"furnitures" poems
It’s been forever ago
It hurt so bad
it created a little hole
that slowly consumes me
from the moment I sleep in the morning
to the midday naps I took
sleep was never here
i moved my bed to where the sun
doesnt reach me anymore
i hated the heat
i hated the hint of
tomorrow’s glow
it’s been years you still
sit at the back of every forgotten memory
dusted furnitures you rearranged
and made a home
there was never love
for you
but i hoped
there was never anything
from you
but i held my neck like drying clothes
i felt ashamed
but never for loving you
it was just i’m ashamed i even dared to
create a space for you
though i felt empty
you never deserved
an inch of everything
i felt.
you never deserved me.
you never deserved the happiness
you stole from every night
and every sun light absorbed
waiting for the day
to kiss you.
Feb 9, 2023
Feb 9, 2023 at 3:17 PM UTC
I Am Like My Mother
In more ways than one,
I am like my mother....
This stands before anything else:
My family is my priority
I preach to respect seniority
But, sometimes I go soft
Upon hearing pleas from little voices.
My life is replete with family albums,
Sturdy wood furnitures that have lived
Through the years, and most importantly,
Old family traditions my siblings and I
Learned from my mother.
I would prefer for these to be observed
By the succeeding generations,
Where love and kindness to others,
Table manners and saying graces are only
A few of those lessons most often stressed.
The children in my family,
Thy grew up the way I was raised.
Humility is practiced at an early age,
Where no child speaks when not spoken to,
And helping with the chores is a must...
They are taught early on in their childhood
As soon as they are able to understand...
We have a God, our Creator,
To whom we should always be grateful to....
From Him comes all our countless blessings...
My sisters and I...
We are like a sorority.
Hopefully, the other women in my family
Would eventually realize,
There is an expectation
That my mother's ways should be kept going...
This, my sisters and I would make sure of.
Each morning, my mother would look around
The whole house and its boundaries,
With both her arms akimbo.
Now, it is I who does the surveying,
But, with my hands clasped behind me.
Front, back and sides of the house
All kinds of plants and trees surround...
I make sure they are all green and lush.
Fruit trees and flowering plants in the summer,
Several wild flowers do sprout all year round,
To grace our lives through all kinds of weather.
My mother and I, we had an implied agreement,
We didn't discuss it, never brought it up
In any family gatherings.
It just happened that I knew her so well.
Now that I'm older, I've never been so sure...
I am like my mother,
In more ways than one...
(Written August 28, 2013)
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
We are all the same buildings
But with different foundations
Variety of colorful and bleak paints
And the mismatched furnitures inside us
That make us look -complete otherwise
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
I didn't have the wrist of Osundare
Nor the tongue that speaks Wole Soyinka
Yet, my anthology is not up to a Canto
Not until I make for you a Bible, ahead stretching Water
I lingered through the facets of beauty
A million turning a second up in my head
Nothing, no one soothes the burrow like the sky crying
No touch is so tender like the blow from Mama nature
Can you you feel the Lullaby she sings on the Roofs?
Tell me! Does your Mama placate so tender to lure you to sleep better?
A drop triggers a race,
Its menial calls for buckets
Her late stay claims furnitures of ages
A flow of bliss that built Eden here
In her pour makes Marmaids glitter
Puts the smile on Cutlasses and hoes
As more pockets surely would smile
With no paint,
Brightly, she paints the sky Grey
Your Ex-GF would wanna stay more Late
Make sure you didn't make it rain, else, you are in soup!
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
the aftertaste of loss and failure coats my mouth
as i slur my apologies to the wind and
stumble my way to my front door
i try not to blame myself for how things
turned out to be but when people say there's
a whole universe inside of you it's hard to sleep
soundly at night
because how could i contain multitudes
but not be able to do anything when people come
and make me feel like a house
being emptied out of its furnitures and picture frames
even ghosts seem to shun my presence but
wouldn't it be perplexing to say that it's because
i am doing a better job of being a phantom than them?
or maybe it's because of this camouflage suit that
i'm always wearing that is making me invisible
and i want to know if stripping it off means
i am finally surrendering
when you see what the inside of my head looks like
you will see a ghost town inside a snow globe
and there are fault lines everywhere
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
She is street lights and I am walking
She is medication and I am allergic reaction
She is Christmas eve and I am Monday
She is first in line and I am defaulted
She is mosh pit and I am a ghost town
She is antique furnitures and I am an old man
She is every note and I am guitar strings
She is art and I am a hand
She is used to be and I am toxic
She is 5 minutes ago and I am so late
She is family tree and I am a wall
She is rescue team and I am a soccer ball
She is winter and I am a nagger
She is happening and I am never
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Please listen to me.
Weeping on my knees as my throat clogs with suffocation of phantasm,
I plead......
Please listen to me
Listen to the blood that drips from my mind enclosing the torture of self neglect
Listen to the poison that spills from my mouth that mirrors the monsters I've met.
Listen to the rope that hugs my throat as it kisses me with lies.
Listen to the gun wound with bullets covered in loath that pierced through my soul outcry.
Listen to the writing on the wall that depicts a fragmented soul demanding for the oblivious to be conscious.
Listen to the brokenness that glares from my eyes in despise.
Listen to the pills of escapism I swallow with a smile of wry.
Listen to a soul outcry.
My heart aches of desolation and despair,
Bottles thrown in every direction as the wall cries tears of blood in fear.
Furnitures dismantled portraying a shattered heart one cannot bear.
What's dear to me is incompetent, its sincerity is rare.
Strapped in a chair of agony with my mouth taped and my eyes covered
Heart rate accelerates and my body shakes
My ears is beaten with profanity, animosity and pitty.
Quivering in betrayal, dissimulating awakes
This is what it takes to survive every day.
-dpk
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
Applause to this object
A star to look up,—
But stands lower than a house
Who gathered all the fantasies— of hopeless travellers,— Which seek for devoted fancies.
Sparkling garlands,—
Simply, a life of itch
Flashlights everywhere on the platform,— Inutile to its basis
I memorize the trades of their toasts—
One day, I shall have my own boast.
After wiping spots on gold bars,—
I am still not a debauchee of love;
Even if they buzz,— Beehives— Are not mine to offer,—
But a gourmet to their stomach.
Assets clothing their merchants—
Reserving the furnitures—
To show the best features
For myself, I want a slammed window,—
Not some firm statues
"Galatea, we all desire Galatea!"
How adorable when 'twas knotted,
Lovely, but not loved,
Sheltered, yet not protected;
Paid, but not proclaimed
How many landlords will adapt me?
There is a target—
To a sudden stampede—
Oh, how startling!
Please, capture me
I will submit to your traps!
This bird is willing to be caged— Away!
I may now have my arrows— To run the bay!
Flipped death is my reward..
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 2:56 AM UTC
there is nothing here, much fill of
the vacuous – just tired mesh;
a precise ruling
of chaos, like how my mother told
me over folding clothes that i have
my own way of destroying things.
dizzied and then clamped by my
way of default fixtures past furnitures
and a break on the lip of the wound
having knelt on a shard of glass
age 7 in familial entrails —
knowing how heavy my steps were
by looking justly at worn-out shoes,
pieces of the Earth jammed on slits,
their countenance earthen, exhausted
from the mundane. walls chaffed
from childish gnaws, drunk on turpentine.
stock-still hands of an old watch with
dents for portrayal of agonies
in the dresser, clothes pretending not
much to do
and when it started to place its
affect, i have learned enough to love
was commonplace for hurt,
and that there is a false horizon
staring back through tough heads
of protruding nails, giving back a dignified
image of contrition — in the mirror
a furiously slaughtered conjuring
of what i once held in my hands
vivisecting to discover evidence
fingers painted red, running the fugitive,
rogue without emphasis,
hurrying back to home
photographs nailed to their stations
with cases fractured, deep into halved
smiles, mother locating me with
an old chipped drinking glass, telling me
i have my way
of ruining things.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
Nothing like this assault.
In here you were gradually
introduced. The keen sense
for identity realized,
the distance that was a sullen
word for madness, a tender
perimeter established.
The calm wind as not-so-distant.
You in your plain clothes this afternoon,
lost in a commute of phases.
This weather schemes to be
your leitmotif. This is of no
identical ownership but breakage.
In here you were met with constant
delimitation, yet always you are
as you always were, perhaps,
quite unsure of the next face
dislimned past the delicatessen.
The barkeep yesterday wiped the glass
clean as I watched from the edge
of poor furnitures. You, sudden,
of no warning, no clear word
for objects, has objections for marvels
made clear still opaque in the eye of you.
That when you were brought
into the world, I had you coming as
soft blow in the wilderness
hardly tractable, all by yourself
as I witnessed everything, past dead
underfoot, being all necessary
to yourself, as you always were
in various settings and adjustments.
You were sure of the unsure and I
am in the middle of things
feeling the winding of it all, the breaking,
and the passing.
Nothing like this assault.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
The bed breathed deeply.
The furnitures covered with
your luminescent fingerprints.
The silverware died slowly,
in the grey sink.
The house tried to talk to me/
I was afraid to step out,
Outside the sympathy of my house.
Into the streets spilled with
people of your asymmetric eyes
My house tried to talk to me.
I now have nobody left to lose,
As I lay on the carpet with a sense of sooth,
The chandelier finally sang its vocal cord loose,
The wires looped instinctively like prehistoric noose.
My house tried to talk to me.
Then I know I am not alone,
The house teems with your pulse,
The glass splits from echo of your voice.
The house tells me so.
I broke through the door,
torn away from the umbilical cord of my solitude.
Melted through the heat of the cheering multitude.
My house tells me, taking care of each word.
My house tells me,
I am not alone,
And you will always
be with me in spirit only.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:43 PM UTC
Is it gonna fall on me? A spider
Or is it gonna be hanging there? A spider
It got nothing to prove, I do.
Staring at it, it is approaching,
I wish it to come yet not,
Curious,if I am all immune, all these years.
Am weakend already, the warns from brown recluse
in my bed-room mirror,
A brown recluse, it does back and forth but here
other type is apporaching,
I shall remove all the clutter from my room, here
put all new furnitures,
I shall bug spray gradually without harming myself
perhaps they wont come back.
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 2:45 PM UTC
A night that changed the alignments of my stars.
A night that changed the meaning of my existence.
I realised why this universe had made me wait for this.
For this which was so 'ecstatic',
For this which was so 'unsullied'.
I stood on a land of roses
Sky of spring sun
And squall blowing my hair, it's fluanting
It heard someone saying it's the most beautiful thing on Earth.
That was my 'land'.
That was my 'to-be home'.
Bricks of promises
Cement of love
Colours of trust
And furnitures of a bit of lust.
People admired the house
But I loved the land.
It was there all 'lucent'.
It was there all 'proud'.
The spring brought a garden of Tulips
Yellow Daffodils
Purple crocuses
With yellow butterflies crowning them all.
It was the 'bliss'
It was the 'peace'.
In a blink July turned to August.
Skies got harsh on us
Rain washed away the Daffodils
And land got swampier.
My house trembled
Promises broke and love got washed away with rain while trust faded away and lust,
It was just a 'fancy'.
It was just a 'showpiece'.
I was oblivious to the fragility of my house
My brittle house couldn't even withstand the monsoon.
And here I was, befret of my house, my only house.
Weaker than never before, shattered and scattered.
Monsoon went on for long, quite long
Washing away all the cement of my love and hue of trust.
But I was there 'holding the land'.
But I was there 'witnessing the disband'.
Winter came
Froze everything
Nummed my mind
Cracked my skin
And did everything it could to make me leave my land
And I.. I gave in
I left.
But on my way I saw deluged land getting parched.
My land is here
And spring is near.
It was an 'indication'
It was a 'direction'.
Seasons weathered me down
But I planted the bricks again.
But this time it was just a batterd repugnant house.
No colours no furnitures
Just a house.
But it was there
But it was there.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 11:23 PM UTC
I have never felt home anywhere
Before I met him
Not at my childhood home, not in my parents bedroom
My first home was him
The presence who cures my insomnia was him
Wherever he was, it was the safest place I could be
I think, no matter how long time has passed,
And how much life happened in between,
His arms would always be my lost sanctuary
I think, that even though I know,
How dysfunctional that relationship was in the outside world
I felt the most comfortable in that little 18 sqm room cramped with furnitures
When it was just the two of us
In that tiny little apartment where our love grew and died
I think, that even though I know,
The future is clear and it won’t be us in the end,
It can still be dangerously easy for me
To slip back in to my old comfort zone and heartache
Seeing him a few moons ago reminded me of that
I’m good on my own
But I think,
If he’d pull me into his arms
I honestly would still
Even after all this time
And bad blood
Not be able to push him away
That’s how it always was with us
How every separation made me bitter and detached
But the moment he steps into my house,
I always give in
That’s how it always was with us
And he knows that
He knew me the best for a significant period of time, after all
Dec 1, 2022
Dec 1, 2022 at 3:28 PM UTC