delinquent young malcontents beg us for careless countenances and eternal cigarettes.
Ambiguous protagonists beg us for meaningful lives.
These assemblages, endeavors and desecrations we generously decree "art"
and we hold them high
above the humdrum utilitarian and accidental incarnations of matter
that belong in the dimensions of nature and industry.
These incarnations hold court as the kings and queens of matter.
These are the celebrations of mans love affair with time, with space, with insanity and with immortality.
The spider finds his art in the hopeless **** of the captured fly against the sticky trappings of the web.
For him, it's desperate black buzz holds all of the sway of a fine orchestra flawlessly reciting some intricate overture.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
The words
lay upon the ears
- so light and unassuming.
Like fluff and feathers,
snowflakes and foam.
But who knows
what tumours roil
beneath such welcoming
countenances.
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 7:08 AM UTC
It looked so green and promising even before its inception
The labourers came with zeal and great expectation
The countenances of some exuded determination
Just to work to achieve distinction
For some, their first encounter with the green vineyard was a divine orchestration
Yet today, I ask whether this orchestration has metamorphosed into illusion?
It appears the initial symphony of elation
Is gradually turning into a chorus of depression
Are the labourers now swimming in a sea of confusion?
The morose faces worn in the green vineyard obviously expresses frustration
The disenchanted labourers complain about structural demolition
Others think the vineyard environment facilitates capacity extermination
The highly skilled brains and hands are looking for the exit gate with desperation
Though majority of the labourers now regard their decision
To work in the vineyard as a massive compunction
I believe a divine intervention can produce the needed salvation
Guys, God will certainly provide the desired destination.
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 8:29 AM UTC
I have purged my sacred atmosphere
of billious and twisted countenances
the only one spitting bile this time
is myself
i ***** poison into the eyes of my love
but she keeps on kissing my aching skin
she says she loves me still
even though her eyesockets are but hollow gapes at this moment
i'm so scared to leave this prison
the place i have been living for the past 100 years or so
i destroy the passion i once felt for my kindred
so that i may leave with you, on our ship to the stars
let me be your moon at midnight
as you are the all-encompassing vacuum in my heart
let me enter you and combust within you
it is the reason for my creation
i dream of writing your forbidden name into my skin
your secret name, hidden even from your perception
for if you hear it, it will be wounded
it has happened before
it must not be uttered
i only scream it inside when i shatter and die within you
kiss me now
kiss me with those lips that you we're born with, but that belong to me
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
When it all calls
But no one is present to answer
Because they're fast asleep
Within their beds of blissful ignorances
As time gently closes the door
On their smiling countenances
Forever within the peace
Of their love's slumbering hearts
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 7:03 AM UTC
*Heart beats like symphonies
Heads filled with wonder
Thoughts about suicide
Forever they ponder
A cruel antagonist
A subtle twitch of the hand
Fearful countenances
They linger and loom
Like a sky over the horizon
Slowly waiting to rise
For the moon to move away
It is silent they say
As the clock is ticking down
The minutes
As our thoughts are processing
They scream louder than words
In this "preserved" silence*
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 12:08 AM UTC
The volcanoes of your conceit erupted
Although lava ablazed me
Adversity smitted me with frostbite
The magnets of your all- pervasive nature sharpened
I was a needle in a haystack
Although winds blew me off loose
Generosity smitted me to stay aloof
My visage shows nuances from the heart
And you're skilful artist enough
To show my countenances from your brain
You might now be a herd-robber
But I precisely must be a phantom..
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC