"oftentimes" poems
I oftentimes recall a boy,
To whom all life was simple joy,
Who never let life get him down,
And reached for the celestial crown.
Although inside his heart was broke,
He'd treat life as just a joke.
Good friends he never seemed without-
To see him smile removed all doubt.
One day he ate a box of pills,
And finished with all earthly thrills,
To think of it brings me a chill,
I wish that he was smiling still...
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I'm tossing and turning
In this ocean of hormones
Washing away the remnants of my childhood
Washing off my innocence;
Hitting me in the treacherous waves
And in the rocks and pebbles there
Drowning me in the depths of humanity
And soaking me in fresh knowledge everytime.
Sometimes I enjoy the ride ,
Other times I feel afraid
Oftentimes, I wonder
If this would ever end.
I don't even know why I'm going through this
I don't know if it'll help me with something
Perhaps later in life
I'd understand why this is all happening.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of
but I can't be tied to those forever
so people forgive and forget
I try to forget but still feel bad
and I know there are still sore subjects
that I should be sensitive about.
Scrolling through Reddit I see a post
of Māori students at an airport
greeting their returning teacher
with a traditional Māori war dance
which was an admittedly sweet gesture
but something didn't sit right with me.
I wondered why the students greeting their teacher
had to do so through a display of militaristic nationalism
I wondered if that was the last dance the Moriori people saw
before the Māori genocided them for their resources
I wondered if the Māori danced like that
as they ***** murdered, and cannibalized the Moriori.
Wondering all of this made me ask myself:
Why did they have to greet their teacher like that?
The students wanted to make a big gesture
which dancing is perfect for
but dancing can also be vulnerable and embarrassing
because people may mock how you express yourself
but strangers at the airport are less likely to laugh at you
if you're doing a synchronized dance with a group of people
and the dancing is recognizably tied to national identity
because then it's a culturally rich dance
you're a xenophobe for laughing at
and that's what nationalism is:
strength in numbers and a readymade identity
in lieu of an individual personality
oftentimes for the sake of pistanthrophobia.
So as I read the circlejerking comments on the post
I wondered what the difference is between
a Māori war dance and a **** salute
I guess the Māori people have experienced
more oppression than Nazis
but nationalism is nationalism
and those who have oppressed are oppressors
and many who are oppressed would gladly
be oppressors given the chance.
Nationalism isn't healthy for culture
and often isolates people from other cultures
that are all combining due to globalization
which people fight to preserve their little dances and costumes
so we can stay in eternal conflict over delusions of supremacy
when the only nationality should be a global one.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 8:41 PM UTC
I gotta say, you sure know how to pick 'em.
I know that by now, you realize that I'm the furthest thing from perfect but for some reason you still saw something in me that made you want to spend the rest of your life with me. And to that again I say, you sure know how to pick 'em.
There are few things i want you to know about me before you get too heavily involved. You see, I am a nurturer by nature. I am the caretaker to all and the kind heart that everyone turns to. So I apologize if some days I am lost under the weight of the world I put on my own shoulders by accepting the problems of those that asked and believe me, everybody asks. I'm sorry if this can crush me to the point where I disappear but all I ask is that you help me find my way back again. Because you are the lighthouse for my stormy mind.
Another thing is that I can ask too much. I can lose myself in the problems of my own design and the problems designed by others and sometimes I will fall apart and not know how to put the pieces back together again. So I'm sorry for asking too much but I hope that you will learn patience and knowing to pick up the pieces, but let me put them back together.
I am also one with what you'd call "flights of fancy." I may want to be a pastry chef one day and then a French teacher the other, I will go through weeks, and sometimes months, where I will be preoccupied with only one thing. Just know that no matter where my imagination takes me, where my interests may lead, I will always come home to you because being your wife is the one thing that I can never stop wanting to do.
I'm sure you've already noticed how passionate I can be when I care about something. I will scream, cry, and cheer with everything in my being for the things that I believe in. Please don't laugh too much when I start crying over the death of a character in a book series or start screaming at the tv because the people talking are just so stupid and wrong and they need to know that they're wrong so I'm going to tell them even though they can't hear me... Just let me be, but also know when to tell me that I'm just being crazy. Because I know that I'm crazy, sometimes I just need a second opinion.
On the topic of second opinions, oftentimes I value the words of others more than I value the words of myself. Know that with a few simple words you can even lift me up to the heavens or you can tear me down further than you ever knew was possible. My uncertainty in myself will always be a problem and so I apologize if I constantly ask if I did anything wrong or if I upset you because I'm terrified that someday I will and you will leave like all the rest. I just want you to hold me. Tell me you love me even if I don't believe you especially if I don't believe you.
Be the husband I hope you will be and I will be the wife that I know I can be. Because even if it's hard, even if you get sick of the sight of me, even if the words that I say bounces off of you like water on a hot surface, know that I mean every word of "I love you" and I meant what I said when I told you "I do."
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Walking in a circle is, in the fondest sense, going absolutely nowhere, even though it feels better than walking completely backwards. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I have never even been face to face with you and mine grows weaker and weaker with the length of time between the moments I get to touch you. The strange thing is that, prior to meeting you, I have a hard time describing what it was I was even doing - the storms you have hurled into my quiet life is all I know now, and I never realized just how flimsy my own infrastructure was. I have seeped into the walls you throw dishes in and the floors you roll around on, and I feel everything your fists do equally, if not more. Who knows my body better than you? The places I dip and divide and slope and bend; who has held me down with nothing but words and sweaty silence that lay thick enough for us to cut with butcher knives? My stomach is trained to clench is desperation when your name is mentioned and I am nervous around anyone who shares with you; a picture is worth a thousand words, but your name is worth one million, and you've never spoken mine aloud but I have murmured yours, like a mantra, repeatedly, groaning in the way wounded animals do and trembling with that same fear. I can't count on my fingers how many nights I traded sleep for a reason to talk to you, and all too well do I know how many lifetimes are crammed into the seconds before an anticipated phone call. People might wonder how I even survive when you aren't around, but how many ways can a dog entertain himself when the master is away? Oftentimes, in a state of unwarranted panic, I claw at my clothes as though you are lurking underneath, and only rarely are you there, metaphysically. I am not the only person the rain falls on; I understand that there are plenty of others who are lulled by the charm of someone who knows nature of a human being in the way that otherworldly creatures might, but in this instance I know that everyone is haunted in their own exclusive way, and you are always flickering in the periphery of my blurry vision when my bedroom lights are out.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
Made, Made, Made,
We are made into what we are.
We are made
Into monsters,
Into dreamers;
Believers.
We make ourselves;
Make each other.
We make our kingdoms
and our own personal Hells.
We are the queens of our realms
And the kings and princes
We are the villains
The rabble-rousers
The Revolutionaries.
We are the killers
Of our enemies
Of our own
Of the land.
We are made into what we are
And oftentimes,
It is not our fault.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
oftentimes
all you will have
is your own
perseverance
it is in these times
you must
remember
to be thankful
if you have it
you will continue
to climb
and find.
if you don't
then you still
must be grateful,
fore the path
you are
bound to
is learning.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like that broken china doll
you found lying in a garage sale last summer.
Blackened eyes, busted lip,
and threatening to shatter at the slightest touch.
I oftentimes struggle to remind myself,
it's not my fault I ended up this way—
—for even the most avid of admirers
will occasionally drop their toys.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
sometimes i weep
before i sleep
scary thoughts, they peep
oftentimes, they creep
instead of counting sheep
counting monsters that leap
scars are deep
no choice but keep
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 11:02 AM UTC
I used to believe in good old days,
Still concerned about the little ways.
To get back in my childhood era.
Those uncountable acquaintances,
Now they are just faded faces.
Buzzing around oftentimes,
I do look at them with all my gracious Rhymes.
Those long sandwalks, I heard many voices & those preacher talks.
Standing on the top of a pile,
I saw the world with my pure human eyes.
My incapability of not performing as others,
Don’t forget we came from different mothers.
Though the course may be disturbingly fascinating,
Spot you there at the end of the lives you kept devastating.
I walked clean and I did no mean.
There was nothing to fear, but one day someone molested me who was so near.
Crippled inside myself that night,
Was so devastated couldn’t spoke a word inspite.
Moments still glare, dig in your knife so that you can pare.
Shadows no more controls me,
I fiercely play with them, and still move freely.
Enjoyed every bit just like my first bicycle wheelie.
I did both,from playing with slum folks to slept like a sloth.
Now I miss my never ending era.
Entered my puberty,
with little bit of curiosity
To not to have those thoughts control authority.
I was wild, a state called child.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
Missing in Action--
that would be me--
I hide out in my dark room
sometimes afraid
to leave the gloom
but when I finally
find my way back here
I always find writes
that seem so perfect and dear
and I wonder why
it takes me so long
to come back here to read
when so oftentimes
that I do--
it sparks the hidden need
I feel for connection
for all you amazing poets here
thank you, dear poets
for helping me to clear
a path to a new and improved me
I hope I'll be here more often
and that you all
will be happy, safe, healthy and free...
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
In one's life,
A Happy Place, which we often recall...must have existed
....t'was where we felt at peace...and contented
None can break the serenity
Of home...or church, or maybe a shady tree
...its proximity...offering safety,
....no worries, no fears that blur our eyes........
...like that easy morning...with blue animated skies
........the smell of rice, ready for reaping, filled the air
....it felt nice, to sit by the creek...wind, messing hair
..........while throwing stones, on the water flowing
.......having fun...watching people harvesting
One day, those rice fields
..............had no more rice to yield
....just wide open spaces left, where young boys
...surrendered to the winds, their artfully designed toys
...colorful, Japanese paper...smooth, with sheen
...framed by several bamboo sticks...long and thin
...big, colorful birds and butterflies, flying high
Naive, impermanent kites..... soaring to the skies
We can never be sure....some kites fly straight away,
............while a few others....stray
...fading songbirds, losing their way........broken dreams,
Heading....towards distant, forgotten realms
.......they're like words that couldn't rhyme
............like discordant tunes of a broken chime...
In our minds, that Happy Place with kites......resides
Sometimes, it stays behind, refusing light...it hides
......for some reasons, it goes further down...deep inside
Oftentimes, it inspires...and becomes our source of pride...
:::::::::::::
Life, after all, is a potpourri of lengthy, and ephemeral strides,
::::::::::::::
Proving further, black and white are two of life's many colors
Light, or dark shade shouldn't matter.....
Because, in many ways...our cups always runneth over.
:::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright October 5, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
Once upon a time
There were fairies called, V fairies
Fairies who were so beautiful and fine
It was magical, their existence
They lived inside maidens
Who were ought to protect them
In return, the fairies embodied them
With purity as shiny as a diamond emblem
These fairies were sought by every men
For they are the greatest gift that can be bestowed to them
That's why they seek for the perfect maiden
From whom this wish, they can attain
The maidens were set on a journey
To find warriors who are worthy
Warriors who love sincerely
And will vow to cherish them for eternity
The fairies those times were well-respected
They were treasures almost impossible to find
The fairies were boldly protected by their maidens
They are only given to those truly worthy ones
Fast forward to this generation however
Through time, the maidens eventually are weakened
They have let their guards down
And thought all men were worthy of the crown
The V fairies are not given anymore
They are forcefully taken, oftentimes with gore
They are taken due to curiosity, or worst
Taken because of lust, then perpetrators disappear like ghosts
Fairies became men's collections
More fairies, more rights to boast
More manly they are than before
More wins at the competition they build on their own
Maidens lost their credibility as the fairies' protectors
They didn't care about them, like they're not part of them anymore
Throwing them away when they're bored
Not caring if many men do hoard
V fairies were not gifts anymore
V fairies were taken away even without the promise of forevermore
V fairies were simply picked up like on a shopping galore
V fairies were disrespected, to adore no more
But there are beliefs that some of the fairies survived
Living within maidens who stood firm and with their best, tried
To find worthy ones and battle with the wicked
To let the fairies stainless and protected
There are beliefs also that worthy warriors are still there
Who still respects and cherish the value of the diamond emblem
Who knows how to wait until the fairies are given to them
And knows how to take care of their chosen maidens
With these beliefs there's still hope for the future
That the responsibility of a maiden to its fairies will be nurtured
A hope that this will be passed on to generations after
In a hope that V fairies will have a happily ever after
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over
The quality of anguish that is mine
Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine
Saying, 'Is any else thus, anywhere?'
Love smileth me, whose strength is ill to bear;
So that of all my life is left no sigh
Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine,
Leaves not the body but abideth there.
And then if I, whom other aid forsook,
Would aid myself, and innocent of art
Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope,
No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look
Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart,
And all my pulses beat at once and stop.
2.9k
it's strange how certain smells can trigger a very distinct memory. or how at one time, you enjoyed the smell of something, but now it reminds you of someone and it makes your stomach turn. was what sweet is now rotten. but then there are things that, to most, smell rotten, but no. not to me. cigarette smoke, for example, reminds me of my mom. living far apart from her, i miss the scent of camel blue 99s in my hair. oftentimes, i'm tempted to buy a pack just for the reminder, but she'd **** me faster than any cancer could. and anyway, i prefer newports.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
This pleasant tale is like a little copse:
The honied lines so freshly interlace,
To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
So that he here and there full-hearted stops;
And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops
Come cool and suddenly against his face,
And, by the wandering melody, may trace
Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.
Oh! what a power has white Simplicity!
What mighty power has this gentle story!
I, that do ever feel athirst for glory,
Could at this moment be content to lie
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.
2.9k
Oftentimes I find myself having these random bubble bursts of thoughts-I want to learn Sanskrit…..what? Where does that even come from? Or Hey! Learning to sew would be neat. Or you know, I could really benefit from reading the newspaper.
And the thing that I struggle to understand is that when I have thoughts like this, is this an attempt to discover more of me or is this me trying to force an idea onto myself that isn’t actually me, but what I think I would like to be...
Think about it. If you came out of the womb and you had a catalogue and could then choose carefully categorized qualities in yourself, what would you choose? Sometimes it feels like then it would be easier then having to try and discover it for yourself. And I could go on about how no, it’s great that we have to go through this struggle to find it and I’ve learned all these things from my journey, but unfortunately, that is not this poem.
No one actually knows who they are completely ever. That’s a neverending journey according to...well everyone. But why do we fight so hard to find it?
If someone paid me to try one new thing each day, I would take them up on that opportunity but if you think at the end of it all, I’d tell you what I learned about myself, then you can have your money back because I’m not interested.
Not every experience is a learning experience and not every adventure has to mean something. I like rock climbing. I like blueberries and strawberries and raspberries. I take long car rides just because I can, thank you Hybrid vehicles. But I am not a rock climber or a farm girl or a lover of cars. I know that I am a person who is going day to day doing things that I like to do. So I may pick up my ukulele this day and I may never pick it up again for another year, but I certainly won’t be selling it because of that. I own more books than I can account for and haven’t read more than 30% of them, but I hate having to take books to the used book store and I love buying more. And so what does that make me?
I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, because that is not this poem.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
When upset, it’s relieving to hear the voices in my head,
The whispers guide my deranged mind to the intentions of never fixing situations,
Instead, it takes me to the land of make believe,
Where I live and continue to repeat,
The cycle of excuses to conceal the history of reality.
Battle wounds and scars pierce right through me,
Viewing the ghost within,
I keep my distance from those attempting to come in.
Time and patience will help me heal from the internal pain they say,
However, I confide in ghosting, while disregarding the feeling of void in my heart.
I remain blind to the difference of things,
Self expression, communication and social integrity make it difficult for me to see,
The truth in where liars lie.
But still, I persist,
Despite the fact that in all forms of reality, I’m struggling.
I attempt to pretend like life is going good and my mentality is okay,
This guilt only allows my body to relapse yet again.
Unintentionally and subconsciously, I’m hurting,
The people who “care” for me.
Instantaneously, the late hours control my eyes to remain wide awake,
Oftentimes, I go numb enough to not speak,
I stray away from the support team behind me,
In order to, stay away from the demon externally taking a hold of me.
Soul is too open to close,
Bones and touch are too cold to take,
It’s true, our ends were never meant to mend,
Due to my expectations of plans never set in place.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
i am a sewing project:
fine little scars make lace of my arms.
patches of different patterns
occupy my mind; they're awfully frayed
but unique. they're mine.
i'm pushed and pulled through
some speedy machine
work, sleep, repeat
every puncture of the needle at
the speed of light
i am a constant, ever-changing
patchwork, some
handiwork of a tired old woman somewhere
awfully far away. i think of her when I can’t fall asleep.
I wonder if she thinks of me too.
i am a tapestry.
i cover walls, i do not build them, yet oftentimes i so wish i could.
or had the strength to, at least--but i am mere fabric
i am a sewing project.
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
-Opening-
Some things are part of you
And yet you have no control.
Certain memories and habits are -
And my sister was just so.
On the morning of the funeral
Mum gave me a mint, a polo
I ****** it for a while
And felt the ‘o’
Dissolving into a thin hoop
Of mint on my tongue.
And somewhere in there was the memory
Of other moments spent
******* the ‘o’s of meditation
Years, sometimes decades ago.
There was no narrative to these memories
Save me
And during those moments that narrative
Could not see itself,
Or the relative position of its parts,
But moments do not need narrative
To be complete
Like Bryony,
I’ve found life to be
Oftentimes bad for me,
Like confectionary
And cut flowers
Short and sweet.
-1-
Bryony is now a rose,
But once upon a time
She was a mischievous
Kink in a hose.
At Kingswood Drive,
Ben and Bry on the same side:
“Daniel – help us out! The water’s stopped-
Look down the end and check that it’s not blocked.”
At last! A chance to be of use!
The baby bursts with pride -
Just as the hose unkinks
And sprays him in the eye.
-2-
Bryony ran away from home
To join the circus known as Camden Town
A world of orphans with piercings
Selling t-shirts to clowns.
I didn’t understand it,
Neither did mum and dad.
But we went to visit once, me and mum,
I must have been about six,
Can’t remember much,
But it must have been a good night –
Always is –
When you end up in high heels and a dress.
I was her little manniken
In a whole world of fashion.
-3-
“Dan? Pass my bag there with the moisturising lotion.”
I do so, and by return of post –
A vague memory of a smoky blond from photos.
I always thought she would be a model
When we were growing up.
I didn’t tell her until recently
When she’d acquired the cheekbones for it
But now her skin rippled
With dry amusement
At the notion.
-4-
At the hospice they admired
Her strong will and determination
To join the dots
Of visitors
With a shaky stubborn line
From declining throne
To the swing seat
In the garden.
“They’re lovely here.” She said.
They were not trying to change her,
They were helping her accept.
-Ending-
An ending fitting for a start
A rhyme she made me
Learn by heart
My earliest memory of her
Playing pattercake
And saying:
Make up, make up
Never, never break up.
Make up, make up
Never, never break up.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 6:19 PM UTC
326
I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,
That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,
And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,
Nor tossed my shape in Eider *****
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—
Nor any know I know the Art
I mention—easy—Here—
Nor any Placard boast me—
It’s full as Opera—
2.2k
The yucca plant from my mother’s garden sits
unattended and on the verge of death next to her
eldest rose bush, now wildly overgrown and lightly
blushing in the cosset of the midmourning sun. Its
withered rosettes droop down to its bed of maroon-stained stones
in crisp, harum-scarum patterns as if the plant is spending its life
like currency trying to touch its toes. I oftentimes
find myself wondering if the reason behind this
slow rotting of mother dearest’s garden is hidden within her
five-year absence. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say
her nursery missed the d
i
g
g
i
n
g
of her weathered hands.
She was the biosphere of my world; I suppose that
it only makes sense for the earth to match my thirst. We
sit side by side, that yucca plant and I, as we struggle to
nod our heads towards daylight while we rise on
the side of the house that is more or less
cloaked in shadow; the side that she would sunbathe
on during scorching late afternoons. Perhaps without her
body giving shelter, all her garden is doomed to
atrophy like muscle in the sunlight.
I find irony in the way that my mother’s favored plant
was the “ghost in the graveyard;” a perverted parallel
to the game that she never wanted us to play. I think it to be
sort of sardonic that her pride swallowed the possibility of
a cure being found within that ****** plant’s roots. She,
a third generation American girl,
had blood as muddled as the mud
that buried that yucca’s heart.
The boundary line between Mother and
nature coalesces into one:
Gaea
six feet under
melting into soil
I hope she becomes seawater.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
#*t
h
e
r
i
v
e
r
s
of
our
sadness
can open up
into wide gulfs
of endless delight
and are oftentimes
the beneficent courses
needed to carry us there*#
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC