"intensities" poems
Life is a puzzle.
Just like you and me.
Each day a note,
Together they make a melody.
Our life a puzzle,
A melody.
Each and everyone,
Another life, another story.
Black, white, crimson, burgundy,
Different shades of colors,
Lights of different intensities,
Life's of different meanings.
Some live for others,
Others for themselves;
Some have no clue,
Some just wish all was true.
Days pass like flipping pages,
A book opened and soon to be closed.
But after the story,
Still no one knows.
No one ever truly knows,
Never one found out the answer;
The real meanings,
Behind these beautiful melodies.
Many lives, satin ribbons,
fluttering Freely in the wind.
So much the same, similar traits,
yet all we see is Difference.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
In the wondrous story book of night,
I fully absorb and contemplate,
You were the one omnipresent,
in light years far and flames near.
As orbs of light, in many intensities and hues
the ray of infinite grace that envelops,
That feels like the caressing of lotus petals,
was you my eternal beloved.
Soft, frothing moon light has been
at times of pain my true consolation,
The moving comet my source of wonder,
that takes me to you in imagination.
A reader, I was keenly searching.
for meanings of things in light and dark
Being another character formed
of dust sedimented from many stars.
You are enshrined in the diamond
temple of my mind's still center
making you my lover was
in honor of my yen for sublime.
The story book of night has pages
on spirited mornings, noons and dusk
your benign presence in each step,
moves galaxies and milky ways.
I see your moving eye brows
in the tumult of dark rain clouds,
Your intense eyes flash love to me
when in pain,if I feel some doubt,
In waves one after another of ocean,
your hands embrace me to assure,
mountain wind from far distance
brings your songs nightingales sing.
I am a living monument that's breathed
from the elements , to keep on loving you
not ever a jealous lover,I am like a millioner
ready to sacrifice all just for your presence.
Is there any other lover with such care
who brings boundless grace, like you?
you've the very same eyes of my mother
that reach me the moment I fall.
In days I am moving within a dream
for which, you are the creator, moving spirit,
I turn the pages of storybook of night
whenever I want to be closer to your warmth.
A mirror you are reflecting my candor,
, more than anything I ever yearned for,
You are the river that flows along me,
to the ocean, eternally seething in wait.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
Life
Happens so quickly
You must divide it
Into sections
Almost like a
Different fragrance in the air
Another perfume or
Like re seeing
everything you saw before
Through technicolor eyes
Only there's a new color
A fresh shade
of spatial light fragments
Consuming your being
And warping you into
A new stage
Hitting you with
Intensities
Of our so called journey
Turning
the dial on your radio
So
the frequencies align
In a continuity of waves
Colliding
amongst pink matter
The insensitive intensities
Present to me
A mystery
Or so it seems
A new light
A dawn to the dusk
Of my fragile fifth stage
But I lost count
And forgot the feeling
You'll know when it happens
It'll flow through you
And you'll realize
You've felt it before too
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
Tell me night, ****** beast, in the forest,
how long have you been lying in wait,
catching my scent like a hound, don't hide
the truth, it's the moment that completes.
I know well, how desperately you want
to take me in to your warm bear hug,
as I pass through the labyrinths
subjected to the onslaught of light
in it's varied intensities and hues.
An expectant silence following , you are patient
count my every heart beat and draws me near.
Floating and diving in the blue sea waves
I covet a flourascent green sheet of water
to play with, take me to the coral wonderlands.
In an oblivious mood I stand under the rain cloud
receiving the soft caresses of blue rain in my brain
it touches my heart, gently rocking, anesthetizing
my mind and making me safe from the raging wild fire.
Here I sit on the rock jutting in to the sea below
immersed in the vermilion-gold splash on the horizon
a wild ecstatic sunset, never once looking like one before,
a wintry wind blows telling me all the hidden truths
Now I would come to your moon anointed bed
for our long awaited tryst; an ultimate ****** encounter.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
It's like a habit, done unconsciously
Do we even know, it is reactionary?
This breathing out with varying intensities
Could itself, be a tendency
Says a lot---it could mean anything,
It could mean everything...
Speaking becomes a choice,
To hear, or not to hear one's voice.
There's a sigh of admission
Or agreement...a signal of an ensuing confession,
Rarely comes with a nod or a smile...
We admire with a sigh
Our eyes, a sparkle it could never hide,
We give out a sigh of despair
When hopelessness permeates the air.
From disappointment, we frown
Our shoulders are down,
And when one is anxious, and wait-less
Limbs are so restless
Mind is unruly, followed usually
By a sigh of anxiety.
When heart and mind have conceded
A sigh of surrender has succeeded
When what we see is beyond comprehension
And we.....have run out of options...
When the air is laced with sorrow
We sigh, and then tears follow
Because words refuse to flow
A sigh is all that we can let go.
We sense disrespect
A snort, we usually expect
As things, people, sometimes stray
And we sigh in dismay.
When what we feel we cannot utter
We exhale...it feels so much better
Sometimes, it is gentle...other times, violent
Could be like a shout...or one so fervent...
I ventured...thought of a lot more sighs,
They could fill my page...I could run out of rhymes
So I'm ending this poem with one...prolonged and high
Acknowledging...that a sigh is not just a sigh,
it holds words, actions suppressed, even ****** expressions,
Confusing....at times, giving wrong impressions,
Because...the true reason for the sigh
Is known, only to the one who sighs.
Sally
Copyright March 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
body genre
at a carnal address
sensory and sensuous effects
materiality
digital images
anthropology of desire
she tied a knot around his ****
a wedding band made of licorice shoelaces
for the art of tongue and ****
driving it in her pink throat
back and forth
like a shift stick
flared for the retina
a puzzlement and fascination
haptic screen of fiction
adventure of being pinned down
an unpremeditated punctum
fucktum sucktum
the stadium of desire
a shop window
banality transcending banality
the literal transformed
into the ******
a ****** smiles red
girl in a suitcase
with a hole to ****
a treasure chest
the leaky boundaries of erotica
sing in
musical blood whistles
I packed her up
limbless and threw
her on the bed
and with tender kisses
of endless
wet permutations
banged
three oozing holes
into finger ponds of oblivion
she taunted
age play- ageless
***** class
a weird ethnicity
from Timbuktu
racially motivated lust for a
conveyance of
fleshy intensities
way past help
a big **** dips
a tender dimple
like a barnacled whale
in a deep dive
the violence of
a preemptive strike
for everything imaginable
across raw lips
in her cosmos
of swinging hips
and cross bone riddles
oh happy *****
suicide ******
at the computer screen
**** bullets birthday cake
in a River Styx of flames
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 4:40 PM UTC
A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet
The rest of us are weak
as newborn puppies,
from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs
But, mostly from laughter.
This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly
And he's preaching
Prosthelytizing
Three minutes before,
he had been happily day dreaming
Three feet from the floor
with the boob-tube beaming
happy
simple
moving colors
The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken
Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.
But with the fire coming up that glass pipe
and setting his boiler to churn along feverish
He caught an insight
or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path
On his feet
He was beginning to see connections
And had to share them with someone
Now
I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high
Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial
Oh, my friend.
You're talking to the wrong audience
We can't hope to see it as you do.
But he keeps on keeping on.
And tells us a thing or two.
Cooking
He says
Is like ***
As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues
The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary
to give you countless subtle differences.
But the true constant is care
Loving attention to the finest detail.
His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug
and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.
Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says.
We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen
But in the moment, the twanging instant
Beautiful things will themselves to exist
and they defy all well-laid plans.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Extra ****** olive oil was never the issue when you got back from that grocery store... You just couldn't see past the obvious.
Do you know what it's like to wake up screaming in terror?
Have you ever felt the need to just take the pain to all levels of intensities to just feel alive?
Have you ever just said... All I need is one more day to change this life... Just one more day that turned into years of self hatred?
No.. Cause I don't think you know what it's like to be full of harmful emotions like I do.
My conscience drips with self disgust that this alcohol can't hide anymore.
My wrists are full of scars I can't keep hidden with fancy blouses anymore.
My mouth is full of words that won't stay quiet, words that would chill your bones...
No.. It was never that extra ****** olive oil you bought that day that set me off...
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
You remind me of blues
Wading through infinite navy depths of your soul
Your bright laughter brings cyan to mind
The perfect azure of your comfort
You remind me of greys
The almost lilac of your tenderness
Your steely perseverance slicing my indifference
Silverware sparkling like your smile
You remind me of blues and greys
Constantly shifting tones and intensities
That colour me helpless and awash in your love
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Inside the network of humanity,
There is a swell increasing,
Bubbling to the surface,
Clawing through sand and gravel,
and mud,
They are the sacred and pummeled hands,
riffling through the cosmos,
By and by making their thirst increase,
For dominance,
For sheer arrogance,
For all things wholesome,
For the coming of reason,
Dipped down by the ever restless,
Drawbacks that pinch their sides.
Then a time will emerge,
The face of the clock,
Shrouded in smoke, fog, and
mirror.
A specter of radiance,
draped in neither human
costume,
or of drawbacks; pinned wings,
Suckling a Dionysian Principle,
relishing the illicit,
and honoring the
perfect existential
burden,
Thus making assured this gift, this
upheaval,
Obsolete, dangerous,
misunderstood,
To the grand choir and,
velvet dungeons,
Slime pouring from an,
everlasting faucet,
His fate is surely carved into the
hieroglyphic walls,
in madness and panic,
swelled a deep tranquility,
The etchings formed poetry,
formed testament,
formed testimonial,
formed remedy in martyrdom,
Others were closed to strange intensities,
Others sat and smoked on their patios,
Watching the worlds collide,
Rattling the great fabric gong,
seizing with pleasure,
omniflourescent fireworks,
of absolute brilliance,
The twinkling dust falling,
flickering as
they fall,
Becoming imagined demons,
sacred omens,
reassurance that things,
derive from all things,
What had been said and done in the past, now is the wall keeping them from taking a look at the real veiled horizon that captivates the ethereal mystery of the child's wonder.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
The heart-warming sound of an acoustic guitar provides sincere resolution amidst the anguish of uncertainty, in the same manner as the classical Spanish guitar projects her intensities in Sierra Nevada assertions.
Consider the beauty of the finca, as she is a throbbing source of sustenance where romantic pastels merge into an array of Moorish delight.
Let us never forget that such instruments of eternal communication cannot find affiliation in the arenas of Roman legacy.
I give thanks to the order of being for the tuning of the symmetrical aphrodisiac.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
The Spirit of Winter carefully tiptoes her way along the continuum of forgotten Gaelic intensities, whilst mischievous laughter resounds throughout the geographical conveniences of complacency.
How gorgeous is the anatomy of madness, as she perches on gorgon ledges of sophisticated depravity.
I do not even hail from the land of the Gauls.
Yet, ghastly and seductive are those flittering silhouettes of fortitude and perceived harlotry, as they penetrate damp walls of ancient entertainments with multiple partners.
Harken to my lament and do not banish my soul into eternal blackness, as we conjure the sword and kiss with fivefold and unconventional intensities beyond the circles of the forest.
You are now given permission to ring the bell sevenfold, Oh master, where scientific inscriptions are splayed with the blatancy of wanton chastity.
I was born by the river that is never the same whenever it is stepped into with more than one dribbling expectation.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
There was a young man who sat by the Sea
Without fail, everyone knew, he would go every morning
The youth sat there to think and it made him feel free
Free to dream or not dream. When in bliss, when in mourning
He loved the Sea for its surface
Wind-kissed waves distorting starlight
He loved the Sea for it's depths
Churning into thick ink when absorbing the night
A love that began in small boyhood
Burying tiny toes within her cool sand
Though with the strong passion of man
The first time her wet silkiness tickled his hand
Oh, how he adored her! Through torrents and sun
Her whispers and shouts only separate intensities
But he would not go into her, for he feared just as much
She had told him, one by one, of her darkest propensities
So a sailor in heart, but in soul a wise lover
The boy, now a man paid respect to her glory
He and she, now and then, liked to play with each other
But she kept him from harm where she showed others fury
This went on, sunrise, sunset, and day after day
Until all the young man's friends were stooping and gray
Still the lull of the sea seemed to pull him away
From reality and back into it, he'd gone mad, some will say
And the time had come finally to confess all his desires
To do what he had refrained from for so long
On a particular eve that seemed wilder than any
The hour to usher in his destiny, and feel her sea-song
The storm caused curling foam,
Both entrancing and detestable
But to him, it looked like home
Like a restful sleep, quite testable
He thought, could this tumult be wrath of the Father?
Or is this a sign--the return of the Son?
Perhaps, 'tis a warning from the Holiest Ghost
He was wrong, but just right. 'Twas all this, but in one
And nearby sirens sang
For the bravery of their hero as he was swept from the shore
And far-off sirens rang
For the fate of the old man, the sailor, who watched the sea no more
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
All the things I am scared to say
pile in my brain; begging to flood over
they don’t know their own names, but
crave to be heard.
your voice. its vibrato, true velvet
floating across every atom of my being
a truth spoken that only comes from your lips
a masterpiece no mere humans could create
my darling, do you sift through the clouds
scanning my eyes as I worship the light you bring?
do you hear me call your name as my dreams
project themselves toward where you are.
your eyes. their stare, a protective state
I have never known; dancing across my
every move. laughter finds itself within the
outlying colors of your world. Don’t you see…
don’t you see, our eyes match intensities to
create another creation. a world colliding
but not in a collision. A big bang, but in serenity.
a secret kept; only for us.
please, don’t allow me to write about the hands
that write me everyday. defining a path in the dark
a leader, led by truth and goodness
sought by many; found by me.
I fall into an eternity, wrapped into you —
you rise and fall; I reciprocate. We are
patterns; carefully placed alongside
juxtaposing backgrounds, only to become one.
I surrender, fully. I understand now. For you
my heart would fall from my chest, fulfilled
it leaps.
I will not chase it, it has found its freedom.
Freedom in the throwing up of hands.
A white flag positioned
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 11:45 AM UTC
In the wondrous story book of night
I eagerly absorb and fall in to contemplation,
You were the one omnipresent,
across light years and flickering flames near.
As orbs of light in many intensities and hues,
the rays of infinite grace that envelop me,
what feel like the caresses of lotus petals
was your love,my eternal beloved.
Soft,frothing moon beams has been
my true consolation at times of deep pain,
the swishing comet, my constant wonder
takes me to you in my imagination.
I was an enquirer,eagerly searching
for the meaning of my existence.
transforming from one to another
formed by dust gifted by unknown stars.
Enshrined you are in the diamond
temple of my still mind,
making you my lover eternal,
I honored my yen for the sublime.
The story book of night tells,
about spirited mornings,noon and dusk
your benign presence was in each step,
of the motions of galaxies.
I see your quick moving eye brows
in the tumult of the black rain clouds.
your intense eyes flash love in lightening
when I feel starved of your love
In waves one after the other, your hands
embrace me,I am reassured once more,
mountain wind from afar bring
your songs, a lonely nightingale sing.
I am a living monument, that breathes
your love from elements to live on,
like millionaire,that's ready to sacrifice
everything for the ecstasy of your presence.
There isn't any other lover who cares,
like you who brings such grace to a beloved.
you've the very same eyes of my mother
that wouldn't miss me wherever I am.
like her whenever I fall your hands
seek me pulling up my mind
you are a presence constant
I haven't missed you ever anywhere.
In days I move within a dream
having created it,you know where I am,
as I turn the pages of the story book of night,
whenever I want to feel closer, you are there.
You've been the mirror reflecting my candor,
you are more than anything I've ever yearned,
the river that carries me, that I am one with,
a flow we are to the ocean of consciousness.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance.
Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into.
You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: ******** ******** ******** ******** All ******** for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******** keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******** structure that holds up the ******** truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******** structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night.
The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth.
You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute.
The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic.
So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♫♪♪♪♫
I: Lyric Line of Flight
Cavern Club / black leather / German rockers / proto-youth culture groped its way from Liverpool / TV slowly sped up / modernity invented / flown in planes / swallowed in pills / I watch the second Kennedy funeral on the screen in shades of gray rain / warming to mid-60’s hues / into the stratosphere / a lysergic surge / retinal after-images / intensities of nostalgic color / that British courtesy in understatement / Paul’s voice a bassline / George a guru of six-armed confusion / tasteful: now a meaningless word / it was Apollonian-Dionysiac / my childhood’s soundtrack
II: Poem
They grooved—as our world became another
up from caverns to psychedelic flight.
They look so young in melancholic light
harmonizing black and white to color.
So distant—yet within our life’s short span
they grow apart as the hair grows longer
(The West’s resolve to expire grew stronger.)
Quadruplex visage: young god sold to man.
I crack up beholding the mid-Sixties
lost in late-night YouTubes, I start to break.
time past: removed from the complexities
Recalling every song, the beat, the shake…
They sang the primrose path to confusion
nostalgia replacing resolution.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
i think of his smile
and all his intensities
his anger, his love
he gets the best of me
his complexity is beautiful
his intelligence is ****
his flow of passion and ideas
caress me
and so does he
he treats me like a butterfly
something so rare
delicate
and marvelous
together we form some sort of metamorphosis
our balance so dependent on each other
we bring out the beauty
and disaster
found in the truth of us
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 3:32 AM UTC
She was fairytale pretty
in a sky blue chiffon
bare footed and soul on display
both deep blue sea
and wild young day
She gazed at you with inquisitive
but never said a word
leaving it to your own heart to read the lines unwritten
in the pale beauty of her lips
She seems painted there
a portrait of intensities
on the hardwood floor
where sunlight carves its path
across it's worn wooden heart
She is forever there in sunlight
Jun 7, 2024
Jun 7, 2024 at 3:15 PM UTC
Thick silence invades ears that ache for fulfillment as
I unwrap your skin draped with
unspoken words ran thin.
My fingertips tremble with expressionless angst while
Identical intensities unravel astrological blue ribbons
Cooing sweet dividends, divine in a simple letter
Two chambers apiece for each,
For my heart has unwillingly become a fetter
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
The worker bee hurries,
As the queen worries.
Like the underlings rush,
As the politicians hush.
The intensities of the world,
Seemingly more and more bold.
The everyday man,
With his everyday plan,
Has no idea what’s in store.
After the end, he’ll want no more,
Of this crazy little thing,
We like to call the War Machine.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
you are a stampede in the hollow parts of my bones,
a chance to open the chambers of my heart. quite literally.
my plans for this body are to be wrapped around the intensities of yours.
keep you still.
I look into a velvet mix and hope someone’s there.
instead I hear God yell, who made me?
the bruises you left on my shoulders tell
the story of an orange tree stuck in the wrong garden
but still persisting it is at home.
you are the exothermic reactions happening in my veins.
hardly do you notice them shimmer.
I smoke the left over cigarettes
found between my nails.
they exhale your name when the air is cold
and frost becomes my sole companion.
you walked away when I gave you my hand
and all you felt were tears drip from my pores.
a sponge used to dry my eyes.
is this what it’s like to be in love?
hardly do you notice them shimmer.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
If I colored three pages
From a coloring book
You'd see the difference
In the intensity
The distribution of the color
It's just like that
In the way I love each of you
Different colors
Different intensities
But never think
They can be compared
Would however pick out
My favorite
And if it was good to me
Hold it close forever
As the one and only
But if I no longer matter
Then eventually
Neither will you
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
She had many faces,
but she was not two-faced,
but rather described as a storm,
With opulent intensities,
Transfigured by the elements of life’s
Quiet mellifluous lilt by
Which it languidly swayed all souls,
She did not sway though,
Rather she was uncompromising in
Her emotional wave length,
She could drizzle gently,
Or cascade exuberantly with her susceptibility,
She had no riveted temperament,
She was a storm in all rhapsodic unpredictability
And inexorable power of the ineffable unknown,
She was the incorporeal roar of thunder and
The incandescent luminescence of lightning,
She had embodied the storm she had
Fought desultory for a decade,
They were coalesce until it had formed
A chrysalis amorphous of raw beauty,
She had many faces,
But no she was not two-faced,
She was the storm that had shaped her.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
There's a dance in my brain
a vibration in my soul
an explosion in my conciousness
and a zig zag in my walk
there's intention behind my smirking,
at the same time not at all
I created it
but i let it free, and i let it be
I swivel between intensities
it gives me such a high
art exists in every dimension of my reality
welcome to the conscience of a creative mind
I visualize
but barely look out of my eyes
I'm trapped in my mind
I'm trapped and that's fine
I'm trapped in the freedom of a creative mind
Compelled! So compelled!
to create (to create)
anything... anything at all
For you to see
whats inside me
and for me
to set these things free
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC