"creviced" poems
The dayseye hugging the earth
in August, ha! Spring is
gone down in purple,
weeds stand high in the corn,
the rainbeaten furrow
is clotted with sorrel
and crabgrass, the
branch is black under
the heavy mass of the leaves—
The sun is upon a
slender green stem
ribbed lengthwise.
He lies on his back—
it is a woman also—
he regards his former
majesty and
round the yellow center,
split and creviced and done into
minute flowerheads, he sends out
his twenty rays— a little
and the wind is among them
to grow cool there!
One turns the thing over
in his hand and looks
at it from the rear: brownedged,
green and pointed scales
armor his yellow.
But turn and turn,
the crisp petals remain
brief, translucent, greenfastened,
barely touching at the edges:
blades of limpid seashell.
5.9k
Nearly 5 AM in the Morning...
and I hate the night, but love it's true colors of darkness within a light so surreal you can truly feel.
The moon gather's within the stars as company to shine you.
Sometimes the clouds will cover the moon, like a blanket as he lays his head to rest, that's why he's called the man on the moon, not for the person who claims to have walked it, but for the face engraved into the bright shadows and creviced surfaces surrounding the molded, circular not so perfect Moon.
Thank you Moon for keeping us company...
But why do I hate the night, because your time goes faster than day. When your lover is with you and it's time to say goodnight, those are the times I despite.
The beauty of the night, is very real and wish...sometimes...could be longer. The only moment where I get to feel free.
Now is time for me to try and sleep, only if I can..
some nights, my thoughts race like a mustang in the distance of a field of golden wheat grass.
So I come here, to vent out...to only read my poems back at myself.
I will try to sleep.
Goodnight.
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 4:46 AM UTC
Day's Work Is Done...
Sun is setting,
Feet are fueled up...with enthusiasm
Thoughts are filled with pictured expectations,
To be met at the door with warm hugs and kisses
A hot meal on the table...steaming coffee awaits
All these, comfort my fatigued limbs and minds.
A smile, in anticipation ...a sense of *****
Atmosphere tickle my mind...i hurry
To enter my safe ground...my comfort zone
My own White Picket Fences.
|| || || || |\ || \| // || ||
They may have tiny fractures
Some boards missing, broken, or collapsed,
Its concrete floors and walls may be creviced
I can not shun........or hide from
Imperfect truths, about my family,
Our relationships, our health.....every truth
About my loved ones and me...
It is where i come home to...
After each struggle's end
My feet and mind take me back...to my own,
My known familial boundaries...
An inner force spurs me to make those broken boards
Upright...firm once again......like hardwood trees,
Be unshaken by water and wind....be unwavering
Then, i repaint them
...to bring back the glow.
Some broken fences could still be fixed
some are worthy of fixing; but,
There are those that seem to be, beyond repair
needing some kind of intervention.
/| || || // |/ \\ ||
Sally
Copyright July 9, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥¥
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
.
I choose to breathe for every breath is free
Calmly bound of tempted drizzled fears
Slow dancing on the desperate dying wind
Placing endless hope against the flow
This does come
beyond iron gates of broken trances
to sing
undying wishes upon deaf ears
Fractured in meanings and senses known,
these wrinkles form a favored mask
Donned in apprehension of a wilted feeling
Sleek and slender, along a poisoned vine they grow
Challenging
in endless streams of sorted need
Stead fast
with chains of charmed tethered truth
Cartoon headstones with scribbled crayon names
cast darker shadows beneath the edges of sanity
Ripped and tattered these empty voices scream
my name in echoes bearing nothing more than seen
As I cry
my tears sprout wings and flee from my face
I fall to my knees
finding only the jagged earth to rest
Desires cling to the massive arbors of life
Dreams falter along a winding creviced cliff
Nothing laughs like the air upon my sorrowed face
and I choose to breathe for every breath is free
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
All I do is annoy
Annoy
Annoy
I try so hard to impress and comply
But nothing I say is right
And nothing I do is good enough
My body is built from rubble and mud
Nothing graceful or fine
My hair is tangled branches
My lips cracked and creviced
I fill up too much space
And take up too much time
I'm not worth anything
To anyone
At any time
In any place
As soon as I leave they all breath a sigh of relief
She's gone
Finally
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will always hurt me.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
you flutter, but you're still in every aspect
of this creviced existence. it may be best
to act as decoration in a decorative world,
the prettiest are always happiest, the ones
who feel exalt or cry in creation will even-
tually turn numb, or ice-cubes for pink
margaritas, or reproductions on cascade
walls of white-picket dwellings in a trajectory
of white and beige houses like a ***** line
of ******* pain is temporary. numbness
is forever when it shoots for the brain
and not the stars, when overcast skies
become the reason for inner-living and
streets are scary and trees are mere
necessity for your breaths to filter, for
your chest to flutter as it does, as it so
surely and unabashedly does. you
flutter, but you're as still as decoration.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
Cannibalistic are the teeth jagged in curl and grin. They grip fastened between gums of grime and sin. They prey leeched to toys strung under webs so few. My fingers creeped between their eyes so suffice and blind.
Like storms choked in stark sky and drying rain, my views christen and bloom. Eyes bleached gold, lavish the corners donning streets and side shop. I myself lark on apartment edges and strewn roof tops, balancing death and door bells along my crooked spine. Wide faces swirl in faded lights along morbid streets blazed in night. They the oh so happy and innocent leech the drinks and sway the narcotics. Hand on breath, tongue on tip. It’s so heart full to stare from the roofs so grimaced.
All words muddled in dread, lick their rosy lips, as stare catches the late night shift. All the blossomed couples curl and constrict in arms so selfish I must keep edges sharp and dull in bliss. Balance sways in dim, darkest are the days flattering night and cursing day. I wait amongst the walls above wavering innocence to demand. I shift on roofs so frail and wary that life seeks no bounds as the heights do not scare me. I will slip feudal in their creviced minds, but merely of pity to all their credible crimes. Here the world cries and here the cannibal lies. I break to be broken, but never to die, only to fall within the world’s eye.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
Scrying on the Moon (for Brigid)
By sibylline light
images I recognize,
creviced captures of my life.
I know her judgment to be my own.
"Nourished by Moon rivers
mythical cavern blooms
unseen by sunlight
glow green."
Thus she sets the scene;
becomes the prophecy.
"Purest white simplicity
curved to suggest fragility
faith fed maiden ready for
plucking,
given in ******* to womanly woes,
hard rows to ***
for that human hug through
crying of night.
Fate of mortal soldiers, sacrificed to lust.
Seeking relief, beg for the boon of drama
high adventure
sneaking into sad hotels
for a fix or a tumble.
Laughs,
deadly play,
danger, a real chance.
Barefoot in the snow
icy roads
winds so strong
I could not make you hear.
I thought you were my destiny.
Crazy thoughts, far from clear;
but I believed
song lyrics from Saturnine deities
would not lie, leave me
dying, fading into winter's grey
drifting clouds,
endless sorrow endured for naught.
Lost on this careless corner,
dreaming of oblivion, intent on visions
like rain
tapping against eternity's
vast windowpane.
Scenic serenity.
Nature's gradations of green
soothe tired eyes,
trembling nerves, throbbing veins.
Slivers of moonlight reflect
in withered refrains, unearth secrets
embedded in song
effervescing through cool pure air
cleansing the uprising nestling
set aflame
resurrected
tempered mettle,
pure, wise, tested
engorged with the will
to rise"
revised February 1, 2010
twilight of the goddess, call to song to aery dancing, lady fair your firey trance rewinds our souls, enjoy these offerings, flights of fancy, all art is yours
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
spring. it's almost unsleeping
and stubbornly worn with
young feet in all her little parks
and her grassy and gluttonous
new flowers uncouple their
fragrant heads bumbling
a savage and stemmed arcuate
light that tumbles out the swaggering
mouths of upended winter.
the small and creviced
the hardy chapels of wood
and plastic and nails and wire
will burp to some agile fleece
some women and boys
into the delicious war of
new uncaking roses or the fine **********
that is this tide of bubbling heat
gnarling at the pale and loveless moon
who also is a *****
that plasters every skin with her lipsandfingers
she,TheSpring, will splay her plaintive thighs
and in their between, will march the strong
weak column of undead flesh
who are men and girls
and they will love her
the freckled empire of her *******
the fortress of her smooth impossible belly
the unquestionable meter of her hips
and they will climb her naked ribs
with hands of innocent foolhardy clasping
to the magistrate of her tongue
the holy orifice she wears at the between of her cool cheeks
and smatter on it
grossly ardent spit
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 11:18 AM UTC
The day we roared with infinite jest the
larder packed tight with provisions burst.
So much canned meats, tinned, pemmican
hardtack we had stored knowing our
journey north would be sufficiently trying
that sustenance would prove difficult.
The slog. The slacking day when you rolled
off the sled, creviced. Your voice booming blue
crystalline as we see, no escape. Trapped and
the cans I hurl into the hole.
Hours I read to you lipped, curled into a
snail, a shell, a crocus of yellow
a dread of
finishing the story and saying to you there is
no
more. So you cannot tell, when the pages have ended
I make up confabulate truth and fiction
embellish.
Pretend the story line marches
forward decades and we are in the Amazon;
You’ve discovered
that the water
that seemed
guileless is crocodile filled.
They bite hard and
you can imagine.
All primary colors on the
floes, all glacial movement, slow to melt, fast to burn through
the colors of our arctic rainbow.
I had primed the lamp the last night, before that dawn, before
the ride in which you fell.
The wick trimmed and each
consequential action of the day I placed
hanks of hair
neatly side by side into banks of snow.
Under my cracked tongue is
a bump that rolls
mole like cyst.
Partner of my travels to this cold realm, your self shelved.
Below: Did you hear me whisper? Asking why today
have I become.
The whispered promise of holding
upright against the dark. I thought.
It would be magnificent.
Not even fanfare. Or aurora borealis. Or flight.
Yes dreams of flying.
Yes dreams of ahah so it is after all.
I thought I would recognize the moment of unleashing.
What makes the special now?
If I whisper Abandon I might hear you echo in the ice. I might see your
boot, attached to. A glove alone, unpaired.
The story they lived, the story they tell is one of each husky,
one by one, no longer. Starvation and then there are none.
But we are in the Amazon, and it is a scorching hot day and there is
much to be explored until you fall into the river and get bit.
I take it all back.
You laugh because I add flying monkeys which is
us pretending that we’ve explored
this terrain which looks like a bed
in a room and a chart.
They cannot
stop your bleed, and so we begin again.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC
A picturesque and tranquil wooded glade
The perfect vision for a morning walk
As tiny chanting birds about me flock
Through gentle sway of trees the sunbeams fade
Sweet moments that I would not ever trade
In quiet contemplation without talk
I sit atop a cool, moss creviced rock
While circumstances in my head replay
I’m hoping thee will give me half a chance
To touch thy gentle heart with sweet amour
Explore the splendor of a true romance
Because thou art the one that I adore
Please open up thy soul for just one dance
And I’ll be at thy side forevermore
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
Have you ever doubted...
Lost in a searching grasp for
lies
only to be comforted by fear:
its rigid, creviced tongue
a jagged weapon
like an obsidian relic of barbarism
scrapes my skin
scratches my earlobe
it tries to find a way into my mind.
I have forgotten the taste of truth
like a babe fed by beasts
I grew strong
or so I thought.
I tried to carve my name
into the disc of the world
"Fool"
The world isn't flat,
but I am.
I fit into the cracks you think are safe.
I slip into your secrets.
I carved lines into the world until
the impenetrable layers of rock and tree
and sky and core
were but pages,
thinly veiled memories of lives we
once cherished.
I know you've forgotten the taste
of truth
because you feel my sorrow.
It is your tale I tell
and that is why
I feel so alone.
You are impenetrable
and when I see through you,
I don't see anything at all.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
In the kitchen,
......fragrance is eclectic......in spices
fresh, some stewing with other ingredients...garlic
ginger, and bits of pork, and shrimp paste, blending
flavors in boiling coconut juice...sliced eggplants, cut string
beans, squared squash, and squash blossoms will be dropped
soon................in a separate pan, fish is deep fried...
joining this redolence, is
the smell of plucked sweetsop tree leaves, and dry grass,
touched by rain.....raindrops shyly tip-tap on the hot roof,
flowing down on the eaves, dripping sparingly, softly hits
the steaming creviced grounds....a hushed sound follows...
red, blue, brown, beige roofs adorn the graying horizon...
too early for thunder and lightning...gray clouds hang low
...more tears from Heaven threaten to flow
the front garden beckons...awaits to be rearranged
.....peach, purple, mauve and verdant colors surround
........there's music! the air is rich with a mix of sounds:
the neighbor's washing machine is running...cats are meowing,
purring, the rooster keeps crowing...seems, dog is vocalizing,
a pleasant crescendo...as water in the basin overflows...
...i could see invisible arrows, leading me...seeming didactic
...where to go, what to do, this morning so eclectic
...but.....
i savor what remains of a late breakfast of red sausages,
......and the smell of almost gone coffee...so pleasant, as
drying bubbles cling to the rim of the mug......electric fans
are turned towards the table.....to dispel hot, humid air,
........plates are ready......there is always cooked rice,
...........lunch is served.
Sally
Copyright August 27, 2017
rrab
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 11:00 PM UTC
Emperor patriarch enemy family
encyclopedia room flamboyance
and the minions of civilization bow
creviced foreheads etched
with hieroglyphic concentration
pantomiming the harmony of
banana splits dripping
on fireplace slippers
woven into the stories
your neighbors greeted you with
from the other side of the hedge
on the night the great comet arced
into our living rooms
and we kissed oh so
TV-like with the laugh track
clapping in time with the sprinklers
cha cha change the diaper ditty
after supper over done
under the influence
and in a fix
me another martini
extra olives
the smell of negligence
on her creamy pampered thighs
and the aromatic evidence
of lawn mower trim
on her teddy
bareness slipping away into comfort
the children wagering battle
plans with a mouse clicking
crayons left in box
cars matched tickets scratched
windows latched
onto
hobo toxic shock n awe
to see abandominiums
littering lots in crackopolis
virtual and simulated
between the in laws
and the outlaws
the grand apparentless routine
on display
could I borrow a toaster
or waffle with your wife
over the last stick of butter
backdoor banter about
Soldier of fortune
your last subscription
to the mercenary position of
the cul de sac coup d’état
taking place in spinning
class conscious of the fourth
estate third world second
generation first born zero
down home subdivisions
of the disenchanted
evening news is on excuse
that the whole thing is fixed
mortgages futures the lottery
tuition and everybody wins
army navy air force marines
corpses floating cross culture
reference guides to prescription
medication of futile society
Jonesing with the keeping
ups and out of product till
prime time reminds us
why we’re all here
waiting for the aliens
to excavate us.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
Back burner baby
Always said maybe
Well, maybe you were right
Back burner darling
All that i'm wanting
You don't have to fight;
anymore
I'm yours
Back burner lover
Love undercover
All of this time
Hidden in the closet
Lost in the shadows of
My creviced mind
You were right
I'm yours
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
And I choose to breathe
And I choose to breathe for every breath is free
Calmly bound of tempted drizzled fears
Slow dancing on the desperate dying wind
Placing endless hope against the flow
This does come
beyond iron gates of broken trances
to sing
undying wishes upon the deaf ears
Fractured in meanings and senses known,
these wrinkles form a flavored mask
Donned in apprehension of a wilted feeling
Sleek and slender, along a poisoned vine they grow
Challenging
in endless streams of sorted need
Stead fast
with chains of charmed tethered truth
Cartoon headstones with scribbled crayon’d names
cast darker shadows beneath the edges of sanity
Ripped and tattered these empty voices scream
my name in echoes bearing nothing more than seen
As I cry
my tears sprout wings and flee from my face
to my knees
finding only the jagged earth to rest
Desires cling to the massive arbors of life
Dreams falter along a winding creviced cliff
Nothing laughs like the air upon my sorrowed face
and I choose to breathe for every breath is free
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
.
Here in the pit of a sanctified cavern
Vacancy fills every pore of my soul
Grasping at walls made of stone, cut and jagged
Tearing my flesh as my fingers inscroll
Carving a poem of granite intentions
Phrases of love fall as dust to the floor
Evidence trailing in breaths hardly reasoned
Nothing to rhyme as I lose so much more
Drowning in questions while heavens are bleeding
Puddles of crimson abound at my feet
Shoveling dreams in a creviced delusion
Sunk in the mud till I can not retreat
Loneliness shouts in the stillness demeaning
Echoing chambers deplete in my heart
Calling my name which I now have forgotten
Ripping my sanity cleanly apart
Clutching my hands of the blisters now forming
Pain wreaks its havoc beneath severed skin
This is my fate, an abyss never fading
Bring on the end for I’m lost once again
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
Like an anthill I was, at birth.
The sprouting of a tree not yet mighty.
The trickle of a river not yet strong,
but within my mind were dreams.
I thought to myself...
When will I flow?
Every touch,
every word,
every color,
every note,
every taste,
was another grain,
another pebble,
another boulder,
another hill,
another expansion to my range of view.
And though I could yet call myself a mountain.
Though streams wove their ways from my eyes,
fresh springs of tender breaths,
trees rooted deep enough to whistle in the wind,
thoughts beginning to form,
I still spoke the words,
“When will I flow?”
I caressed the clouds and their silvery charm,
hugging my neck, like heavenly trinkets,
a beard of trees splayed down my chest and back, like emerald robe
and
ah,
rivers, splashing and bubbling and whooshing and running,
like naked children tumbling down from innocence,
giggling all the way
until they learn that the world hungers for blood.
The clouds at my neck are a vice at my fury.
They blacken like mists of soot
and crackle and moan.
They roar and spit fire upon the earth.
A tree splits and becomes a beacon of wrath, a torch
setting other trees aflame.
Oh, all nature is the same.
There is a time for peace and for war.
But when the flames settle.
When my skin is charred and creviced.
Then sprouts the green fingers of spring.
I am the mountain.
I command the seasons.
The winds are my whip.
The Earth is my chariot.
The clouds are my helm
and lightning my sword.
Guardian or warlord?
Lover or slaver?
Is it an illusion?
Am I at the whim of the seasons?
Does man define my beauty?
Thence comes the answer.
I flow.
I once flowed into me,
Growing strong, I was the mountain,
But the flow is leaving me now.
What leaves me is what I can do without.
The flow becomes my power.
In dying, I gain control.
Strong is my pen,
my word masters the sword
and
for every beginning
there is an end.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
^
capable of being touched or felt, TANGIBLE
easily perceptible, NOTICEABLE
easily perceptible by the mind, MANIFEST
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
*mind, body
tangible, noticeable…manifest
a summary specific quality,
body, mind, you, me,
actual, imagined…felt
realized, visible, invisible
palpably difficult, struggling to tell,
the nuances well, so easy understood,
yet,
so credibly hard to to my
cred,
to re-realize the*
essential essential
*of getting this
precise,
right.
knowing fully well,
that twice alright
have made the
human touch
my poetic target,*
and yet,
(always, always an and yet)
*I fear my failure
to touch you
to whom I communicate
by ether and pixilation,
by wire and satellite,
across continents,
through pouring secretions
from my pores
how palpable is the need
of my heart beating to
feel understood,*
*this need, so urgent,
to kiss your lips,
brace you to embrace,
pervade your kind mind,
(kind enough to let me enter),*
**to tangibly manifest
from my skin to your skin,
from my creviced mind,
to your creviced heart,
the pounding albatross
of this verbal unreality,
that is so real to me***
*that shakes with pleasured
anticipate, that the very
thought, of your reading
this loving wail,
this so tangible gesture,
breaks me to real-ease,
the tears pooling in my
eyes to land on your
exquisitely soft cheeks,*
and to take them away
returned to me, with gentlest
of a finger uplifting them,
and placing them on my
tongue,
for safekeeping…*
10/8
0907am
Wed
2025
~~~~
^
capable of being touched or felt, TANGIBLE
easily perceptible, NOTICEABLE
easily perceptible by the mind, MANIFEST
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 11:49 AM UTC
They dwell somewhere underneath,
hidden, as they patiently tread, in measured
crawls...or flights, when starting to work.
i've seen them before in their other journeys,
these often despised creators of hardened,
paths...straight, sometimes crooked lines
inconspicuously appearing on ashen,
concrete and creviced walls,
especially on wooden furniture
and on live heartwood trees.
they've been working continuously
for months now....these reddish lines, rising
from the huge base of the Narra tree, are
tendril-like tunnels...spreading wider
for all their purposes.
yet...these silent destroyers,
could not even penetrate the tree,
all they could do was move upwards,
and patch the trunk
with their muddy creations
to make things worse,
ants from a nearby towering tree,
crossed over their tunnels
and ate them alive.
the impenetrable Narra tree, stands
unaffected by its "invaders"...swelling
even more with golden yellow flowers
falling on our heads,
falling on the ground.
Sally
Copyright April 29, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bay
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 3:53 AM UTC
(a Father's Day acrostic, reposted...edited)
F-athers don't always show their feelings, they're not
A-s demonstrative and warm as most mothers are...yet,
T-heir love is deep...beyond measure....it's amazing
H-ow they hold their weak moments, without a tear falling...they're
E-steemed...like a statesman of enduring greatness...silently,
R-apidly perceiving the needs of their children, their family...always
S-elfless, as mothers are....to FATHERS, family is their priority...
::::::
A father is made of concrete,
hard as stone...a bit creviced at times
.......yet, always replete
with pebbles of love...and warmth, especially
when he nears the threshold of his home
to his children, his heart is soft as satin
...in his home, he is the hearth...the wall
........the love for his family,
............a fire burning within him:::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 17, 2017
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
~
Often I will stand ***** a stood up smiling face
Reaching for the meanings, only longing but to trace
Full in view, invisible, as empty glances come
Still, I can not see myself; I’m blinded by the sun
What features lie about this broken painted piece of glass
Accepted deep within the realms as desperate feelings pass
Shattered in the eyes of none that take the time to hear
Foggy misted attributes a’ clinging crystal clear
That mirror with its gilded frame, hangs crooked on the wall
Creviced breach of promises that loudly ring the call
Reflections of a face I have not seen in many years
Answers lost in what these lines do fashion of the fears
Am I here, I ask of eyes now found to stare right through
My hand before my face does not obstruct my cautioned view
Existence, does it brew the leaves, so relevant the tea
Challenging the truth a’ swirl within this cup I see
Tomorrow may just find that I have all but disappeared
Lost amongst the wanderers of voided silent cheers
Will they still remember me as someone they have known
Crying at the window panes of tortured teardrops shown
Or merely the forgotten in the mass of needless sighs
Nothing but a figment that did never grace their eyes
Tossed about as ashes from the cigarettes they hold
Invisible, and left alone, to wither in the cold
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
there is lead in the sky
and the lead, spits and cries
and the birds don't fly.
they huddle wet,
on branches, of dripping trees.
there are tears, pooling
on the ground.
puddling, muddling,
flowing down,
to the craggy, creviced
incurvate creek,
which is growing, swelling
and about to breach,
boggy, bullrushed borders.
the water dragons, are fleeing upwards,
to sit with the birds,
in among the trees.
the frogs they are singing hymn to the great watergod...
as the leap and dance along....
to the rythmnic revival song of the pattering, puddling rain.....
time of plenty hath come again.
come.....again.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
Sometimes, a faint crack appears,
and threatens a fragile surface.
that space between two sides,
two forces...is never an easy spot.
Standing there long moments
figuring out the mending
the patching up
the giving of light to minds,
darkened by rage and confusion;
spreading your arms wide
to convince, to encourage,
so both sides may soften...reach out
to each other...to diffuse tension,
to melt the ice that freezes good
energy, to let the warmth invade,
and make the connection last.
Ahh, the process is so tiresome
at times...enthusiasm is numbed.
When aging limbs grow weaker,
it becomes wearisome to repair
creviced connections, to be a bridge
for those who prefer to be apart.
Sometimes, it's best
to let islands remain islands.
they may be better off isolated,
at peace when they're on their own.
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 26, 2023
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 1:55 AM UTC