"hardbound" poems
Mulling about
The muck
The haunts we are hardbound
Foggy fetal leavings by the sea
Right before the light;
The days of purple haze
Of sallow street cars, street lamp, amped up
Yet dampened loss of desire
Pop another oxy-hydro-fire.
To be able
To muck about
With inner abandon
the abandonments deep
Numb battlements / "Hoorah!"
Semper Fi the pain
Only significant
With derivatives
From ******* plantations
Opioid addiction’s contractually binding
Lingering love notes
A vice grip on idle minds
So many now that prey
But with a side affect of
Try holding in your ****
for three-plus days
So as not to feel
Not at all
Not even the rage
We keep anxiously pacing
Clawing at
Nonexistent strings
A Beast inside our cage
Forgiven by preacher men
Proclaiming to hallelujah
Change
At war with illusionist
Freedom
The boys fight for still
A country of patriotic pill poppers
Believing in heavenly kingdoms'
Healing
Secret silent pleading
Because nothing takes away
The pain
Like Hydro Oxy foxy pills
Self medicate down wind of will
If unaffected "consult your physician"
He’s at the edge of the stage
A Spearmint rhino making it rain
For Peaches
From patient list of his *******
The business of lust
Is feeding the loss of will
If you still feel lost -- and war sure did
Give them nothing but
PTSD & bad dreams
Machine gun migraines
Pop another pill
Jagged little killer
Softly knocks you off your feet
Black is cheaper
Smoke out not to feel
The muck-about days of
Constipated pains
Reader Digesting heavily,
Numbingly unreal.
Casualty of a nameless waste
That’s his deal / what it's like :
Most fecund
A life on the toilet
In wait for relief…
Get off the ***
Can't give a ****
Like this bowel movement
His heart has called it quits
To all this unholy *******
Veteran
Patriot
Manhood’s defeat
Damnation
Mucking about...
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
She fell sound asleep there on the crumpled sheets
With her latest book in hand
No longer able to stay awake and read
“How to Keep Her Man”
A book she has for learning everything in life
Instructions on how to live
Even for the simplest matters of the heart
That she is afraid to give
Shelves upon shelves full of hardbound leather
Containing knowledge of her world
She has been learning from these books of hers
Since she was a little girl
Answers plenty she has found for so many things
In the pages of all her precious books
She’s discovered how to instructions for everything
Even learned to be a decent cook
Yet here she lies asleep on these crumpled sheets
As her man is walking out the door
Unaware that he is wondering if she will ever learn
That there are some things in life like hearts
There are no instructions for
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 12:12 PM UTC
An adroit runner,
Living in plethora of hardbound texts,
Makes a way - way out,
Out of the common mass.
Sharing nights in paper,
Digging up a hole and cuddling in,
An adroit runner
Worships the abundance of the ink.
She will not perturb herself when time's out.
Nights are days. She has no time to speak.
Wonder,
Whether it cajores her to be stout
Wonder,
If it cuts her weak.
I won't beard the lion's den
An adroit runner
Will run on and then
She will lead me in,
So sane.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
Drastic measures must be taken to overcome the afternoon lull.
Seventeen obscure hardbound essays to consume, spines flaking
and half-eaten by dustmites. Their goodies
can only be extracted by torture, but my instruments are dulled
by shriekless hours and the fuddy-duddies
beside me, who god help me I’ll never become,
though I’m already bearded, and have started showing some dome.
Time, I think, to give something back:
a single bogie on a lone mission
to retake Stevens’ Noble Rider and the Sound of Words.
A big ask, I reckon, but this mischievous frisson
is deepness: It’ll probably be half, or at least a third
of my life before anyone finds my sleeper, my double agent
Amongst horses shedding their coats for the summer.
I smile at no one in particular, and return to my stack.
Keyboards clatter like rain, drowning out what little glamour
remains of the microfiche, leaping silent
over centuries in a smallish room in the corner.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 6:49 AM UTC
A hawk is hatched
in the harlequin hush
inside the walls of library books
in their incendiary shelves
incline
invitingly
in carnal stories
in words that leave us billowing smoke
in scenes of innuendo...
A bird of prey in flight
even in a stationary perch,
he is a glorious sight
eyes full of limpid thoughts, & search,
levitating litany
like taboo
thrown across the room
questions and detours
from his gaze
uphoric pheremonal *****
My ***** is
in a penury of vigor,
my skin / proving red-rushed
weaknesses
for just his adonis sight
for just one fantasy night...
The humid walls,
with their olden and unbiased
silences
attend my quickened qualms
attend my entirety of suddenly
needing
to be caught in his talons' violences
craving
to be the meal ~ in a hawk's sight,
flesh ripped in lushious strips
to be inside his mouth,
to feel
my digestion...
We match growling stares,
feel the quicksilver pulse,
hesitation and realization
the super nova flares
heating my middle,
hardening my fiddle
creating new sensations
and worlds of wicked inflections
a warm nest
to rest, after the S
E
X...
A nervous breath,
as he stands
abducting his hardbound knowledge
odyssies in exquisite arms
a twinkle in his bestial-brown eyes
a pause, for crumbs to be sprinkled
on the path to reprise,
a piece of paper with a numeric surpise;
a name:
"ANGEL" flashing collegiate goods,
an endangered understanding
a naughty smile--a young mouth,
and i am a V-formation
heading for warmer south...
A hawk is hatched
from the harlequin hush
of the Flamingo Library,
i am ready
to fly beyond loneliness and February,
catch urgency's godspeed to Angel
in the tradewinds of our testosterone
his invitation scribbled on a corner piece of notes
i am guessing / i'm in control
i am the words unspoken
in these pages, in dusty scrolls
in the volumes on the walls
our endangered understanding
If he is there and nothing's there...
still must follow my volcanic hopes meandering
so to speak that entangling
his and mine / tongue...
how like a hawk in Spring
i am sprung...
(and understanding
how endangered I become)
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
...thought i was on the moon's surface,
tumbling high, low, over its dark craters
but, no...i was floating on the earth's atmosphere,
where winds of all seasons blow without cease
where fogs and mists do exist
where clouds do form and mold
they are, in truth, in their own world...
but, it suddenly rains
can't help it... i slowly descend...
...i am transformed into an umbrella.
for, Gene Kelly soon takes me, while singing a cappella
"I'm singing in the rain," to my ear he whispers
... and a bit later, the song, he would whistle
in his free hand, i become a blooming, pale- rose-y stunner
claiming eyes of passersby, through my magical flower power...
but...all wonderful dreams come to an end
when the aroma of steaming brew permeates the air
right through my nostrils....and i suddenly choose:
cream and sugar.........for my coffee
while reading classic works...or writing sad or crazy poetry
radio plays, "My Funny Valentine"....and i feel
like a singer, who sometimes sings off key
singing of thoughts of who i wanna be
singing of dreams of who i wanna be with
singing, i wish i could dip my feet into different seas
singing, i wish...i wish, i could travel with thee
but now, i'd rather be, there.....in my cozy nook
to slowly scan through the pages of a thick book
my life...a hardbound, glossy-paged book, rimmed with brown and gold
where half of my pages still choose to be unturned, unread, and untold
while half...the rest of me, dog-eared or otherwise, have started to unfold.
Sally
Copyright September 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
New poems are great to write
But even previous writes still have lessons and meanings
That even the author didn’t quite uncover.
Downloadable music is efficient and convenient
When certain physical technology cannot be found
Or obtained.
Yet an LP gets a previous generation to see
That music from any time and for all occasions
Is just as much accepted
Than the “latest” or “most trending” iTunes release.
eBooks can act like a portable library
For those who love a good book, newspaper, etc.
But seeing many paged, hardbound or paperback books
Helps readers to remember the quantity of a collection
And the discipline of organization
Rather than having a tablet always ready for on-the-go
When sometimes the only place to go
Is a living-room couch or dining-room table.
Video games are quick-advancing
And the various virtual realms are eye-capturing
And free-from-reality.
But sometimes there are times
Unfocused from technology
That are just as much an escape from reality
Such as a walk in the park,
Biking along a mildly-breezy, clear-skied beach boardwalk,
Claiming front-row seats to a basketball game,
Or playing croquet, if that’s your forte.
Ingrid Bergman
Or Rod Carew
Even the old
Can rise anew!
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
You are a freedom I dare to indulge in. You are rooftops and walks. You are explorations of old hotels and hardbound books left in shelves. You are a moment (of clouds of dust and abandon) that filled a niche in my being. I have niches far too many to count. I have walked far too many walks. I have sat on rooftops I still miss. I have explored and I have saved moments that are nothing now but accumulated dust. I have hardbound my stories in poems. In my audacity, I am keeping you now - my hopeful space, my abandon.
for l.r.
041718
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
The flip of a page sounds like
Yesterday's tunes
Haunting the remains of ancient runes
Of libraries snugged within our brains
Perhaps in a blissful yearning to be named
By its forgetful creator
Sep 21, 2020
Sep 21, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
sorry for spilling your already cold coffee on the floor;
i just had too much caffeine that's why
my hands are shaky and my chest is banging.
and sorry for staring; i didn't mean to.
i was just trying to figure out how to survive
the next week with this little amount of money.
sorry for taking too long to answer;
i have a mind like an unmade bed.
also very sorry for not helping you carry
your stack of hardbound books, girl.
my cat fell asleep beside me last night and
i didn't want to wake her up so i was stuck
in the same position for a good four hours.
sorry i'm blabbing.
what were you talking about so loudly again?
oh yes, the eternal traffic.
you'd rather waste your time being fixated
on the talking orange on tv spitting garbage
about non-whites, wouldn't you?
sorry was that mean?
oh, but did you hear somebody say
girls should take it easy on the make-up for a bit?
you know, because of the killer clowns and ****
funny, right?
i want to bang my head against the wall already
what?
no, no, i'm seriously just kidding.
ah yes, finally.
the bell.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
Strolling upon the dark pavements,
under the melancholy aura of The Moon,
I wander what I fear deep within me.
Is it the darkness of my soul? or is it,
the weight of the fear or the pain of
either my close ones or my friends,
or the shared stories of many more.
Is it only me with racing thoughts?
Or I race on someone's mind too?
I think not. They laugh, They grin,
Where as I drink the red off of
my own unhealed scars and
some of it spills on my small and
hardbound old sepia sheets as poetry...
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC