"rigors" poems
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.
(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)
There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.
Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)
It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.
A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
His plumage is mostly air
And the tree is anchored in the ground
by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
The boy with the heart winning smile,
He’s always asked to stay a while,
Girls love his laugh and guys like his smirk,
But what they don’t know?
Is it’s so much work..
He smiles so he won’t talk
He smiles so they won’t analyze his walk,
A walk that is limping and numb,
From the forenight’s rigors he had done.
To himself so he could actually feel something,
Cause I mean pain and love it’s the same..Right?
But so he smiles,
he smiles so he keeps the persona of a magnificent confident boy,
When all he truly feels like is someone’s little toy,
Because you tell them that he mangled your emotions,
When really you were the one who gave him the false love potion.
Treating him like he was never going to disappear,
Like he was your little knight carrying your burdening spear,
But then when he finally drops your ploy,
And stops being yours obedient little toy,
All of a sudden he’s the monster,
The one who tore YOUR heart asunder.
And that’s what he grows to believe,
Seeing how he’s stills naive,
So he puts himself back in his armor,
Clamps the latches tight and closes the visor,
Because he doesn’t want that to happen again,
He’s already face pain greater then some men,
And the only thing he’s ever held dear,
Was the hope that one day,
someone would hear.
Hear the pains through his winning smile,
Notice his walk is a little misguiled,
The hope that someone would tear off his armor,
Lift his visor,
And say,
N’ayez pas peur mon amour
But.. Who would go through that trial?
For the boy asked to stay.. Just a while,
Who will fix the boy,
With the hear splitting smile?
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
his eyes glared at my soul
wondering what dwells inside
or how it would shrivel
after the rigors of winter
his lungs and liver
were worn out
every after sky scrappers
were created
he walked everywhere
wearing his belief
that two people
are only meant to last
for a few bottles of beer
two shots of *****
and the human bodies
are not made for the long run
i'm building the walls higher
than it was since the last time
every time i realize
that this could be it
this could be the daydream
but could also be the nightmare
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
There was a Promise For Two
I am here, because, there was a promise for two.
It was a commitment to their bond,
a mutual elective.
But Maria’s beam disappeared after five hours.
Separated from mother’s womb,
her innocence was unable to endure the rigors
of an indifferent world,
She was suppose to be daddy’s little girl,
Mommy’s alter image and brother’s shining star.
Soft....angelic.
Their expectations converted to muted despair.
A balanced homecoming became questionable.
and over time, insurmountable.
The heartaches began to escalate, and eventually barricade concern for the mysteries destiny.
Tears fell, for what never would be,
tears for dreams,
and tears for abandoned dreams,
tears for Maria.
Two years past
and I was the one chosen to replace her shadow.
Conceived to witness the hearts vacuum.
To kneel, with my back straight, next to an older brother before the hallowed space,
where, under the tightly packed sod, among uniformed columns of god’s beloved children,
sweet Maria lies in peaceful repose by the stone Grotto.
My adolescent hands squeezed the polished silver,
as they pounded the cross into the unforgiving earth.
I pondered my existence, while questioning my replanted tangibility,
trying to comprehend the equity of life through a spectral identity,
and wondering where my place might be, if my sister had prevailed and flourished.
One day, I returned to place a wooden crucible where the silver once glimmered in the sun.
I marked her name in burnt lettering.
Again, the effort was pilfered by the same callous world
Maria’s tiny fingers refused to touch.
There was never coherence, but, eventually I understood.
I am here, because, there was a promise for two
and for a small coffin,
that was lowered into the cold ground of North Arlington.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
The Compact
Some of us are given to,
upon our person to secret
instrumentation to adjust
the patina of our ****** tones,
lest the glare of man made light
lend a shine undesired and worse,
uncovered windowed pores allow
revelations undesirable into our souls.
In other words, a compact and its constituents:
puff, powder and mirror.
Observed a compact in use
between Act I and Act II,
the deft use of the mirror,
angled, moved back and forth
to provide perspective,
close-up and/or total.
The Gods of Metaphor,
Deities of Derision
force my unwilling reveal
thru the holy confessional screen:
I too have a compact.
My compact, a deal, a treaty accord
between the white rigors of life daily,
and spasms of black lies
to make appearances tolerable.
My compact is what I cover up
with powder and puffery.
Aged sixty two years, life nonsensical,
perversely inversely, the dependence upon
these cracked hands grows,
dying cells dividing like newborns,
worrisome weariness make the lies
come faster and more frequent,
which is why my compact has a mirror.
No matter what perspective enamored,
In the mirror, my reality check,
No powder upon my eyes,
the brutality and the joy,
of life is undisguised.
Nonetheless, I have more,
Morethanless, the balance
is favorable, the outlook positive.
My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
a genuine photograph taken by a relation,
of Wonder Woman commandeering a
Manhattan avenue by aft. daylight,
leading children of the neighborhood and
their guardian angels, the NYPD, in a
rousing calisthenics warmup routine,
for it’s the day of witches, goblins, masquerading,
and pre-internet, nice, sweet trolls no older
than six years of age, Wonder Woman too, the rigors of an
evening of search and recovery, collecting the
well gotten treasure ***** found by early dusk’s
s l o w l y disappearing light, amidst stunned,
aimless wandering adults
and miscellaneous grownups,
All
wonting & wondering:
is innocence still a thing?
Jan 17, 2024
Jan 17, 2024 at 1:03 PM UTC
Nuclear Winter: Solo Restart
by Michael R. Burch
Out of the ashes
a flower emerges
and trembling bright sunshine
bathes its scorched stem,
but how will this flower
endure for an hour
the rigors of winter
eternal and grim
without men?
Keywords/Tags: nuclear, winter, radiation, ashes, life, reemerges, without, men, Armageddon, Apocalypse, extinction, event
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 11:30 PM UTC
I'm too small
As small as a dot on the crumpled paper
I'm just one of thousands
Even invisible in this cruel world
Sheltered in a narrow and thin shells
Hiding behind the leaves which begin to change color
My first house
finally I was born
as something strange
I'm the ugly
My body covered with bristle
Feebly crawling along a twig
Gnaw the leaves around and make holes
Run away from the birds
Grappling with weaver ants
Makes me fell to the ground
until my bristle loss
Only worm greets
They hate me so
I could get killed, not all of them accept
until I'm stuck in another dimension
I'm the lonely hiding caterpillars
Imprisoned inside a small obsolete pouch
Trying to **** time
Struggling in the darkness to reach beauty
That's enough of this stopover
wade through the rigors of the long wait that handcuff
I was reborn
being different and they like me
Abundant happiness arrives
fly indefinitely with both my beautiful wings
I can go to wonderful place that I want
penetrate malignancy
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
Can't hide the rigors
Of anxiety and fears
Even knowing what it harbors
Can't cloak their effects from mirrors
It figures
Such a force can disfigure figures
Right under the skin it lingers
The worst possible time is when it appears
Rears up to rip down the facade and veneers
The you you knew is what it devourers
What good are middle fingers,
When only directed at yourself?
For now,
I guess,
I'll have to put that question on the shelf
©2024
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 7:53 PM UTC
(
)
In the silence of cold, quiet,
after midnight hours...wind
audibly pushes branches and
leaves...sends them swaying
and rustling....i hear the rain
falling...like small nails hitting
the neighbor's acrylic eave.
the peace of these unholy hours
empowers me...i feel, i rule the world,
my senses and my mind are sharpest..
while others are asleep and dreaming.
everyone's eyes are closed...mine, too,
yet, i am so awake, i see this cauldron,
where my life's goings-on are stirred by
an unknown force, spinning clockwise,
simmering, nothing burns, or breaks,
for, underneath, its fire burns slow...
good and bad issues mix and join
the stew of old stubborn ones;
daily rigors, wee triumphs blend in,
like a goulash of meat and veggies,
slowly cooking, as fire burns slow,
giving time...............taking time
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
the strong aroma of arabica jolts me
from my reverie...it matters not if i
haven't slept......6 am, i'm back to
reality.....lots of work await me
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
five-pm past, arabica again stands by
me as i watch the orange fires of sunset,
hear the crickets sing, or a frog's croak,
while my rocking thoughts are cradled,
while i enjoy some peace and quiet,
exuded by a fragrant twilight.....it's
that feel-good part of each day...saying
gratitude for every sunrise and sunset,
while my candle's fire burns slow....
........
......
...
Sally
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 6, 2021
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 3:46 PM UTC
I'm too small
As small as a dot on the crumpled paper
I'm just one of thousands
Even invisible in this cruel world
Sheltered in a narrow and thin shells
Hiding behind the leaves which begin to change color
My first house
finally I was born
as something strange
I'm the ugly
My body covered with bristle
Feebly crawling along a twig
Gnaw the leaves around and make holes
Run away from the birds
Grappling with weaver ants
Makes me fell to the ground
Until my bristle loss and scattered
Only a worm greets
They hate me so
I could get killed, not all of them accept
until I'm stuck in another dimension
I'm the lonely hiding caterpillars
Imprisoned inside a small obsolete pouch
Trying to **** time
Struggling in the darkness to reach beauty
That's enough of this stopover
wade through the rigors of the long wait that handcuff
I was reborn
being different and they like me
Abundant happiness arrives
fly indefinitely with both my beautiful wings
penetrate malignancy to explore the horizon
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
A single strand,
it weaves itself around
the empty space that circumvents my alarm clock.
The monotonous noise reminding me
of the day's responsibilities overshadowed
instantly by a thread.
A piece of you,
an accidental gift
more personal than breath.
Things unintentional are more severe
than those thought and poured over.
Delicate and strong,
this proteinacious silk
stands up to the rigors of my examination.
A tangible illustration of your life,
now,
with me,
no one can have that but me.
In reality more precious than words
or emotions that you would offer freely.
This piece of time,
that you have let slip from your grasp,
only to settle on my nightstand.
The gift of a person,
a soul,
cannot be matched by any other.
This is what we live for,
what we hang on to,
a single thread.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 12:17 AM UTC
Sunny sky, or heavy rain:
Hope, grief, joy, or pain,
While in this life you travel through
Let the Saint prevail
in you!
Above the rest, or in a hole,
amidst the rigors to the soul,
let humble hearts beat strong and true
and let the Saint prevail
in you!
When filled with doubt, and questions stir
the Spirit speaks of something sure...
'In all that you can say and do
let the Saint prevail
in you! '
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
~
his ropes are worn but hold the strain;
they’ve seen far worse in wind, in rain.
his deck is bare, his winch is full,
his back and arms ache. yet again;
though soon his catch the hold will fill,
with hissing jaws and snapping claws;
reward of toil with traps of steel.
’neath cloud and sun, to dusk from dawn,
with weathered hand he works and sweats;
to bring to port ’fore sun has set,
there’s hungry mouths to feed at home;
a wife whose face his hands to hold.
in years still young, but days too old,
these seas have aged his weathered soul;
and eyes that peer neath bill-ed hat,
have wept as waves stole all he has;
not once, but twice they claimed his lot,
sunk to its bed like fallen stone;
but skill and luck his love has bought,
her prayers from home have brought him back.
of fable and of myth he’s made,
cup of saltiness with pinch of sin;
with baited traps he lays in wait,
yet knows he is the baited one;
for he’ll ne’er throw in these lines,
or trade his trusted trawler in.
a farmer’s life may suit his love,
but this she sees would be his end;
and so she lives each day in wait,
for his trawler's horn to sound.
this too she knows far too well,
one day his horn will sound no more.
no coffin nor a stone he’ll need;
the sea will bear him to that shore,
his lasting gift to her is them,
each child's face, his own imprint.
the sea his final resting place.
his voice to hear amidst the wind;
~
*post script.
an imagined crabber and lobsterman; with mouths to feed and a love he needs back home, owing much to prayer and good fortune, though even this has it limits as the sea's rigors daily tempt fate. these lines mused from my own castings of traps and nets... of harvesting the sea’s bounty for a mere weekend, with my lover near at hand.
https://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/05/magazine/a-speck-in-the-sea.html
pss. i am many months away and life has changed; these changes are still a work in progress. my goals too have been rearranged... death and hardship have that effect on us, though sometimes change that feels alarming actually takes us to a place of salvation; this being my constant hope! i make no promises that i am back, only that for now i am here, and have missed you and the sacredness of these walls.*
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
Facts are Poison-
There is nothing as poisonous as ash dead, cold-hearted
facts. When the first Pedantic was brought into the world,
he took with him his axe and his facts, and axed
anything that conspired against him, for he idolized
the rigors of science and wished to emulate scientific method
, so that he may properly pollute the minds of artists by reassuring them
they are constantly misguided- literature is meant to be abstract
and remote. Therefore, it is necessary for the Pedantic to interpret literature. He set artists to be bound in chains and set them to
mine mountains of literature. His purpose is to cannibalize art to shreds, **** the aspirations of artists, so that they may never reach the heights of their own magnificence.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
Success, they say, is measured
In grades and academic scores
A test of mental fortitude
A sign of future doors
But what of those whose talents
Don't lie in books and tests?
Whose passions and ambitions
Can't be gauged by scantrons best?
What of the artists and dreamers
Whose gifts cannot be boxed?
The innovators and leaders
Whose brilliance can't be coaxed?
What of those who struggle
With the rigors of academia?
Whose strengths lie outside the classroom
In fields beyond the syllabus?
Success cannot be defined
By a single metric or score
For greatness takes many forms
And talent comes in many more
So let us not confine ourselves
To academic pursuits alone
For success is what we make it
And true greatness has no known.
Apr 27, 2023
Apr 27, 2023 at 1:09 PM UTC
above named orthodontist
crowned specialist
exemplary de jure by this dad
sans perfecting offset dentition
of me daughter – shana – who had
quite noticeable gapped teeth –
just the opposite when i was a lad
and pro bono courtesy
of above named orthodontist –
worthy of a regal pad
(okay perhaps i exaggerate just a tad)
performed prestigious dental skill with her band
of admirable merry technicians,
who possess grand
ever so agile and gentle
to affix and/or adjust with each hand
after countless visits
viz number of years shifted closed spaces
re: wide spaces did stand
brackets wired together where
squarely rooted choppers stood askew
the completed effect = a priceless smile
tooth thy punim – a beau
tee full young lady (this comment
unbiased from me – math a ewe)
biological father of thine lass in question,
where time flew
while transformation
her dazzling smile grew
a changed ****** profile –
admirable how maxillary masters did hue
artfulness to align mastication via calculus
sans perfecting her bite they knew
thus this papa feels ever so thankful
for prettifying mine offspring
with courtesy service per each appointment
thee progeny i did bring
no matter that brackets broke loose –
yes in some cases from chew wing
gum or eating hard foodstuffs - fear of a skull ding
never occurred, whereby
anticipatory anxiety expended 4 naught ting
mortis rigors of extraction,
x-rays affecting dental precision
would be impossible without the decision
for the supreme doctor –
who owned a schooled vision
to envision
vis a vis what provision
and necessary measures
to manipulate dentition
toward per mission
whereby maybe a minor revision
made to witness brilliant
megawatt smile giving admission
of heightened sunny disposition
primed to embark on successful
lip smacking dating expedition
anointing shana aubrey harris –
who completed the biting inquisition.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
my grandfather has thin skin
he says
after I watched him buckle after a bunch in texture on the floor
a wire
a corner
a buckle in the universe
where man falters where he is confident to walk
and I watch the blood in a ****** mary leak into the corners of a white leather couch
a drink, spicy and cold
less orange than the purple that swells under his skin
and redder than the faded napkin I wrap around the icepack
he has eyes browner than my brothers
less brooding, more soft with an illustration,
a knowledge of all his children's lives
and I wonder, a tight cliched anxiety in my chest
would I ever be so lucky
to worry
about all my successful children?
or would it ever keep me up
to wonder
if they were happy
or after everything, all the gravel and grit
or after everything, in their lungs, in their brains, in their skin,
smoothing right, all their rigors
humming under their hearth of hearts
if I would just go to bed,
happy they would be okay
or
happy there wasn't a buckle in the universe
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
Trembling
Time wasting
Mind searching
For self
Who am I this morning
Cold drizzle meets a late dawn
Opens pores on bare skin
Feel free but awaiting
The Lights glance
Penetrating clouds
An hour of my truth
Absorbed into the rigors of a new day
(c)near_lane7
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 11:35 PM UTC
I shudder to think, for your poem decries "being under anothers power".
Yet, are we not born by the power of another, grace, and that of our mother?
Is it not our solutioning with the Earth becoming more concentrated,
The power of another, that realizes us becoming, potentially, you, me?
And when the vitality, rigors of youth are supposedly betrayed by the wisdom
Of middle-age, are we not also more so for that, our doings not more real?
And when old age seemimgly takes our senses, not the sixth, our muscles,
But ..., the sinew, our bones strength, but the marrow's, do we not still be
More so, alival instead of survival, outstretching an arm to lend a hand,
By the power of another, betwixt an Earth, Sky, with a Sun, a Universe?
Aren't we also to cherish life no matter what, strive to be alive, thrive?
And after we, "Do not go gentle into that good night, and rage, rage against
The dying of the light" (Dylan Thomas), will we not finally, again, join in
The Cosmos' eternal 'dance of spheres', it's cacaphony, symphony, as stardust
Sprinkled from above or petals dancing on the breeze, by the power of another?
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 3:09 AM UTC
As a bubbling
brook speaks
whisperingly the
rigors of flow...
I cannot help
but overhear.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
soon or perhaps sooner
the ultimate upgrade
will be the game-changer
Quixote’s been chasing
since...
forever;
from **** to robo-sapien
by slight of man’s
intelligent design
coded to perfection
like heaven;
an ailing heart replaced;
a failing lung recharged;
the vigor of youth reclaimed;
the rigors of age erased;
with a singular click
or flick of a switch
on the wall to eternity
and beyond
where nanotechnology reigns
and the human brain
is a dial-up modem.
~ P
(5/10/18)
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
Wrapped in an enigma
Passing stigmas like rigors
Barriers to climb that i figured
Would be easier but they return
Actions that will trigger
Anxieties and fast thoughts
Time to learn how to burn
The past and start over anew
Cleanse the soul of bitters
And be true and honest
The paradigm shift of self is upon
All of us. Who will we be
Manifest and see the future
Traumas will bleed but sutures
Can mend upon our thoughts
Something the self has taught
Again and again, time to begin again.
The good can win when we recognize the shadows. A path a few follow
Step with caution and be humble
Words of cause mumbled and jumbled
Follow the good and evil, fumble with the balance. Trust in your talents then fall and crumble. Flow like a bumblebee, Sting like a hornet.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 3:29 AM UTC