"despondent" poems
Gaze on that woman by the train.
With curves like gunpowder
that will shoot fireworks again.
As her and I once were.
Since then, of women, I've abstained.
My chest is a pyre
to the damsel I couldn't retain;
fondness that won’t expire.
You say I could never attain
and imply I'm a liar!?
Or you think either me insane
or least she's miswired?
The evidence on my brain -
melancholy, ire -
the despondent husk that remains,
need you more enquire?
...True, of her, no displays of pain;
eyes that jolt not tire,
poker voice tipping no disdain,
legs that feed desire!
For her, gone love is not a chain
hidden by attire
or flushed down a forgotten drain.
It merely retired.
Love like hers was the wind and rain
to my earth and fire.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 6:09 PM UTC
No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile
readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...
a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on, shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.
sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words, a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....
a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 29, 2017
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
The end of Second Summer's day
When rain and snow have ceased to be
Will see the end of our delay
And mark the death of our decree.
*Elsewhere the despondent souls
Of smoke-stacks rise up from the coals...*
As plastic melts beneath the glare
And long the Dream was dashed ashore,
Then will smog-clouds light the air
And cast the fires across the moor.
*... Then, far beyond, the wand'ring mirth
Will strike the land, and scorch the Earth...*
Until the sky is raised in flame
We'll walk the trail of frail regrets,
And once the world glows hot with shame
Shame will then our end beget.
*... And so our doing will blaze the sky
By MMXXVII*.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC
Have you ever felt the kind of numbness that sinks into your bones?
The kind that leaves you hollow and empty inside.
All except for that lingering lead ball
residing in the pit of my stomach.
No matter what I do,
the medication I take,
the therapists I see,
the prayers I pray,
that lead ball is still there.
And when things escalate,
my soul is despondent within me
and eventually,
the numbness takes over.
"Seek God and all will be well"
I call BS.
Not all will be well.
In fact, we are guaranteed a difficult life.
I just want a break sometimes.
A breath of fresh air, you know?
It's hard to get that
when there's a lead ball
in your stomach
and numbness
in your bones.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
*A church mouse’s despondent muse
Is like a fuse
Melting as soon as it features in its brain
It does potentiate a pitiless migraine.
Bubbly spring in its step
A misstep
Seemingly a rare occurrence
Like a snow ball in hell, perchance.
A truce
With Zeus
To spare it
Bedeviling suited for a society’s #misfit.*
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
Daily I open my e-mail
Check my inbox and search horoscope.
There I found new horoscope daily
I read my love horoscope there
which Described Your and My love relation status.
But today when I open my e-mail,check my inbox,search horoscope.
there is no mail related to horoscope.
I become worried about you,little bit despondent for you,disquiet
After waiting for long time.
when I press refresh button
I received a new mail
It is my Horoscope ,I become a happy once again.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood.
A culling fire exploits the docking shire.
Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps.
Friar palms glisten,
Rage responds with frisson.
Clear view over water.
Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks.
Bulbous deadening brain chimes
As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes.
Leave me alone in my despondent company.
Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture.
A warm breeze carries me
like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats.
I'm here now, alone in the corner,
The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards.
Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic.
Time to clock-in, time to check out.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
I twist and turn,
Suffle in my
Hospital bed.
The drum of
The dextrose drops,
Plays as the background
For my despondent lulluby.
Clickering and clackering;
The white feet
On the frozen
Hospital floor
Feature the vocals
Of the weeping relatives
I do not know.
A chorus
Of morose songs
That bellow
From the valley
Of faded faces
Dulls the senses
Of the patients
In the ICU.
Doctors wearing
White garbs
With darkened eyes
Whisper to each other
Like a cult gathering
With prayers
And curses
On their lips.
They appear
To me
Like snakes
On the tree
Throwing sins
And travesties
To the
Invalid saints.
I, fight fervently
Against sleep.
Although almost
Twenty-four,
Am a child
Again.
A child who
Detests sleep
Like the plague
That took me.
In this hospital bed
I start my vigil;
A pilgrim to zion
Daunted by
The task before him.
Beset on all sides
By treasures
And trinkets
That would
Want him stray.
My eyes serve
As the lamp
To which
My body,
A servant,
Keeps alight.
In wait
For the return
Of the master.
An encounter
To rekindle
The bond
In childhood.
A chance
To decide
Which fashion
It will end.
So eyes,
Stay alight,
For your oil
Will only
Last one night;
Keep the fight.
Despondency
May fill these
Final moments
But at the moment
Of the master's
Return
The chorus
Of faded faces
Will turn into
Choirs of angels
And there;
Sleep.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
The last swallow swooped a departing circle
spiraling low
over dusk reaped fields of stunted straw.
Corn harvest gathered,
hay baled for winter feed store.
Gold trashed under combine tracks and tractor trails scarring the soil which birthed it.
The swallow's the last wings of a fading love.
The field a churned despondent heart.
The crop waning memories,
nothing more.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
Some time Life is like a dark room,
Indiscernible indulge to intuit incurring infusion
Infusion of irrelevant and irregular,
Leads to a moment of disappointment and despondent!
******
But when light penetrate
Everything becoming vivid - vivacious
and set up Valve to visions!
*******
Allow light to break in and spread all over.......
Make everyone spirited and shunt for
Peace and progress!!!
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC
I look up at the chaos around me
and see.
I see people saying their last prayers,
Waiting for their fateful endings,
I hear the church bell toll in its last call,
I feel the suffocating heat from the burning buildings,
I smell the smoke from the ignited city,
I taste the desperation in the air and the bitterness of regrets.
But in the middle of this tumult,
One thing stands out;
One person.
A little boy stands there in a tan attire,
dark gray ash contrasting his almost-white hair
and tears stains on his ivory cheeks.
A grim expression marking his features,
He shakes as if freezing
and although the heat has almost become unbearable,
he stands in the middle of the flames
barefoot yet unharmed.
A scythe lays at his feet,
and a pale horse stands by his side,
making his small body look even smaller.
As if feeling my stare,
he locks eyes with me.
And as the world burns down,
the reflection of the cataclysm in his brown eyes
and the look of innocent incomprehension he wears
is the single most heartbreaking thing in the moment.
Suddenly, I do not care about the screams and cry of the despondent goners.
I do not feel the harsh scorch of the burnt remains under my bare feet.
I do not mind the tears welling up in my eyes due to the fumes.
They are but a distant reminder of the atrocity surrounding me.
I can only focus on the strange guilt reflected in his warm eyes.
From those same eyes, a tear rolls down his cheeks
And as it reaches his dimpled chin,
he raises a little hand to wipe it away
And then waves at me.
I do not wave back,
too stunned to move or react,
But I could tell he did not expect me to anyways.
With one last look,
he picks up the scythe with an unusual easiness
and turns to walk towards the flames,
the horse close behind him.
And soon, they are one with the flames.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 8:47 PM UTC
Nowhere to call a home
Never a place to call shelter
Just a temporary sanctuary
Gradually being washed away
By the advent of time
And relationships
On the side of crossroads,
You'd miss it if you weren't looking
Plants break free of its walls,
Tearing it into pieces,
Reducing it to ruins
That is where my love used to be
Where it used to exist
The bottom cellar is where my heart
Used to beat, scream out it's
Intentions for the world to hear
Where I once knew that love existed
Now, those same walls have fallen
Ruined, the stones are chipped
Holes mar the surface
And if you ever step inside,
You'd see a great big emptiness
A muskiness in the air
Speaking about what used to be
Cobwebs line the ceilings
The floors, unsteady and weak
A little bit of sunlight filters through
Providing enough light to make out figures
A sadness sets in, a weariness
Felt through your bones
Dampness causes the wood to decay
A drop falling every now and then
Startling with its loudness,
Makes a puddle on the floor
That steadily trickles down
To what lies below
A despondent house, called haunted
By people passing, who happen to see it.
No one goes in, no one steps in
It remains abandoned, cutting an
Intimidating, haunting figure where it
Stands unnoticed, beside the crossroads
Unmentionable, unnoticeable
If you didn't know it was there,
Your eyes would pass it by
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 6:28 AM UTC
if he is not made of them wholly, branches, he will be soon. they are everywhere, and he steps on them, and they are arms from hell. he wears a child’s football jersey, torn at his size and his sorrow. he reaches into it and pulls out his heart, a red balloon given the what for, inside of which he blows his nose. he returns the heart.
a yellow adherent hangs from both nostrils, as two ropes being cut at and then loosed from his brain. the first keeps an arm from heaven; the second he catches and loops twice to put on his neck. one is never out of the woods here, and he knows it, knows here is Baltimore, Ohio. he has watched the people, some of them, leave; their happiness would be better called remission.
he is giddy when he comes upon a man wearing only a barrel and he tips it with joy and makes better his headway home. the rolled over branches shriek and wake the man who nakedly bails. the branches up their shrieking.
his mother he has no dementia of his time in her womb. why for **** the despondent are given captions like ‘blank look’ he can’t say for in his mama naught but canvassing eyes. she’s what he calls ‘at grocery’, shaking a coffee can she’ll buy because a done melon can’t hold pennies. she often at the neck is saddled with two toddlers but in his projection now there is just one making miracle of not kicking the coffee can into another’s back.
any girl that occurs lets him take her with his tongue only as she seems to know he was circumcised and after that much paddled.
he starts thinking on dad and dad’s laughing when mother’d say boys be home before dog because that’s how it sounded from seizures and of course rock candy in the summer. the barrel splinters beneath him to be forgotten and his legs go to bleeding stilts.
his last things by his face are insufficient; rock candy, barrel, and twin. I talk on the barrel, I don’t need it, not anymore.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
the air hangs heavy
of dignity in spaces meant
to house a golden king.
despondent, alone,
i am the silent sunken stone
of understanding pebbles
bathed in shallowater sighs
of quiet far-off longing.
all one; air
rushes in and fills my wings-
i fly and breath the sky.
a sun of your heart
warms me through the cracks
of injured earth
centuries apart from day,
i rise and smell
the song of your smile.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 5:39 AM UTC
It is Christmas Eve.
I sit idly, in slight discomfort on this wooden pew.
A glorified bench if you ask me.
I remember being a child, blissful and reverent.
I memorized sacred stanzas of prayer unaware of their meaning,
chanted them with everyone else.
I always thought God had excellent diction.
Now though I am puzzled.
For an American culture so ethnocentric, patronizing rituals in the third world and of other religions as silly;
Their own rituals are quite silly.
Transcending the mystery of creation for a moment now: having figured this a charade for the generational reproduction of virtue and morality inexorably tied up in the Americanization and Assimilation of society, that we might all move in one direction. That we might all create family units, buy houses, white picket fences, watch television on couches with children and consume, consume, consume... I deem it acceptable to be immoral.
Hymnals couldn't be more of a bore to me, prayers are empty.
But the girl three rows up is filling her dress quite nicely.
I wonder if she also is despondent, if her eyes wander.
I take a mental step back and realize how many girls are wearing high drawn dresses.
Are they showing off their flawless legs for the lord? Surely not.
They dressed that way for me.
The three rows up girl looks astray and catches my eye;
for a moment we have found our savior.
I make it a point to kneel next to her for communion,
brazen enough to tell her "That dress is something else."
She blushes and shoots me a seductive smile.
"Yes I'm wrapped up quite well aren't I? Only missing a bow."
Holding the body of Christ,
"That shouldn't be a problem, I'm quite good at unwrapping. These dexterous hands of mine."
Her body shifts to the left, her sinister side against my right.
I watch her take a rather large drink from the blood of Christ, she places her hand over mine as she braces to stand.
Our eyes flicker on again for an instant as she turns.
I'll be finding her.
The golden goblet seeks me next.
Bad wine posing as blood.
Like all these christian's faking it, it's quite suiting.
I wonder if they really believe they are drinking human blood?
And eating human flesh?
******* zombies man.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:12 PM UTC
Was it a surprise?
You have not the length of a tree,
Nor the beauty of a rhododendron.
Your friends are not of plenty like that of a forest
And none inhabit your “vast” wealth of knowledge.
So, how did it surprise?
Was it your shallow logic in which lethargic is defined?
Or the rangy alps of hope from which this preposterous “self-worth” first began?
No matter.
Here we are.
And lonely, despondent glances do no one good.
Time is of the essence, my friend.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:19 AM UTC
For sustenance we trudge on
Just to sustain
This callus equilibrium of fragile crystals
swaying in the wind, falling constantly
Employing the cleverest techniques of fleeting upward momentum
Short-lived displays of affection bleeding the small offering received at birth
endlessly replayed to our children's eyes
Despondent indentured servants scribbling through skin and tendons
Just to feed their families the rice they can no longer grow
And sending these fairy tales to the rosy-cheeked offspring of their oppressor's store bought dreams
To keep the oppression alive .
To operate at peak efficiency.
To transfer honest muscle through wire mesh.
And fatten.
And enfeeble
Enforce the prerequisites to match the scale's testimony.
Testify! Oh, Lord. We thank you for this meal stolen from our inferiors.
Please Please Please.
We demand pleasure. IT IS REQUIRED.
For if we feel sadness, then we have failed.
And we'll lay down what we don't have space in our engorged bellies for.
It will be placed, with all due honors, to our greatest shrine.
Where we are honest with our real Mother.
Where the proud, twicely worn, footwear of our warrior-spiritless cows rests
Where erections limp as collapsed towers, respected by false jihads, sleep.
Where dream's plastic refusal composts never; nourishing nothing.
Where potential is pure impotence.
The bed we all share.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Foster child of silence
What did you say?
You were always instructed to smile
It was a woman’s way
Your smile is corrugated
You eyes sheathed in despair
You yearn for a rush of happiness
You wear your masks expertly
Until your hidden emotions bleed
You pace and pray to make them go away
But you cannot stay sane in this facade
White padded walls embrace you
Until your soul is cut in two
You finally speak
But no one listens to you
No light on the horizon
Only darkness that ties you down
You don nakedness
You plant your feet in a potted tree
Hoping to go back to a place, safe and serene
Instead on the cusp of losing your mind
You hear voices calling out
Telling you that they love you
You look all around for them
But remain alone in the padded room
Your mental illness you cannot control
It is the monster in your heart that wants to let go
You gather your strength above no other
To put another mask of sanity on your face
You play your facade expertly
And you are released for a time
Until you become a danger to yourself or others again
Where is your gratitude?
Just for today
You have been given multiple chances
Of a second chance at life
Remove the lock and key from your soul
Seek help and slowly let the pain come
Don’t let it drown you
Some memories have been taken away by God
Other’s have endured with his assistance
But what is wisdom and life without trial
Begin to forgive and begin to heal
Let the dragons come head on
With your family by your side
You are not alone
Speak your voice or ink your pen
But do not be a victim
To the demons inside
Take off your running shoes
Go barefoot in earth’s paradise
Walk to the ends of the Earth
And God will kiss your blisters away
You will no longer be despondent
No longer suffocating in your silence
You will remain on the path to freedom
Break from the constant
Begin to live again
Free yourself
Find the courage and the voice
To say goodbye to the old demons
The harmony in your heart is your life giving force
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC
IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW*
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Here my comrades and I are laden
We fought for King and Country
Here we are---the fallen.
‘Be proud’, was the national proclamation
‘ You are the chosen’
We left home and our loved ones
Here we are—the ill-begotten.
Some of us once upon glorious corridors
Of Cambridge and Oxford had trodden
The best and most fertile of young minds
Here we are—the forgotten.
How strong we then were, riding on the back of youth
Its dreams so sweet and resplendent
Rained by bullets in the battlefield
Here we are---death has spoken.
Pro patria gloria, dulcis pro patria mori
(Never mind if our hearts were cruel and rotten
We must **** all enemies over the fence)
Here we are---the terrible who were chosen.
Were we born to destroy and mutilate?
But in the battle-front ---all we loved and espoused had been stolen
Buried in dark pits of hate and revenge
There we were----inhuman and despondent.
Those whom we slaughtered and maimed
Didn’t they like us once did hold dreams just as golden?
Weren’t they who happiness sought as we did?
Here we are—to bemoan all the precious from such that had been stolen.
In Flanders fields the poppies weep
For us who are far from home and have nowhere to return
With the wind’s nightly melancholic sighs whispering in our ears
Here we are----empty, with dark sins upon us—for absolution is all we yearn.
• inspired by the opening line of John McCrae’s poem IN FLANDERS FIELDS published in December 1915 (Flanders is in Belgium where a million died or were maimed).
John McCrae (1872—1918) was a Canadian doctor who joined the army as a gunner but later transferred to the medical service.
IN 1918 he was made consultant to all the British armies in France
but died of pneumonia before taking up the appointment.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
My world changed.
Now. I. am.
Dis- inherit.
More like the unwanted
guest,
in
a party for yourself.
That un wanted
is always
you.
Banners can say your name.
One thousand times.
Screaming.
Out of skyscrapers, bungee jumping
from space shuttles.
Saltating, from your inner
lung meat.
Banners, with names, can only spittle lies.
Now unwanted I wanna leave,
get out,
only 3 more miserly months
of a kingdom of intellectual
gods and tzars.
screaming my party name,
but I.
I.
gone.
I am sitting
While I'm grieving
and admitting in my seat
clenching to be let out
breaking cracking/gnashing teeth
left alone. all wanted
left to brain rot
but forced to sponge
learning what i want in
learning my ashcans full
i am done
I will. remain. despondent.
I wont apply my neurons
motor-sensory illusion
for math demagogues
what the ****
crust me over
cut my brain-case
destroy all brain
function and matter
grey dissolve to black
and white every *******
shade inside
cephalic
meat bowel
Lifeboats float back up to the top, after
re-inflated, I breathe air once again. My
retinas detect the light coming from
packets of waves emitting from the shore.
I float back up from the cold sea to the rock.
Alive.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
Are these tears of blundering laughter
or heckles of contempt
that spirit on these haggard few
to rhapsodise our era’s curtain calls?
They who brought us mounting debt and conscientiousness
which seems only to be healed in the appeasing fluorescence
of 24-hour supermarkets and the purgatory
of weekends spent at home?
Such stifling, nervous coughs
are head as responses of
today’s domestic questionnaires
Gung-ho reformative advances
and calls to “pull up our socks”
Mixed with the state-sponsored fortune-telling
Rationed out to boys languishing on the dole.
Which All falsely transpires,
intimidatingly revealed as being
About as appealing as vacuum cleaners for the soul
aimed at the resolutely bored to tears.
Despite our fears
the sun will come streaming again
through fresh fir trees
which decorate contemplative, sheltered lanes.
These last, frostbitten years
seek replacement with halcyon days
in order to suspend dogmatic disbelief.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves:
Pessimism is ****
Even in the most roaring of times
we remained despondent and calculated.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
Remember that day we glided along rice fields,
me and you lagging at the back,
while the 12 of us pedaled bicycles?
The clouds drooled down daylight,
and I was feeling lonely and crap.
You glanced back on the road and waited. "You alright?"
your eyes said.
And we chatted about our problems, time chopping away on an x-asis,
as we passed fields, motorbikes, and watersheds.
Those shared moments every day
with you, our friends, and our Vietnamese teaching staff,
it aligned my universe like a human astrolabe.
I'm so glad our group traveled across the world,
riding bikes and drinking beer unbounded by maps.
It ***** being home now, far away. I miss you and I'm always bored.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC