"unrepenting" poems
Real lies, unreal thing
Light me up just take a puff
Then once more until you huff
And again with feeling
Feel your life unreeling
Unrelenting
**Real eyes
Disillusioned**
Lungs replete with cloud of one thousand burning trees
Avert your gaze, look beyond the haze
So you'll fail to notice I etched the stress as wrinkles in your face
and smothered your Eros, imbued void in its place
**Realize
Dissolution**
Whether its reward or solace you seek
Inhale me, the vapors of your saving grace
I am everything you've hated to love and loved to hate
Unrepenting
*Now exhale your pain
Oh exalted Soul
Pity I bring you no relief
Rather, wield a sword*
Now as I overwhelm
And pull you down under
You can take the helm
But your vessels asunder
Your heart and lungs are now black
I harbor plague, yet still you'll come back
Because your peace of mind rests with me
In these most tumultuous tides
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
To so many it is surreal and dream-like; say it out loud,
they nailed him to a cross; an overwhelming reality too
cruel to believe
Reminded of nothing but what passed their lips into
your ears, the inquisitors, blessed by a past regarded
as their own holy ground asked, “How many prophets
have you met?”
It was enough to know who Satan should truly fear;
those who would never cry, who would have no reaction
to anything except the atrocity of someone who knew
them well
They say walk a mile in another man’s shoes but why
must we walk so far; isn’t his breath alone enough to
know of the scars in his hands and feet?
It seems that life gives others too many chances; they
hurt so many others and expect to be forgiven; but I
have not witnessed their punishment; it is the pattern
sewn by my bitterness
Is it God’s plan to reveal how and when they will be
driven into the desert of lament and sorrow; or even
if he already has, with burning sands beneath their
unrepenting feet, is it any of my concern?
The clock will strike on his time; the test is not only
in bearing my own pain but also in my discomfort
with God’s random will; random to mankind, but
not to God; he chose the time for the storm to wash
away those who preach what they do not know
The one who stirs hate in my heart suffers more than
I will ever know; his conscience burns deep into the
heart I once believed failed him; and when he comes
to me to witness my refusals will he ask then if God
gave me the power to part the sea?
I was given a hammer and some nails; was it to build
a home or to **** a man? I was given a pile of stones;
was it to build a home or to judge another man?
What did God ask of me; tell me what he said for
the dream was such a nightmare that I awoke in
horror at the sight of such unworthiness
To lower your gaze and be the truth; the truth that
only humility knows, not to be hurt once again but
to show how forgiveness is greater than anything
you have been promised?
And as you walk in fear towards an image beyond a
cross you cannot believe is real, will the worthiness of
the forgiver be enough for you to know that the shoes
you wear are not strong enough to hold another man’s
suffering in its sole?
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
When the eyes are denied a surety,
trepidation beats between cicada wings
and the snore song of leopard frogs,
loud though the singers are small.
For what or whom does the gray owl call,
perhaps, perhaps the end of us all.
We've built upon fire
mechanics of light unrelenting.
But night does fall - never rises -
and with it roars the unrepenting -
a shadow on the wall.
A floorboard creak,
a screendoor unhinged,
even a clock ticks louder
to the brave cowering ear,
counting indifferent
to the sum of our fears.
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 5:53 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