"sodalite" poems
His eyes were like Labrodite
Beautiful in their own way
Cracks full of color
The only thing holding darkness at bay
His eyes were like Beryllium
The brightest blue I'd ever seen
Like blue skies on the horizon of tomorrow
The day leading you away from me
His eyes are like Sodalite
They come from both the darkness and the light
They are a muddled beautiful blue
The are unique just like you
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 1:32 AM UTC
I had a dream
where I had a sodalite heart
a precious stone that looks as if
earth was flooded and shrunk
only a few greenish-brown islands could be seen
white clouds swirled over the rough waters
a storm in the making
in the dream
I lost my heart
leaving a hole in my chest
where flowers had been growing
fed with the waters of the sodalite heart
to keep them from wilting
I looked everywhere
under my bed
in my clothes hamper
I asked my cat
and I asked the mirror
no one else was around to help
meaning no one had been there to steal it
I must have left it somewhere
or dropped it along the way
in my dream
I found the heart
laying on the ground
before the foot of the door
when I woke up I remembered
the sodalite heart I had bought last summer
I lost it within that very week
I knew exactly where I laid it
but it was never there
or anywhere
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC
Look at this sweetheart, his handcuffed wrists wrestling
Casting his cries on the clouds of Cleverack Correctional
Fighting a soul as fierce as his targeted arrow
That he only felt in his flesh firing his crossbow
What if you needed violence to get emotional?
Despising the very day you came into being?
His skies were probably as blue as a sodalite
But yet you kicked him out of the path of Light
In your fake flawlessness, you threw him into Hell
You denied his delights, he became your fallen angel
Eva, don’t you complain, your son has slain, you paranoid
His classmates, but you wanted to fill your life from this void
We need to talk about you before we look at the killer
Eva. You bear the name of the first woman on Earth
Do you think she could have begotten a monster in her hearth
Aren’t you this sick America, wicked and weary in your woes
You wanted your baby to call you his beloved mother
But destroying what you had become became his vicious vows
And he was on the list. You never read the map correctly
Maybe he was your final destination, your last addiction
You are right when you write that you never found the solution
To the cunning curio he represented- of him you took a dimly
View. But did you once look back in his eyes, lit with desperation?
‘’What do you mean, special?’’ probably is the answer
To his enigmatic and yet so crystal clear
“I used to think I knew," " Now I'm not so sure.”
That inspires nothing but a fantastic fear
To the courageous and curious reader
Can you still feel this unhinged pressure?
Oullins, France
May, 21, 2014
After watching the 2011 We need to talk about Kevin movie and reading Lionel Shirver’s book.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
i found my sodalite heart
in an old lime green purse
by the door of the home i left
now i craft my crown of bloodstone
gather feathers of unakite
wear glasses of opal
and write in books of sapphire
in a room painted sky blue
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
Smile
Blue
Blue
Blue
Aqua guidelines
For me
For you.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
At sixty plus
a series of scenes from a life past
started flashing back...swaying,
like soft organza curtains, giving
in to forces of the wind...blowing,
recalling...things that used to be,
places, faces i no longer see,
people i haven't met and long to meet,
words i meant to say....but didn't,
things i failed to do, but still meaning
to, given fresh starts...it's tiring,
counting "should haves," so i'm saying,
etcetera, etcetera.....the list is unending.
At past seventy,
sunrises are lovely as ever...and bolder,
sunset moments are quieter...and holier,
old days seem nearer,
with poetry-writing, the call is stronger
while still dabbling in beads-making,
designs pour over me, when stringing
moonstones, sodalite, and lapis lazuli.
I am in a different zone.
when mixing poetry and natural stones
to me, a word is a crystal, a gemstone
it's merely a word to some...a stone unknown.
I guess...at late seventies,
i'll still be in white shirts and blue jeans,
creating unique, interesting themes for poetry,
say, a big bus with travelers, seated hesitatingly,
or, finding a bright tunnel's end, serendipitously,
or, unrepenting souls sinking deeper, regretfully,
more silly love poems? i'd indulge willingly
my frame may turn fragile...i pray, not my poetry,
not my judgment, nor my decision-making,
not my courage, especially, when I reach past eighty.
sally b
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 18, 2021
Jun 17, 2021
Jun 17, 2021 at 10:19 PM UTC