"frivolities" poems
East...and west, are we?
north, and south?.....maybe...
we were nurtured with love,
our eyes and our minds opened
to different isms that helped shape our
values...we were brought up, bearing our
folks' customs, traditions and principles...
we have different faiths...some practice...some
don't...some, don't even subscribe, yet, survive.
we have dry and monsoon season...in
other parts, pleasant weather, cold winds,
and in some parts, snow.....turning to ice
we are a mix of white skin, seeking for a tan,
and brown-skin, hiding from the sun;
one's night, is the other's day,
there are surfers among us, playing with the waves,
there at the cusp...gambling...daring fate...
there are those who hide from silent freezing winters,
finding warmth and comfort in long hot summers...
countless points of comparison,
yet, we've something beautiful in common,
a connection of feelings, of words...our poetry,
flowing like blood, through our veins...endlessly
feeding, fueling our hearts and minds, with classy,
themes....sometimes bold, mushy, or....sassy...
no set skeds...we do it even through adversity...
we write......
we tell about our escape from life's banalities,
mindscapes, landscapes immersed in frivolities
yet, we await the marvels of each morning we wake,
remembering gratitude, in every breath we take...
years have passed us by,
still, plays this soft music that mollifies
and inspires......heard only by you and i
prodding us, through hours, of day or night
while you exist in your own part of the world,
as i, in my hot, humid cosmos, long for cold.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May, 19, 2019
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
*My acute dementia
Seems to precipitate the need for immediate euthanasia
A hurried departure
Through the aperture
Deep set in the hollowness of time
Because essentially life’s been a lackluster mime
Imbibing flawlessly flawed ideas
That inform my capricious
Nature to various stimuli
It’s a life story based on a true lie
Frivolities interspersed with grave concerns
The myriad adjourns
Futile attempts at mitigating
A self-imposed galling.*
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
Abandoned, deserted and forsaken to whine.
In privation was he left lonely to pine.
His friends like a bird fled to another tree,
Leaving him to rot away in Dundee.
His soul was parched, pained and weary,
Longing him to be refreshed speedily.
His heart was sad, bitter and lorn,
Praying him this even to morn would turn.
And the laden lad afterward to London went.
By labour and favour did he an apartment rent
And began in earnest his early dreams to pursue,
Having himself picked up, as a man ought to do--
After a certain disappointment or fall in life--
Chasing no fantasy, frivolities, but working to rule;
Neither was he as afore again playing the pool
But was saving straight, and soon he success struck,
By heaven's fortune that to him came--nay by luck:
Like it's no fluke finding a goodly and godly wife--
It was by grace that he was wherefore blessed.
So his old chummy comrades to him returned to nest:
To wine and dine with him more like before. But he,
Once bitten, twice shy, was wise enough to repeat folly.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
Grim sonnets fraught with fraud and trauma stuff
her notebooks—steamy, bitter memories
of finished romance, rarely with enough
sweet lip syrup—ripe with frivolities,
important drama, broad license. She needs
an audience like green things need daylight.
I’m the sun to her bright lily. She reads
with fierce emotion—I squeeze my arms tight
around me, choke a chuckle—she pretends
I’m just amused at her soul-piercing style.
So much to ask, this ritual she tends
like a garden? I feign attention while
she rails at love and fate, lips pursed or drawn—
sarcastic, crushed, dismayed her youth is gone.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 5:09 PM UTC
My name is Rajabu Al Islam, an African Muslim
Born in Africa, Black Muslim not Arabic,
I am now in the solemn city of Mombasa,
Standing on the pinnacle of Tahir Sheikh Towers,
Looking at the land of Likoni and Motonkwe
Beyond the deep blue arm of Indian Ocean,
Behold the Muslim terrorists, lynch fierce terror
On the innocent human beings, in ramshackled church,
They are shooting women and young children,
The pastor at the dais, wielding the Bible,
Also succumbs to a bullet in his ***** capacity,
The church choir master has also dropped dead
And the rest of all humanity in the church
Have no where to take cover from terrorist,
As Moslem terrorist ********* bullets on them,
Poor humanity wail in the agony of death
From the injurious bullets, of AK 47,
Auma Otieno drops dead her son Osinya falling away,
Osinya is not dead, but a slug stuck in his skull,
In glorification of Al shabab the Islamic terror wing,
Baby osinya is young boy of six months,
Without selfish piety of Middle East in chest,
When you shoot him, is it n’t it super terrorism!
To shoot a child of six months in the head
In pursuit of your religious ecstasy?
Who said that Islam is the way of Godliness?
He was a beautiful cheat full of brawnish frivolities,
Islam is total darkness, as its overt organs are ;
Al gaeda, Al shabab and Boko Haram.
I hate Islam for its ***** reasonless ignorance
I hate it with my full passion and my entirety,
Indeed I am prepared to die in stern defense
Of my antipathy for Islam; a piety so uncouth
When I recall, the Twin towers of America,
West Gate of Kenya, American embassy in Kenya,
And the stubborn Boko Haram, that condemned human life
Foolishly in the north of Nigeria to be foul divinity.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
East...and west, are we?
north, and south?.....maybe...
we were nurtured with love,
our eyes and our minds opened
to different isms that helped shape our
values...we were brought up, bearing our
folks' customs, traditions. principles...
we have different faiths...some practice...some
don't...some, don't even subscribe, yet, survive.
we have dry and monsoon season...in
other parts, pleasant weather, cold winds,
and in some parts, snow.....turning to ice
we are a mix of white skin, seeking for a tan,
and brown-skin, hiding from the sun;
one's night, is the other's day,
there are surfers among us, playing with the waves,
there at the cusp...gambling...daring fate...
there are those who hide from silent freezing winters,
finding warmth and comfort in long hot summers...
countless points of comparison,
yet, we've something beautiful in common,
a connection of feelings, of words...our poetry,
flowing like blood, through our veins...endlessly
feeding, fueling our hearts and minds, with classy,
themes....sometimes bold, mushy, or....sassy...
no set skeds...we do it even through adversity...
we write......
we tell about our escape from life's banalities,
mindscapes, landscapes immersed in frivolities
yet, we await the marvels of each morning we wake,
remembering gratitude, in every breath we take...
years have passed us by,
still, plays this soft music that mollifies
and inspires......heard only by you and i
prodding us, through hours, of day or night
while you exist in your own part of the world,
as i, in my hot, humid cosmos, long for cold.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May, 19, 2019
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 5:49 AM UTC
I remember
Gran’s bony hands gripping my wriggling wrists
Crossing streets,
Watching my parents leave for business trips
Screaming, crying and kicking at their departure
Gran held me firm in place poker faced
Family additions
Dragged away like furniture:
Made felt like I was the fist that punctured the peace,
A surgically removed cyst from familial bliss.
Trying to demonstrate
That she was not as straight
As die, rulers, skyscrapers, line geometry,
My one time fathers frivolities
Preoccupied my attention
Until austerity crept back into her manner,
A gulf snatching me away from her temporary lapse,
Her gnarly hand seizing my shoulder.
Her part played to a fading friend and children gone
Continental drift.
Ocean crossings for funeral celebrations
Ravines forming in her fathomless foundations
Avoided my attention
Bright wrapping paper covered my childhood perception,
There was no melancholic manic depression
no lashing out with verbal accusations of abandonment.
Isolation.
Bubble wrap layers of armour; parental protection
steadily cast off in adolescence,
Left me reeling with raw emotion after seeing my grandmother broken.
My father staring at the TV ignoring the reality of her sanity,
It is easier coping with the match score rather than the eyesore.
Sitting in silence sooner than covering circular topics exhausted.
This is the most either can hope for, every move calculated, deliberated.
She waits for death so she can be liberated
He waits for deaths so he can live again
In memories reclaimed,
bony hands gripping wrists,
Establishing familial bliss,
My one time grandmother’s frivolities ,
A collection of her life’s mythology,
Not the sum of her anthology.
We will rewrite her biography.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
The eyes should be plucked from their orbits
Submerged in formalin
Stored in a museum for all to gaze upon and know
My love is pure-tried by fire-
The fingers cut off at the second knuckle
The skin and meat picked from them leave
Pale Pale Pale white bone beneath
...Untouched by any other man
Scrape Scrape says the knife carving
Runes and poetry into the finger bones
So that all may know
My love was pure-tried by fire
The ****** knife danced
As in the sleep visions I cried out silently
Gray and muted were the eyes and
The voice was...lost from those lips
I remove the death mask to lick the cold lips of her corpse
Purple Petals that wither in the winter air
The warm cloud of my breath
Filling her nostrils
God breathing breath into Adam's first-rib
A lock of hair I disrupt
Falling from the high place
In Hurried Lust
I wonder at the stopped machinery that lies beneath
Do I dare slip the scalpel once more from its placement
And bring it to bare at the left breast?
It is the doing of another-I am no longer here
Searching for what is lost in the garden of her entrails
Wilting Bloom
I search the throat with my fingers
Reconstructing the final moments
Once more I run my fingers against thread
Delicatley I have sewn closed the gaping slash wound
To the throat warm spray a muted gurgle
Air slipping from the vocal chords disjointed dirge she sings to me
Forgetting quickly my stone ears deaf to such frivolities as mercy
The knife found it's own way through the breastbone
She and I are ancient beings
Our bodies sarcophagus for the true form
Released at last First Breath
Picking pieces of it from my teeth
Nail marks line my fore arms
Wounds tasting of the final throes
For she in peace dances at the feet of Him
Her wings cover her eyes
Her wings cover her feet
Holy seraphim returing crest raised high
Among the host
The great cycle completed
Tried by fire she is found whole once again
And I await with joy
The eternal punishment
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Bar: Drinks are on me
Dartboard: Make mine a double!
Pinball: Down the hatch!
Bottle: Who's having a half-empty day then?
Glass: Stick a cork in it
Table: Steady on lads
Clock: Time gentlemen!
Dancing Girls: Bottoms up!
Calendar: Same time next week?
Windows: You're all barred!
Door: We are now closed
Lights: We'll be off then
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
How the late night wasteland has tempted me to waste, and
squander sleep with running from myself; and for good measure!
If any soul was not himself, than I
If any soul longed to be himself, than surely I
Ah but here there are only frivolities of speech which I present
For I cannot afford clarity obtuse; simple confessions of regret
Least walls be broken down and teeth to the grind be set
So let me quibble in the vaguery of verse and line
For such is the brief solace and respite, afforded to these nights of mine
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
All I hear is talk around me
The words hum in my ears
I can't understand the idle dribble
Of the wasted human race
I plead guilty to frivolities too
For I am no different
But I'll act different from the rest; internally
Just to feel a bit happier
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
The bareness of Winter,
Skeletal branches,
Black and silver,
Chimes like a music box,
Like a melody stripped
Of frivolities, so the weightless
Chill in the air is life
At her most pure.
Summer's tension mounts,
Cacophonous nature
Or threatening silence,
And shanghais children,
The truly perceptive ones,
Into a game of tag,
Running like dervishes till lungs
Feel like burning.
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 4:56 AM UTC
Of all the things I know not of,
I do not care if there is a heaven above.
A house in the clouds and streets of gold?
Are just some of the frivolities of which I've been told.
I have no need of your petty gods.
I'm betting against them, I like the odds.
I have come to terms when it comes to beliefs.
In that I have none, no gods or chiefs.
I thought that I might've like to go to the show.
To emerge from the shadows and bask in the glow.
It was then that I saw that I wasn't invited.
Upon seeing reviews I was rather delighted.
You say there was dancing and drinks to be had.
That a wise man spoke and said things are so bad.
You gave him your money so he could have more.
He bought a new jet, it's not for the poor?
I think I'm good with this wise man of yours.
He's not feeding the sick and offering cures.
Promises made plenty, never paid in full.
This wise man of yours, sounds more like a fool.
Keep your shamans, your nuns, and your preachers.
I'll take the poets, the lovers, and teachers.
Those people around me who care for my heart.
Those people who nie to tear me apart.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
If my work were my child
It’d be the middle one
In between my perfectionism, the elder
And my self-loathing, the younger
I phone up inspiration
To help with the troublesome kid
But she never returns my calls anymore
Motivation, I haven’t spoken to in ages
She left when my insecurities
Got the better of me
Said I’d become a pathetic husk of a man
Look at me
I don’t even have the energy to rhyme
Better toss this one on the pile
With the rest of them
What’s the pile, you ask?
It’s where I keep all my
No-effort narratives
Forgotten frivolities
Miserable musings
Worthless writings
Inadequate ideas
Laughable lines
Soulless stories
Cold chapters
Terrible titles
Bad books
Garbage
The pile is large
And it only gets larger
As time progresses
Because the quality
of something I write
Quickly regresses
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 6:49 PM UTC
I drown
In your eyes
I melt
In your smile
I shiver
In your closeness
I am mute
At your sight
But should I
Or should I not?
I want you
But I’m scared
Of heartbreak
And despair
I fear that
You will go
And I will be
Left alone
Trust I
Or trust I not?
You are the highlight
Of my fantasies
The hope
Of my realities
The source
Of my frivolities
Love I you
Or love I not
That is the question.
3/6/2018
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 5:39 AM UTC
Graceful Suffering
By Ursula D. Jones
Palindrome Poetry (Mirror Poem)
November 6, 2023
Suffering gracefully is always giving in gentleness,
Smiling cheerfully in enduring pain and grief.
Learning wisdom in silence and loneliness,
Pensively guiding and directing frivolities composed of youthfulness.
Only healing for longing, wounded, and lonesome hearts,
Friendship offered and taken. Never returned companionship.
Suffering graceful, with happiness for all, never jealous, nor spiteful.
Peacefully—
spiteful, nor jealous. Never. All for happiness with graceful suffering,
Companionship returned never. Taken and offered friendship.
Hearts, lonesome and wounded, longing for healing only.
Youthfulness of composed frivolities; directing and guiding pensively.
Loneliness and silence in wisdom learning,
Greif and pain enduring in cheerfully smiling.
Gentleness in giving always is gracefully suffering.
Oct 22, 2024
Oct 22, 2024 at 7:30 PM UTC
Burrowed intimately in my own sedacious eclipse,
I awake mid day, soaking up our heavy and expected frivolities.
As I sip from my cup, the soft silk slithers down my throat.
Unable to sustain a direct state of such, it eats at me like a disease.
The tingeling heat that wraps around my tired lips, ignites the yearn of more.
With each bat of black beneath my eyes, I shiver as I am endowed by everything that it yours.
Take me.
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
Who gave you the right?
You haunt my sleeping and my waking
mind. I dream of you at night and fear you
in the day. I think of you constantly. Only you,
With your too large hands on my too small body.
I can't hug my boyfriend, can't handle criticism,
Can't deal with emotions. Because of you. Because
of your selfishness, because of your cruelty,
because of your sick perversions.
I had another dream tonight.
You starred in it, as always. You, with your slimy voice,
calloused hands, wet tongue. I woke up, tears spilling
down my cheeks again, the salt burning my skin
I've never hurt anyone. Not that I know of.
Never gotten into a fight, never done anything bad
enough to deserve this. So, why? Why did you do this to me?
I'm done waking up, gasping for air, with tears
in my eyes. I'm tired of crying over you.
You swept in and stole my life.
I'm not right because of you. I can't make love to
the love of my life. I can't talk to people. And love?
Love is a concept I couldn't comprehend. Not until
recently. I thought it was for others, but never
for me. No, I was ***** all used up. I wasn't made for
such frivolities. You took ******* love from me.
So, I ask again, who gave you the god ****** right?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
my morning muse comes doused in drowsy eyelash
a soft spot in the heart of the bed
tattoos threaded in skin I've traveled often in lamplight
on tundra nights, drunken hands with too much to say
soberly sobbing with good intentions
truth swap in the tether of tongue touching
opulent limbs, an ode to you
swiftly I want to say
I've compared others to the hallowed moon
a sunset without an end
but you, the enthusiast to my affection
are a morsel of cold water after ***
the lush terror of a first kiss
a delectable fight of a god against his demons
my zest, my fever
the patient savoring of my exquisite savior
there is a violence to love something
to indulge in a deluge of tenderness
for you
my favorite friend
my sympathetic lap of luxury
this body of roses would like to confess
that it no longer feels empty between the ribcage
that the songs too sad to listen to before
fill me with a quietude of laughter
I used to think love poems were frivolities for the mediocre
but now I understand
this is a love poem
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 5:44 AM UTC
Strive to Listen. Thus convert what we hear
If Articles alone were your Sharp Cause
Even I, sore as a Horner's Thumb fear
What sordid News would take my Heart to pause
May be just as well; Though tempted to peek
Ask my Frivolities from your State feed
Such Real Illusion; Of Poisoned Scents reek
Take your Summed Profile more than I would need
And as I have told - at least by Bob's Bay
Ask once more the Whitened Baby preserve
For his Dark Water; Un-Succumb the Day
And wipe his Flannel he so much deserve.
Such is Behaviour. Balanced by Degree
The same which I bind the Demon in me.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
I never could write a song
It was an unnatural endeavour, and
I wanted to, so much, but the notes
and words refused to stretch out of
the womb
Or at least knock the walls within to
give a hint as to what frivolities or
beauty I could put into the spaces
I tried to conjure up a melody, a rhyme
that wasn't wickedly elementary, but
all that came were impatient breaths
So I fumble with words and their
infinities instead
-cj
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
as colorful dawn by sleepers not known
as light does its highlighting chore
the valley serene in rich autumn garb
no brown green and clean as before
silent and teeming with life so respectful
of rest to the mind and soul
wisp of mist called by a sky
as rays from the east take their toll
how many years has this rock turned its face
to warmth and pleasure of Sol
shadows which fade and crannies which open
bear witness to eons untold
when will it tire this lovely home
this oasis in space and the black
eternity is as forever of something
afoot not known at our back
a valley of oneness a privacy real
no sounds of the trappings of progress
no neighbor or hound or vocal chords strained
no doubt to some seen as regress
this treasure of mine so rich in its being
at times I could with others share
such solitude so pleasing to eye
but few friends would paradise bear
when sleeping is done and in the dim glow
of dawn the eye seeks out
this picture of life this oil of hand
so steady so real and without
facade or whim or frivolities jibe
a solid as rock guarantee
of tomorrows light and sight smell and sound
and peace solitude free
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC