"noiseless" poems
:::::::::::.................:::::::::::
Here, in this sacred space...
:::::::::.............:::::::::
...where curtains and breeze
.....dance and tease,
...no words are uttered, i hear nothing
.........except my breathing
eyes roam, legs are crossed, as if to rule,
determined....as a stubborn mule
here in this sacred space, i have a regular
dialogue with my Creator....my Saviour,
::::::::::::::::..........................::::::::::::::::::
through His mysterious ways, He speaks to me
i am drawn to a quietude that flows from Him.
...........this noiseless space talks to me...
it's not the words...something else takes over
.....and enfolds me........especially, when
fragmented moments start to stir my heart,
...i lose them all....when i hold my breath
when my mouth has ceased, my words on a halt,
...........i am suspended.....far from the noise
.....................of the outside world...
:::::::::::::::
here in this sacred space, i am with my loved one,
::::::::::::::::..........................:::::::::::::::::::
though distant............the world is...ours,
we're in deep conversation that could last a day
we are ourselves, naked..wearing no false pretenses
...we are timeless...we are one...the two of us...
::::::::::::
here, in this sacred space...rich with
......an imperturbable stillness
..........my mind is overwhelmed
...by a silence.....so eloquent.......
::::::::::::...................::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright June 25, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 7:17 AM UTC
Never on this side of the grave again,
On this side of the river,
On this side of the garner of the grain,
Never,--
Ever while time flows on and on and on,
That narrow noiseless river,
Ever while corn bows heavy-headed, wan,
Ever,--
Never despairing, often fainting, ruing,
But looking back, ah never!
Faint yet pursuing, faint yet still pursuing
Ever.
6.5k
the bigness of cannon
is skilful,
but i have seen
death’s clever enormous voice
which hides in a fragility
of poppies….
i say that sometimes
on these long talkative animals
are laid fists of huger silence.
I have seen all the silence
full of vivid noiseless boys
at Roupy
i have seen
between barrages,
the night utter ripe unspeaking girls.
6.2k
how sad to be misunderstood
to be evicted from life
to have the full tenure
of a torrid human existence
gesture horribly at you
in faultless reputation
like that of a rancid rage
over a lost trinket
or to be quarantined
while fingerless skin scolds
and noiseless voices are raised
in a donated generosity of savage ignorance
striving to make copious amends
in vain efforts to regrettable
slow acting poison that boils the mind
oh how sad to be misunderstood
such varicose viciousness
oh it’s sad quite sad to be misunderstood
to live through and inoculated hour glass
giving limitless time to a wildfire of idiocy
and when your breath speaks they laugh
black laughter that shatters wet umbilical truths
shudders
knowledge gestures to smoking nostrils
oh how sad, how sad it is to be misunderstood
to be drenched in the rain but not get wet
in which antiquity rests with its
mythologised stupendous ill effects
getting vivid shadows massed all around
oh how sad it is to be misunderstood
until dactylic, hexameter, elegance
completes and slithering syllables
by their antiquity focus a shuddering shriek
that sends an exploding heart through your chest
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
In apple growing-warmth,
I found oceans between eyelashes and Pacific air.
Ligamented with smoke, skeleton hands crafted cigarettes of honey and curling floral sweetness.
For soft-haired royalty, I bowed my heart and washed my skin in space and rainy wishes.
I drowned myself in polish remover, to show the stripped beauty of love and life
to a sun who lives off alcohol and notions of wouldn't it be nice?
But I, the noiseless patient spider,
who has flung gossamer after thread,
am reaching for nothing but an earth flower,
One who I thought loved me,
or at least that’s what she said.
((one who sees through rose-pink eyeglasses,
and speaks in feathered song.))
Still, I sleep well under starless skies,
where urban northern lights burn the dark,
charred there by city windows and boundless passing cars.
Here, I wrap myself in a cloth galaxy,
and I paint the sun with blackberry juice,
trading gold and diamonds for the simple hope
that someone might live up to you.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
Assert confidence in a convincing recital
Claim certainty that protection is binding
safety is paramount
a rehearsed amount
until she takes it on ethics
every truth is there to detect
A battle for reason
until potential yields to the objective
Loyalty isn't just imagination
Fate constructed in a noiseless dialogue
momentary eye contact
pencil hits paper
Smoke and vapor
Fire comes later
an unsurpassed honor
All the letters weve written
are a smear on the page of occasion
Resulting in endless treasure
Only to be rediscovered
When the omission is uncovered
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
Her shoulder rose like the moon
above the black velvet of bolero jacket
She took his arm, his eyes--
An apogee
She took the room
in reverence
So slowly
shed the mountains
shed the light
hand to touch their wonder
Gazing after
her noiseless ascent
which never happened
while they watched....
Pearls—
roll against warmth
luxuriating offspring
cool encircling
contents iridesce
their energies’ warning:
Nothing quite that simple
Nothing quite that still
Nothing like the opulence
on the Proud Eve of catastrophe
Pearls—
caught in the lining
of what never happens the first time....
She heard them before she saw them
rip their orbits!
fission her universe!
in the mezzanine of the symphony hall
Pin ball in the Fun House
Bingo bounce
off—
the hardwoods of space....
Universal Theory of Scatter?
Even now I can still hear the clatter
of their round smooth souls
in the doorways of distant relatives
How could I know?
You would condemn me
to find them all?
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
Too far away, oh love, I know,
To save me from this haunted road,
Whose lofty roses break and blow
On a night-sky bent with a load
Of lights: each solitary rose,
Each arc-lamp golden does expose
Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows
Night blenched with a thousand snows.
Of hawthorn and of lilac trees,
White lilac; shows discoloured night
Dripping with all the golden lees
Laburnum gives back to light.
And shows the red of hawthorn set
On high to the purple heaven of night,
Like flags in blenched blood newly wet,
Blood shed in the noiseless fight.
Of life for love and love for life,
Of hunger for a little food,
Of kissing, lost for want of a wife
Long ago, long ago wooed.
. . . . . .
Too far away you are, my love,
To steady my brain in this phantom show
That passes the nightly road above
And returns again below.
The enormous cliff of horse-chestnut trees
Has poised on each of its ledges
An ***** small girl looking down at me;
White-night-gowned little chits I see,
And they peep at me over the edges
Of the leaves as though they would leap, should I call
Them down to my arms;
"But, child, you're too small for me, too small
Your little charms."
White little sheaves of night-gowned maids,
Some other will thresh you out!
And I see leaning from the shades
A lilac like a lady there, who braids
Her white mantilla about
Her face, and forward leans to catch the sight
Of a man's face,
Gracefully sighing through the white
Flowery mantilla of lace.
And another lilac in purple veiled
Discreetly, all recklessly calls
In a low, shocking perfume, to know who has hailed
Her forth from the night: my strength has failed
In her voice, my weak heart falls:
Oh, and see the laburnum shimmering
Her draperies down,
As if she would slip the gold, and glimmering
White, stand naked of gown.
. . . . . .
The pageant of flowery trees above
The street pale-passionate goes,
And back again down the pavement, Love
In a lesser pageant flows.
Two and two are the folk that walk,
They pass in a half embrace
Of linked bodies, and they talk
With dark face leaning to face.
Come then, my love, come as you will
Along this haunted road,
Be whom you will, my darling, I shall
Keep with you the troth I trowed.
4.2k
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,—alone,
‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim over night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly-weed when I came.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him,
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
‘Men work together,’ I told him from the heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’
4.2k
veracity,
faulty.
it's hard to tell who your friends are
at the bottom of the ocean.
sand grains. black, white.
everyone is blind.
jellyfish are wolfish
at the bottom of the ocean.
spoken sounds sting.
starfish are spearfish-
one might hear a feather drop,
one might hear a pin drop,
noiseless word string.
beneath;
sky, rise up.
the bottle forlorn.
willowy hair will stay strong,
while the luminous
go on stillborn.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
A noiseless patient spider,
I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated,
Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somwhere, O my soul.
4k
I wish I felt as loved as they say I am.
You can tell me you love me every single day...
hour...minute....second...
every interval and space between
But as cliché as it may be
Actions speak louder than words
At the top of your lungs you could scream
use all your force, explode with "I love you"
But if you silently brushed the hair from my face, breathing softly as you did
It would be so much clearer.
He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.
Holding hands is noiseless. Nothing but the
pulse
between our fingers beating in unison.
Silent to all but the minuscule space that exists between our flesh.
And still it makes a bigger sound than your
melodic laugh of "you're perfect."
If you want to make me feel loved,
show it.
Words are too easily lost.
Noise pollution.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
Do you hear it?
That noiseless stir?
Such peace exists
With a strong benevolence it churs.
Let the mind wander,
Your thoughts expand.
Relax and sink into the unknown;
Only so far can your sanity withstand.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
the vagrant, a pretense
letting light in tiniest cracks
on the pavement, again
wherever did i pass out
seizing the Ssseferoth sufferer syndrome
sinking in this suffragette
i am almost a cough away from zeitgeist
the world complained
the gods , sure they listened
but only with a nuisances negation
does the noose hang higher
nonsense st of patient anger
plagiarize my past lives
seal my fate with cement
pavement, how do i feel you
when my ashes scatter
how do i fill you with children,
cracks seeping sin and sensation
eradicated slowly by noiseless geraniums
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
The air has a burnt smell
It is hot and dry
The streets are empty
Even the dogs are missing
It is a hot and bright afternoon
People have taken refuge
under the roofs of their homes or work places
Even the trees seem to be mute
So are the birds and the cattle
My throat is dry
My mind is blank
My brain is asleep
Am struggling to keep awake
The weather is strange
The climate is changing
The ponds are dry
The brooks are dusty
with no water to flow
The earth is moving lazy and slow
Time seem to crawling because of the heat
The noon seems to un-ending
The schools are noiseless and sleepy.
It is dusty and hazy
The only wind being because of the
fast moving buses and trucks
and some occasional cars
The windows are closed
so do the doors of the buildings
across the streets
The rich enjoying their siesta
in the air conditioned rooms
The poor, sweating it out
in their places of work
for their daily wages
so that they can have
some food to eat in the night.
so also that
the rich can continue to have
their peaceful siestas
..
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC
*'Twas a dark sleepless night,
With no stars, moon or light,
His face became pale and so white,
He kept begging God and praying,
His bare skinny body is shaking,
He's young, will never grow old,
This heavy burden, his misery
Can't be described neither told,
'Twas dark and so cold,
In the corner of the cell,
Hearing death's bell,
Time is up, it's fate,
When the grumpy judge
announced the date,
Nothing to think of,
But to fly free like a dove,
When his head drops,
When his neck is cut,
When death takes his soul away,
It's his last day,
Among that noiseless jail,
Among that soundless hall,
Their steps chime,
For one last time,
Executioners and priest,
They grabbed him out,
No Mercy, No Mercy
It's fate...
They took him along with that hall,
He kept staring at the floor and the wall,
No eye contact,
No words were spoken,
Waiting for his life to be taken,
He was so down,
His feet drawn,
When he saw it,
He could not move,
He could not blink,
He was speechless,
He could not think,
They were merciless,
When they reached The GUILLOTINE.
*
© Copy right protected
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
8
There is a word
Which bears a sword
Can pierce an armed man—
It hurls its barbed syllables
And is mute again—
But where it fell
The saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted Brother
Gave his breath away.
Wherever runs the breathless sun—
Wherever roams the day—
There is its noiseless onset—
There is its victory!
Behold the keenest marksman!
The most accomplished shot!
Time’s sublimest target
Is a soul “forgot!”
2.3k
Lived on one's back,
In the long hours of repose,
Life is a practical nightmare--
Hideous asleep or awake.
Shoulders and *****
Ache----!
Ache, and the mattress,
Run into boulders and hummocks,
Glows like a kiln, while the bedclothes--
Tumbling, importunate, daft--
Ramble and roll, and the gas,
******* to its lowermost,
An inevitable atom of light,
Haunts, and a stertorous sleeper
Snores me to hate and despair.
All the old time
Surges malignant before me;
Old voices, old kisses, old songs
Blossom derisive about me;
While the new days
Pass me in endless procession:
A pageant of shadows
Silently, leeringly wending
On . . . and still on . . . still on!
Far in the stillness a cat
Languishes loudly. A cinder
Falls, and the shadows
Lurch to the leap of the flame. The next man to me
Turns with a moan; and the snorer,
The drug like a rope at his throat,
Gasps, gurgles, snorts himself free, as the night-nurse,
Noiseless and strange,
Her bull's eye half-lanterned in apron,
(Whispering me, 'Are ye no sleepin' yet?'),
Passes, list-slippered and peering,
Round . . . and is gone.
Sleep comes at last--
Sleep full of dreams and misgivings--
Broken with brutal and sordid
Voices and sounds that impose on me,
Ere I can wake to it,
The unnatural, intolerable day.
2.2k
to love all of you within the noiseless half of a sigh is a time-swept fever dream stirring in my fists — part firework smoke, part lavenders, part quiet, cautious limerence. how you enchant and unsettle me — i run high and aimless, and free fall in seconds. i am smitten. desperate. love-sick. wordless now, for all i care, darling — i'll leave all of my poems strewn in your bed, like a girl shedding her mortality before a goddess in her truest form.
to disrupt this is a human blunder. to bask in it, divine. ♡
Jan 7, 2022
Jan 7, 2022 at 1:27 AM UTC
Yesterday, all things were dark
Like burning candles in the dusk.
Hibiscus, pear, and witches brew
And dragon's blood caught in the musk
Notions now, seemed **** then
And stealing out into the dark
I dreamt I was the highway man
After my Bess's fickle heart.
The moon above; cycloptic eye
Watched reverently as I crept
Across the mud and bracken path
Where willow trees once stooped and wept.
The musician crickets, with violin legs
Stroked their notes under the sky
And chirping peepers, peeking out
Sang louder in their sweet reply.
A long forgotten hidden grove
That bore the markers of the dead
Was where, for peace, I stopped to roam
Over the grass, to clear my head.
And there- amongst the silent mass,
Who find repose under the land-
I listened to their noiseless words
The silence, which I understand.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
The Boss is always right
as his boss is certainly too
ever a man of far sight
do as he wants you to do.
Quietly knock his door
and before you show your face
knock just once no more
wait for him to say yes.
Watch when you enter his room
if he is beaming or sad
don't invite your doom
he can be worse than bad.
Don't speak if he's busy at work
stand with patience noiseless
to speak never embark
till he looks straight at your face.
If he asks you your job's progress
be ready with all your tricks
the best way to have him impressed
is to confuse him with statistics.
Just ensure the figures add up right
there's no glaring mistake
if one such comes to his sight
no way you retain your neck.
Answer to the point he asks
give him the master's due
never ever try to assert
impose on him your view.
Not try to prolong the discourse
make it very brief and precise
your logic would always be coarse
to the Boss who is far more wise.
Move back facing your Boss
keep it always in mind
what makes him really very cross
is to see your swinging behind.
Once you are back to your seat
your wounds do secretly nurse
vent your head's all the heat
mutter your choicest curse.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?'
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
'The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall! '
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
I know how it was in that time
sixty years ago when roads seen
from above were little more than
two thin tracks through grass.
My mind has heard the noiseless roads
cutting unfenced fields, passing cherry groves,
skirting steepest hills and flat lakes,
making settled burgs where roads cross.
I know how it was in that time
when many-handed harvests,
sweet smells and back breaking work
were wrenched away without referendum.
Wrenched away by Ford's cast iron.
Wrenched away without option of staying
to enjoy the scale of day-long trips
on foot, in wagon or buggy.
Our innocent grandfathers too,
wrenched away, not unwillingly, from plowfields,
to be told by newspaper and newfangled radio
of the one-day Atlantic crossing.
I know how it was in that time.
I've seen it from three or five hundred feet;
the quick shadow and lake-mirrored
image of fabric covered wood and wire.
I've gently flown, pocketa, pocketa,
in that time; in a ship as much a product
of those shifting decades as of its tinkerer/
designer, builder, pilot, Pietenpol.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC
this side of me scares you
(it scares everyone)
running on open roads, with nothing but
hair choking me. you could never comprehend
the noiseless drowning. the blissful sleep.
once. twice.
i just need the ***** i guess.
your words are sugar, quickly dissolved.
my stomach urges. but nothing ever comes up.
congratulations!
you're now officially in love with a
****** up girl.
a girl with emotions will swing with a snap,
a girl with will never fully make sense to you,
a girl who's eyes never seem to stay dry long enough.
i thought you would
(or at least, kind of)
instead your mouth droops, your fingers fidget.
i need the red. the adrenaline wants me.
i long for it, especially when we lie.
i ponder which item to use. how it will trickle,
and how you will pretend.
your ****** up girl, she loves you though.
so much she can't breathe sometimes.
your ****** up girl, would lie down and wait,
even with thunderstorms and cruel footsteps.
she knows you wouldn't do the same, and every time
she thinks about it, she shatters.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
Undertakers, hearse drivers, grave diggers,
I speak to you as one not afraid of your business.
You handle dust going to a long country,
You know the secret behind your job is the same whether
you lower the coffin with modern, automatic machinery,
well-oiled and noiseless, or whether the
body is laid in by naked hands and then covered
by the shovels.
Your day's work is done with laughter many days of the year,
And you earn a living by those who say good-by today
in thin whispers.
1.6k