"reflexes" poems
the double-glaze and blackout curtains shield me
from the world's uncertainty.
the panes of glass so sure not to allow its overside to retreat and
seep its liquid coldness to reach me. it's neither
cold nor warm at the touch, unlike me.
i am protected by the double gaze and blackout curtains but
some force that differs from the one that is currently causing
the tree outside sway dangerously close to my perch is
causing my mind and body to be insulated
by a layer of ice.
goosebumps prickle and my arm and leg stubble
raise themselves.
but my mind does not provide for itself thermoregulatory
reflexes, i
must withstand the shiver of my memories.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
~~~~~
Even at this point in my life, i still,
could never have my back to the door...
I always face the window
or the door itself...
When the opposite is inevitable,
there are no airs of safety,
or thoughts of peace.
What is it about doors, even windows?
They are supposed to be symbols
of new beginnings, new chances...
But why don't i trust them enough,
to have my back to them...
Like someone, or something evil lurks,
waiting for me 'til i have relaxed my reflexes...
The door and window, i always seek,
always glad after I've gone out of each exit...
But then, behind you, no matter what,
there will always be another window,
another D O O R
O O
O O
R O O D...
I sometimes wonder:
is it the doors?
Or...is it me?
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
As he stepped into the ring,
Everyone his name did sing.
They wanted him to win
The title, for the commoners.
The title in his last fight.
He was out of practice,
His reflexes had slacked.
Gloves, boxers, guard, did him justice
There was something which he lacked.
Lacked in his last fight.
Before he could hear his favorite song,
Followed by the nerve-racking gong.
He had a look around
To catch a familiar sight,
Have a look at her before his last fight.
He checked the stands,
Then glanced around the ropes
And before he had given all hopes
He heard a familiar sound
Right before the first round.
Go hubby go! Punch him left and right!
She screamed with all her might.
Putting a smile on his face,
And then he boxed like an ace.
Winning the title, just for her.
The title in his last fight.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
To maintain peace and sound reflexes,
Sever every possible type of nexus,
With ex’s friends & friends exes,
Regardless of their sex's,
Above all, consider your cerebral plexus,
And know that wounds get infectious,
If unhealthy connections are maintained with one’s own exes.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
a high school football game.
the field is ablaze with juicy roses
and doves.
the athletes suddenly drop thier pencils,
their coughing hands made of melting wax.
all the trombones are falling apart, and
the flute players are losing their *******
under the bleachers, throwing away secrets.
heartbeats cracking broomsticks, the nuns
were always hitchhikers with resounding
gag reflexes.
i sail forward, snatching the time bomb
from the quarterback, snuffing out
a pall mall on his right eyelid.
the dead angel is summoned to slay
the horrible hippopotamus. she is ancient.
she has a mouth full of cavities and peace
in her veins.
the truth is a piercing thing, whose bitter tongue will decay me.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
This one time, my mom
and I said goodbye
to Juan's mom and we
walked from her apartment
to wait for the elevator.
Mom didn't like it
when I wouldn't stand still-
sometimes she'd smack me
upside my head just to
make sure I was there
(accompanied by her
motherly calls of malcriado)-
so I'd look in any direction
for a distraction or two.
Through the window a few feet
from my left, I could see two
older ladies in curler hairdresses
bochinchando like caffeinated hens
about the awfully friendly suelta
living next door to gallina #1
(they hung their hand-me-down
nightgowns and their husband's
boxers with such professional care;
if any article escaped the grasp
of family clotheslines, it was
roadkill forever).
I turned to the right
of the elevator doors,
counted the tar-black patches
of decade-old gum on the floor,
finished the half-written
sentences sprayed in *****
rainbows on the sweaty walls
by the zig-zag flight of stairs.
A boom and a click,
and the door creaked open
with the sideways grace
of a crab.
My toddler's impatience
boiled past the brim, I
exclaimed "FINALLY"
and began to walk forward.
Not a second later, I heard a
"NO" behind me, my mother
grabbing the back of my
cartoon mouse t-shirt,
letting out an ay cono, pendejo
that echoed eight stories down,
past the empty space substituting
for an absent elevator shaft,
soaring down that rusty freefall
at ten thousand times the
speed of a human boy's body.
Letting out a long exhale,
my mother did not allow
her emotions to brim over
the barrier-she recomposed
herself, all the while silently
chanting hymns of gratitude
in dedication to fate
and her reflexes.
We decided to take the stairs.
In my youthful oblivion,
I noticed a toy store
right outside the building
from the corner of my eye-
I plan to start begging when
we're at the bottom,
if we ever get there.
My mother took her sweet time
walking down those many steps,
reveled in the scratchy bristle
of the concrete against her sandals,
cultivated a newfound admiration
for my atonal imitation of a
Washington Heights car alarm-
it was a sign I was still there.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 12:14 PM UTC
Oh dear,
you spoil me
I wanna kiss you
but I don't wanna test my gag reflexes.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
I have opened up my mouth
and taken out a spare pair
of butterfly wings
(pinched between thumb
and forefinger),
used-to-be-dusty but now
slightly damp from their
place of residence.
I dried them myself,
striking match after match
and holding each underneath,
close,
but not too close.
Instead of drying they
shrivelled up like petals
after leaving the flower.
As if to preserve warmth,
curling inwards,
they shivered, animated
by the heat of the glowing stick.
The flame got too close
to my fingers. I dropped it,
swearing. Pinched the wings too
hard (reflexes), the membrane
broke between my fingers
and the remnants
of freedom fluttered softly
to the ground.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
choo choo
next stop.....perdition
(no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity)
1.
look how Time doth ravage thee
look what it did to thy visage
in smithereens, lies youth
it so artfully takes away
what is held so dear
rivers and streams
valleys and hills
arching to ecstatic heights
plunging to abysmal lows
into the ravine of chance
stirred by the spoon of Time
slowly around the cauldron
brews the self-same mixture
then poured into chasms of forgetfulness
using the eternal sledgehammer
it
smashes the foundation of thought
grinds the nutmeg of speed
pulps the fruit of mentality
slows the pulse of sensation
and pardons none.
2.
what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips
now are merely two dry slits on your face
once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over
vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like
toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch
away into forever, a pale platform to walk on
life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting
clouded and bedimmed by mists of age
butterfly's existence outweighs a man's
by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight
draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes
the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun.
3.
crimp
sag
limp
drag
mud cracks down a dipping dale
scalding pain sears sore half-foot
yes, time is but a disease
ravaging all
without fear or favour
sunken eyes
slower reflexes
tardier mind
scraggly body
hides not
condescends not
forgets not
the glimmer of ....
a time of ...
4.
cathedral invites the walker in
cool and calm recesses
sit silent
wait....
then they walk in, carrying
one who had but a lucky half-score lot
clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat
announcing the folly of stifling ego
now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour
beams of mercy cast a final look-see
jump the barriers of
time
to
carry thee off.
pipe organ-stops are pulled out
(art thee ready? platform number 5)
S T, 9 May 2013
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
Can someone please trade me eyes?
It's unknown how they still have sight
Every since I was 6 the sense have witnessed gruesome events
Now my eyelids flicker past them very seldom
My lacrimal glands have trouble producing saline
I find it nearly impossible for beatitude to gleam from my eyes
And I cannot search for something that my eyes feel sorrow for
Let me at least borrow yours?
Please
So I can see how it feel to grieve
So that tears of joy can travel down my cheeks
I want humor to cause me to wink
I want my reflexes to cause me to blink
Pleeeeeeaaassseeee?
I stand there in the face of danger
When I should be aware
Instead I just stare
...
No glare
Just dispirited
The statical behavior that my eyes inherited
Suppress me from all charity
I'm begging you
No one looks me in my face and feels warmth and comfortability
All that they see is two white igneous rocks
When I wish that they can see marshmallows
That's why I need your help
The optometrist said there's nothing that he can do
That's why I'm coming to you
I just wanna be inspired by life
Can you show me how the world look again just for one day?
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
I remember that summer by the lake
How you were surprisingly quiet that day
and nice to everyone which was weird
no sarcastic remarks
or swearing
so unlike you
your wit had died down
if we hadn't known better
we would of said you were distracted
But grateful for the change in your
demeanour
and teaching me to skip stones
If only you had taught me how to place my heart in my palm
and throw that away
instead
You weren't one for smiles
but you didn't like dramatic send offs either
that's why I was surprised when we found your cold body on the floor
bathed in the afternoon sun
In your fathers cabin
by that god forsaken lake
Under that red sky that turned everything the shade of your blood
Cassie slipped and fell and screamed
But I didn't hear her I was too busy focusing on you
willing myself to see a chest rising and falling
but all there was, was static
somewhere beyond Cassies screams
And Luke rushed to somehow clasp your wounds shut
The reflexes of a Doctor's child
But he didn't see that there was no more blood left to flow
and you were blue and cold
but you seemed unburdened of whatever
was eating
you
I remember feeling relief
I stood there
numb
We laughed at your funeral
At the irony of it all
and when your aunt got up and said you were the most
kind, generous young man
we almost died of laughter then
you were the most cold sarcastic S.O.B we ever met
but still loved you
Jake elbowed me and said "What would he do if he was here right now?"
I smiled "He'd jump out that ******* coffin and give his mother a heart attack"
Because it was you after all
You did love dramatic endings
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 7:28 PM UTC
And I feel this sludge
running down the long halls of my legs
a flood of viscous petrol jelly
slick sewage sick
patrolling artery walls
this metallic slide
so much molten lava
running down the mountains
of my thighs.
I'm a concrete machine
getting my mortar fix
tin woman hollow heart
methyl folate ******
Give me another hit
buffer my pain.
Already I have diesel fuel juice
leeching out my tissues
lightning striking the brain.
It's hard to get your attention
with this leavening
pooling the blood in my feet
It's hard to say hello with
acid cuddled words.
I want to raise my arms
and touch you
but I'm too toxic I'll burn you.
This nausea has become me
this metabolic crash is
my stop-gap.
Short circuit pain
this neuropathy has hardened me
in the space between these synapses
I dream of nothing.
Doped up by the yellow stuff
Daddy sprays from the plane
I was a farmer's daughter but
the doctor says
You've got the mutant gene,
for heavy metal toxicity.
Another serotonin addict
with brains of saccharine and plastic
I might get a pink ribbon for surviving
if they call it disease,
but silently, inside
I feel this sludge
sick sewage slick
battening down the reflexes
backing up the pipes.
my body is the future body
I say.
because this deadly brigade
is eating up the human chain.
There were Chernobyl defects,
and the media loves lepers with lesions
but a blistered stillborn baby
is no face for nuclear policy
but we --we're the unsung mutant breed--
there are billions of us
mentally sick lazy fucks,
hypochondriacs
of pre-existing conditions
can't find work
not even at Walmart
for disability aid--
But when you check out,
please donate.
Drop another baby
in the cancer cup.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC
This coffee (my second cup today)
gives me the shakes
and tastes like cold syrupy mud
I swallow it down
past my gag reflexes
out of nervousness
Sitting alone
in a coffee shop
with no one to talk to
trying to convince
myself
that
that's okay
so far, it's really not working.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 10:15 PM UTC
This topic is near and dear so let me ask you the reader
I just want to take the pulse or check the reflexes.
Ladies and gentlemen. Step right up step right up.
Little closer now dont let the smell of formaldehyde turn you aside.
This is something that goes on.
The government thinks it has a right.to.
1.Tax you while you live.
2. Levy a an exit tax when you croak. How is that for a sick joke.
This is just an observation, a point of fact.
Ever been to an Irish wake.
Ther's drinking and singing
Tall tales abound as the guest of honor poses ashen and.stil.
A drink is on standby. As a test of his will.
Here's a wee snort for you laddie just reach up and knock this one back
And sing us a shanty or a sad mournfull tune .
You say what?. Yeah that's a shell game where the rules change
Like I change underwear. Now that I pulled you leaches of my sack.
Hey come back we want more.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
*The sighs are the silent laments of the heart
As the heart is being crushed in a clenched fist
Slowly squeezing out all the love it can hold
Constricting the flow of life through the veins
Slowly, the mind goes into a partial coma
As the numbness spreads all over the body
Bereft of all the reflexes, to react and fight back
In a vegetative state, the slacking body lies there
With only outside support to keep you alive
But you are controlled by the sinister supports
Barely surviving, and on the brink of death
Slowly the laments of the heart die, with a sigh*
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
I LET YOU WALK ALL OVER ME LIKE I WAS YOUR LITTLE DOORMAT AND I LET YOU PUSH ME AROUND AND PLAY WITH ME LIKE I WAS YOUR LITTLE TOY JUST SO YOU COULD FEEL THE SLIGHTEST BIT OF HAPPINESS BECAUSE I KNEW THAT WAS A FOREIGN CONCEPT TO YOU. I LET YOU TREAT ME IN WAYS YOU CLAIMED TO BE AGAINST; THE THINGS YOU SAID TO ME AND DID TO ME WERE OKAY WHEN THEY CAME FROM YOU BUT UNACCEPTABLE WHEN THEY CAME FROM MY END. YOU KNEW I WASN'T GOING ANYWHERE AND YOU HAD BEEN TAKING COMPLETE ADVANTAGE OF THAT KNOWING I WOULD ALWAYS BE THERE FOR YOU. I LET THE CIRCUMSTANCES YOU FELL UNDER BECOME THE EXCUSES FOR THE WAY YOU MADE ME FEEL; I EVEN MADE EXCUSES FOR MYSELF. I SLIPPED INTO A STATE WHERE MY INSTANT REFLEXES WERE SECOND THOUGHTS AND GUILT AND I BEGAN TO FEAR THE WAY YOU FELT ABOUT ME BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT TO BE THE REASON YOU ENDED UP HURT AND YOU'VE GOT ME INTO SITUATIONS I WANTED TO AVOID AND PLACES I DON'T WANT TO BE AND I'M NOT STRONG ENOUGH TO TELL YOU THIS AND IT'S TEARING ME APART.
t.m.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
the women on my father's side of the family are quiet
they are traditionalists, rooted in the ways of the women who came before them
i have watched them shrink before the voices of men
wilting like flowers do when the nights are longer than expected
it is not their fault
they have not been taught any differently
the women on my father's side of the family are small
delicate bones and feet made for tip toeing around hushed rooms
voices made for apologizing for things that they can not control
their lineage traces its way back through generations
they have shaky hands, yet have mastered the art of threading needles
i watch them, and something tugs at my heart, but i do not know why
i fear it is pity
the women on my mother's side of the family are loud
they have laughs that carry like the notes of a symphony
bold and unapologetic, sure footed in its own presence
they are the center of attention
at times the center of gravity as well
the women on my mother's side of the family are tall
they take up space and are not ashamed of it
sometimes it is called brashness
i always saw it as courage
they taught me how to sleep in on sundays and how to walk like i am
not afraid and how to hold my keys in between my fingers like daggers
i watch them, and something tugs at my heart, but i do not know why
i fear it is because i do not know if i will ever be able to be like them
you see, i am equal parts one as i am the other
as much as i would like to be brazen and unafraid
i cannot forget the reflexes inherited
these things cannot be unlearned
they have been ingrained into hollow bones
however, if this is true, it must also be true that somewhere beneath this lies the kind of fearlessness that dances on tables and is not afraid of who watches
i have seen this courage in my mother, and her mother, and the women before them
one day i will steady these shaky hands and find that courage
until then i tip toe around hushed rooms and apologize for things that i cannot control
i am equal parts one as i am the other
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 5:56 PM UTC
It took me a decade of toil
years of experience and expertise
to learn that men are happy scoring
ecstatic when he bags and trashes
that short win he has not earned
Sometimes as women we steam
trimmed with seams of emotion
awaiting to open hearts unreserved
Yet he don’t want this vulnerability
he wants to be ignored and uncared for
denied and kept at the deepest ledge
for when you give yourself easily
he will devalue your inner-self
blocking and tantalising from afar
Men are still immature within
afraid of closeness,scared of love
afraid of the emotions,scared to trust
and when he chases,he is fast as a cheetah
preying closer and closer to his price
and when he lies, he sugar coats the facts
so that he creates an illusionary promise
Yet deep within he is like a baby
strained with automatic reflexes
unable to make an emotional dialogue
on how to make the woman really happy....
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
Im not sure if mad says it...I hear your words of fire while getting burned by the flames rolling off of words like ***** Sometimes Im completely, in utter shock like the cat got my tounge, but cats loath me. Memories flash in my mind of my own suffering of things he wouldn't do or didn't do. I took the burdon, I carried the load. I worked magic so our lives didn't turn out tragic. Not one time did I complain, and having to beg for appreciation is ******* insane. At the end of the day my feelings are forced to drift away, be at bay, where they may. Completely alone, isolated, yet in the core of the crowd. Never seen with all eyes on me. Again...I hear the word ***** I turn around with cat-like reflexes and bellow words from the sword of my tounge like sir Knight himself. My scold is merciless, my point sharp, my sound ultrasonic. My powers brought forth thunder and lighting into his arrogance. Why must I be drained from the blood running through my rolling veins just to be heard...?
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
He goes to the basement, without a word he flys
To grab a sufficent sourse of numbness
To write freely and speak not so clearly
But to engage of times of the unknown and times of Modern times
The weather tide, the things of our demise
And the music rides, and the glass clinks
Goodbye to on time
hello to sweet dreams highs
Rummy is a card game
*** isn't for the hard weak
It's not win to fame when you're
Slugging back ***
It's not fun, it gags and try's to overthrow your reflexes
To misconcept your reasons
Why *** is for pirates and not for mere kitchen writers
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
We are women -or men- that want to be free!
At least, for me, I like being treated inhumanely
Don't ask me why, I'll never know
It's just a thrill when I'm able to let go
See I like power
I hold it with my mind
But when a man wants to devour
All of me, I leave it all behind
His Dominance is so revealing
I can see right through His soul
My lust starts strongly seeping
My body is His to control
What brings me alive is the pain
Reflexes ache to restrain but
I have all the pleasure to obtain
Yes, my body is His terrain
And now it's my turn
His body is mine to learn
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
Lost in the scansion of a cool iron box
I struggle for air from the confines of metal that blocks all fresh of life from the cage
Bound in gagged suffocated reflexes
I utter muffled screams of my nights spent in lost days
Held in suspended motion, mid-flight to a descent
I train myself, my senses already know what comes next
meanwhile the art of stillness, in vivid stasis I contemplate.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC