Dump: A Commissioned Poem

Someone commissioned me to write a poem about the word, dump.  Not a pretty word, but a workingman's word, full of possibilities and mystifications.  Gratefully accepted.

so many, endlessly endless.
bringing paper, cans, compacted
words,
all in need of special disposal,
special handling,
individuation of caring.

I split myself into multiple personas.
blue, green and some other color,
divine myself into receptacles for the sounds
you write, that must be read aloud, slowly,
in order to properly, allocate,
to dispose,
of.

sustainability.
not the planet,
something smaller,
more
man-ageable,
man-agreeable.

your verse!
you in verse is multidimensional,
yet unified,
one theme,
single answer to a questioned couched
a thousand different ways,
a thousand different poem titles!

how can I sustain myself?

sustain
— verb (used with object)
to support, hold, or bear up from below; bear the weight of, as a structure.
to bear (a burden, charge, etc.).
to undergo, experience, or suffer (injury, loss, etc.); endure without giving way or yielding.
to keep (a person, the mind, the spirits, etc.) from giving way, as under trial or affliction.
to keep up or keep going, as an action or process: to sustain a conversation.
to supply with food, drink, and other necessities of life.
to provide for by furnishing means or funds.
to support (a cause or the like) by aid or approval.
to uphold as valid, just, or correct, as a claim or the person making it

you are in the dictionary,
did you know that?

now I will answer in a free man's verse,
written without hesitation but with plenty of
tears and tissues
and rememberings of his own
wasted days, major successes,
bathtub ships,
righted
and passengers saved.

Words written in a single breath,
no exhalation just simple purity,
best wishes that any man can have,
if daring, he reaches inside and,
rips himself open,
saying it's ok, and meaning it,.

so here I am
standing looking you in the eye,
sitting with both arms draped
over your body,
saying
dump,
dump it all on me.

Cause I got a billion words that rhyme with
comfort.
Bring me the past and the future uncertain.

I already told you
never read a poem I did not like.

got slots for cans paper and compost,
got slots for fear, heartache and a big ole wide one for
pain.

got a heart shaped dump
that never closes.

The city council complains,
your name ain't Moses,
you are a city boy,
why you hanging in the wilderness for forty more,
didn't you do your time?
ex wife that brutalized your soul.
two sons who barely speak to you.
let someone else take over,
and I smile saying exactly,
I got experience,
I got Kleenex,
don't know nobody else better
Boy Scout
Be Prepared.

See,
even you can dump on me
effortlessly.

So.
ask not what you will bring.
cause I got an opening for anything you can
dump,
and land fill of me that has so much space,
billions of acres and neurons that will lay fallow,
until your poems, plaints, sailings and wailings
fill them.

so that is my poem,
dump,
even,
I like it.

May even dump some of mine on someone
like you.
after all
who in this world cannot use some
sustaining.

Sun is setting.....the dark rushes in,
from its bright orange glow,  a pale
tint of  orange turns fast to  bronze
gray, like metal.....suddenly, there's
that powerful whistle!.......suddenly
what matters, is to count the hours
'til whistle sounds its leaving, on its
way into the open sea...as a million
stars...graciously take over the sky

grip relaxes........hand lets go of old photos
candle light flickers, moth dances in circles
"no rain, please," a whisper, like  soft wind
blowing.....the heart leaps each time a boat
arrives, heart breaks when the whistle tells
of departure....the whistle...haunts this sad
soul...swaying trees, wooden walls, in their
own ways, listen....lizards rarely knock, the
cicadas stop their night songs......as dweller
withdraws from an old self, from an old life.
hushed wailings melt bits of pain...it's hard
to forget a life lived solely....for one's selfish
interests....a family abandoned...a lost voice
talks to God....of repentance....and of regret,
for years of straying, for precious time lost
an errant human being, longs to be  within
family circle again....the hugs....the giggles
baby's cheeks......the warmth of loved ones
they're a thousand reasons.....to reconsider
babies have grown up....people are weaker.
wind whispers their names under the fiery
sun...but, mostly.......in the still of the night.

"God, who would want me back?....why didn't
you let me? there at the gorge, or the stream?"

how many futile attempts had there been?
how many more boats must come and go?
how many more sunrises....sunsets to see?
one cannot.....could never escape from life
how does one learn to accept....to forgive?
when?...how....does one forgive one's self?

sleep didn't come.......faint dawn light peeps
through clearing clouds...the owner, the old
man is back, brought a daily.....with a photo
of the dweller...reportedly missing for years
a contact number, and a reward...offered for
precious information...the old man knew, he
too, was lost once.....he understood the need
offered the old cottage....to help another lost
soul, find himself again.....took long, but this
new, overwhelming courage has taken over!
dweller hurried.....then, hugged the old man
a God-given friend...in his darkest moments
the boat arrives by noon......sails before dark,
..........finally, to take the dweller...back...........
.............................. H O M E ..............................

Sally


Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
September 28, 2018  (Pacific time)

My mind is a shrieking graveyard
that is too freighting to visit alone

Sometimes,
I hear the skulls of all the people I
have ever loved rattling inside my heart

I do not know how to quiet
down their wailings at night

I have nothing to offer them,
but my dripping pain

Alone, I weep,
lamenting their forgotten laughter

Life isn’t enough.
I want 10 more
I want 10 penises and 10 *******
I want 10 guns and 10 crosses
I want 10 children and 10 homes
I want 10 friends and 10 enemies
I want more of everything and now
The gamma rays and the cosmic nothingness
The icy chill and solar flares
The Big Expanse and Big Crunch
I  CRAVE the universe
ALL of it
To funnel through me
Like water through a hose
Or electricity through a cable
Or sunlight through a magnifying glass
I am wired
With LIFE
With music, and wine, and kisses
With silence, hangovers, and wishes
I want to consume
Like Horace
the very sun, the very underworld
Engulf dreams, nightmares, and mortality between
Like plumes of obsidian perfume
Sacrifice virgins and assassins
Dig up graves and wheel them into churches
Dig up stones and throw them at CIA vans
I want to rage
Smear my blood all over eggshells
Feces on W2 forms
Give me more thunderclap and ******* wailings
Charge me with the ravenous gasp
To breathe, to bellow
To love in bolted totality
To strike and revel
I hold the goblet out
Shimmering and trembling
For you

I have been in the land of the dead,
Green valley of infertility, with no end in sight
Where end the flights of steps, reigns eternal night.

But a night it is unlike any on the earth
For a suffused light pervades the horizon for hopes to birth
That on this land though echoes, the wailings of the dead,
Yet can herald a new beginning from life’s leftover thread!
I stood on a high wall and as far as my eyes could see
Walls stretched beyond farthest limits of vision’s boundary
Between them lay bottomless wells glowing with red hot coals
In those abyss moved burning flesh cindering tortured souls!
As I flew over those pits of doom saw many a flaming hand
Waving up in one last bid to be carried away from this land
I couldn’t help them nor save them from their tormentor
I had come here in my dream, just as a passing visitor!
Scared by the hellish sights, I thought it wouldn’t be wise
To foray afar, see more of it, but from dream I must rise
As I turned to leave, in those pits I saw, blue ocean and the sky
Where fleshes burn every moment, desires rot and die!

I have cried the tears of the distress,
Borne  the pain of the hurt,
Felt the loneliness of the bereaved,
And the agony of the distraught;

I have bled the blood of the pierced,
Borne the pain of the broken-hearted,
Endured the shame of the abused,
And the confusion of the disappointed;

A black cross inprinted on my back,
Wailings of little children haunt me,
Ashes of loved ones in my sack,
And many skulls and bones to bury;

Crows dominate my chapel at day,
And owls are my visitors at night,
Dragons parade the burning altar,
Bats above blur the moonlight;

Eyes that see in darkness- answer me,
My past unchanged but my future- re-design,
Illuminate the path way that lies ahead,
Give me a third eye and make me divine;

Find me before my throat is slit
The murderers of my loved ones visits,
They call out from the enchanted woods,
Prepared to tear me to innumerable pieces;

Take me to the lake and hang me,
Before the horrors of the dark prevail,
And the termites in my grave rejoice,
Let me drown in the sacred grail;

Let the witches wail in surprise,
When their cauldron becomes empty,
And their synagogues come to ruin,
While i rise to everlasting suprimacy.

Electric despair
Just a fraction
A hit of desire

Supply and demand
Trading peace for the land
Starting fires

It's nothing of news
It rots and pollutes
It mocks what you do
It's ready to shoot
Doesn't care who was there
Media covered the truth

No mans land
*******

Snuffing the come up
I live for the underhand jobs
I'm a mob boss
I need a cough drop
Choking on the reasons
History repeating stand down

The stench of division
Clouding my vision
So loud indecision
Surrounds my conviction
Rendering me as a corpse
Send all my hobbies up north
Where it's going down
So poised
With a corpse to throw
Self love
Plus more room to grow
Oh so bold
Must be snorting that pale moon glow
Must be chugging that everclear
Must be clutching that heart so dear
What a life
Yet I'm gonna get it right
Peers

Oh god
Can you hear me out
Question
From whom did you learn all your lessons
Tested I figured you ad libbed the message
I'm out to find what the silence is betting

So petty
So don't test me
War ready
With the goal on flexing
I run the patience of clocks
Outliving haters a personal hobby
Spited to death
**** cam is lit fam
Ex lady thinking
***** I don't really give a ****
Never made a baby
Always played the run around

Heh

Sorry about that
But what am I to do
When that *** so fat
Got me hella in the mood
When you let me see it clap

I got an eigth of shrooms
I'm tryna make it bloom
A blunt to match
Some room to move
Stratosphere blazing as we cloud the room
Last year faded off the ought to do
While I sit here waiting for my star to shoot

Topsy turvy
Match the gloom
In a vile plume as I engage the noose
Hopeful boy taking polaroids
Everlasting days
Never lasting joys

Come on

Just blast away
Growing pains from my defeat
Burned at stakes from past mistakes
Ambition bathed in flames

Ascension know my name
Lotus petals
Unshackled
I craft on broken glass
This ******* built to last

Sitting in the drivers seat
Laughing at my lack of drive
The taste of irony
Hinting at my suicide
This right here is do or die
Scared of heights
Grit teeth and fly
Copped me some stolen wings
Deceit no thang to me
Yet I still can't sleep
Relax my mind
Third eye still crooked why
Bad batch of LSD
What the hell you want from me

Lamentations of the soul
Cascading broken notes
Wretched lessons I provoke
The wailings of a lonely ghost

Praying karma takes me home
Been wayward from the start
        Been wayward from the start
Chasing shadows thinking stars were mine to handle
Dismantled
I've learn reality's a gale of sin
And I'm the candle
Now watch as I unravel

I (fabrication)

Arthur Quincy folds his arms together
Sensing that interfering desire again!

Cant shake this fugue
Or forget the bad stuff he used to take/
Its a lingering presence/

The residual ash in his eyes blinking coffins & dazzling premonitions to the other smalltown poets writing in
Their kitchens to the sound of
Wheatgrass dancing outside in June and
A vacuum's warm considerate hum
From upstairs.

Post office on strike and
Cars being made with straw MAN he thinks
What happened here???
The day crossed out with faulty watches
And parkbench *** fantasies
& the crude laughing regular here
Sipping his tea
Wondering if he'll ever be as much a hit with the ladies as he was in the 1970s

Former beggarman Quincy lays himself out in an empty parking lot feeling invulnerable to the snow

As it collects over his shirt he whistles a happy tune from a date he went on before

The great sourness shelled him out of
Social fulfillment.

Now he keeps to himself
Making stories out of his bedroom and
Crying
crying for
His first love &
The laundry place shut down now wheres he gonna go/

Old Quincy used to smoke expensive tobacco but has since decided to save it for whenever he remarries. Or a brilliant morning where the neighbor sleeps in so he can sleep in too.

The view from his window is a continous rotation of wet crows who peer in and for a brief moment see the man's hands to his head making sure his hair hasn't fallen off yet..
House walls heavy with age
expose themselves occasionally
With an after image of past inhabitors,
The essence of their dry lips
Or olive cotton sweaters hanging from a rocking chair,
The enthusiasm of a corner lamp
Unappreciated by all
Past and present.

II (veteran romantic)

Arthur Quincy shelters his mind from strange ideas
Or conspiracy he hasn't "lost it" yet at least!

He has a hobby of painting the active society and
Expresses mood as colorful clouds
Floating out the skull of us to
Blend in an energy pollinating the
Deli and antique shop and yoga studio
V A P O R
to be swallowed by accident and catch the empathic disease of the
Depressed and jubilant simultaneous,
Makes easy living confusing and
Impossible to achieve in an absolute way!
He carries this belief
When interacting with others
Arthur Quincy understands
That balance is key to fulfillment
(so far as his life is concerned)

However, hardly anyone has seem him laugh and so assumes he doesn't have the ability to.
In reality he saves his joy and holds it to lift his lungs from despairing all day long to be released
Late afternoon in the comfort of home
As a display of feral bellows and supernatural ecstasy. This seems somewhat overromantic and exaggerated but someone has claimed to have had the rare pleasure of witnessing it!

Arthur calls the same address once a week, an anonymous voice speaks from the line opposite and while mysterious
It is clear he adores this voice. He adores the unacted subtlety and passion in this voice.
He smiles when he hears this voice which is simply enough.

Nearby those naive poets use Arthur as a muse sometimes too directly
Often referencing rumors of his hermetic life
Or retreating into his headspace
Unrealistically blowing his experiences into fable
And turning even his stirless sleep into a fabulous fruitbasket of language.

On the surface he appears forlorn and
Bitter with the winter gradually molding to his skin. Like anyone can tell you he has felt this before! Haven't you? But through all the stories and impossibilities of Arthur he is reserved in his
Knowing of important things. He is reserved in revealing that he not only knows how music sounds but where music comes from. He never reads the newspaper out of habit to feel in-the-know. He never lies about his feelings or his intentions.
Arthur exists in the
Glow of himself
And persists on breathing the glow of the street,
He is a wordless poet and veteran romantic.

III (funeral)

One day Arthur passed away a few weeks from Thanksgiving.
His name put on the paper he never read
And examined by a young girl
Who was only hearing of him now.

"Arthur C. Quincy/ 73/ passed away this Saturday. To be remembered as a quiet and misunderstood man envigored with the lightness only percieved by a rare and special few"

This description came as a surprise to those who knew Quincy as the claustrophic and uninteresting grump
Who's sidewalk idlings were unexplained and strangely hostile.

He saw the sky and its shifting canvas,
He saw the distant cats leaned on balconies impressed with the daytime ambiguity in firestations and libraries.
He would conjur a grin
From the passive conversation between a mother and her son.
He once saw two strangers fall for each other on the bus! A conjoined sun had bloomed between them.

Just a few attended the funeral. Upon inspection of his house following Arthur's death, someone found a will left for Helen Ashbury. A 55 year old woman who lived a three day drive away in Michigan..An identity to his weekly telephone fantasy!
It assumed all of his belongings to her, among them a military grade flashlight with his carved initials, a photograph of his time as a lumberer signed to "Peter! All the best in Costa Rica" and a copy of W.C Williams collected poems. Where folded on page 206 as part of the poem "Orchestra" was highlighted

"I love you. My heart is
innocent.
         And this is the first day of the world!"

Eventually Helen Ashbury received the news of Arthurs passing, as well as these things.
At the sight of the poem she wept,
the man she only knew through a voice after years of correspondence.
Upon being questioned she refused to explain their meeting in the first place. That was a special time, a time which the public would misinterpret or slander with rumor.
While Arthur wasn't widely loved in the town during his life, he was a popular topic from death on. As more information came out! Serving in world war II and his companionship with a parisian ***,
Who shared the wonder of the rooftop and spoke on the value of tea as a food replacement.
He once met a girl there at a dance and in a show electrified with lust they moved to Lucienne Boyer without the knowledge of who would win the war.
He had a son with her, Who resided in France most of his life as Quincy regrettably
Abandoned their situation to
Pursue other things, in his journal he admits his wish to have connected with him more, referring to his leaving as the worst mistake in his life.
All of this masked behind his firm neutrality. His walk lacking suggestion and his wrist without the delicacy of a painter (not that people knew he painted and so didn't pay attention to anything like that)

He was buried by noon. Some say his son was at the funeral. People gave their partings, and Helen wanted so badly to say goodbye to him. Instead left with his curios and his infinite voice.

IV (i'll be around)

The following year at a yard sale Helen came across a series of musty and used records. In the stack of them was a Cab Calloway compilation. Nestled in his desperate wailings and hi-de-** was the track "I'll Be Around" a slow and patient song that Arthur sang to her once. She recalled that night with ease, and felt her shoulders sink at the thought.
The album was $4, on the drive home she watched the trees shake with the wind, their leaves transluscently pale at the angle she was going. She could feel a weight there in her chest. The weight of him, of his heart supposing itself onto hers magnetically. She rolled down the windows and let the wind surround her, blowing her blonde hair back and forcing her to squint a little.

"I love you. My heart is innocent"

she recalled the poem he left for her. Of course not written by him but it felt as deeply personal as if he had.

"-and this is the first day of the world!"

Helen lifted a cigarette out from her purse. The drag extinguishing immediately as it's trail left the car. A bewilderment slowly consumed her.

Another morning I’ve been sentenced,
feeling verb-less,
incomplete,
with my darling noun
I only let down,
when I feel like a child with a numb grip,
dragging him against the ground.

I watch him sleep, my sweet,
shimmering sun against the periwinkle morning
and all glows quiet . . .

but my muck of thoughts smell of rot,
with shadows of vicious vultures—
their black feathers buzzing with dooming vibrations—
smearing their gray against it all.

They’ve grown bored with the feed of palatable pity.
Their cravings threaten to gulp his gushing, golden heart,
bury it in the muck that wishes to swallow my temple.

I think of his holy water and bathe in it;
Thinking in his tears keeps me strong
and carries me down stream.

Each salty orb
wipes the grim and the grime
and refracts the light from his treasure,
his heart, casting
the rainbows that fire
arrows at the shadows.

I find my purpose in the thought of your wailings and weepings,
and I promise I’ll never lose your heart to grief.

Sorry the pillow is wet.
I’ve been crying in your sleep.

Knocking on a door that never opens
knocking on a door that never opens,
I need to enter so that I can empty out the heaviness of my emptiness into a room that has no colour. And the ignorant will walk by and they will hear the wailings that have created another dent in the moon and they will dance to the beat.
But
They will keep walking.
The wailings, they'll stop.
One day someone will knock and
knock and
knock
The door will open and I will greet them with my feet that dangle 6 feet above them.
And I hope
I hope that's loud enough.

Silence.
Loud music, high pitched screams
Infant wailings, adult shrills
The cacophony of it all
Silence.

Surrounded by it all
Silence?
Absence of these?
Or peace within me?
My silence, perfect

Silence
Whirring fans, revving engines
Croaking frogs, buzzing flies
The beautiful discord of it all
Silence

Amid the rustles of leaves,
he strains his ears
to hear the footsteps
gone before him.
Through the web of mist
that rises from under his feet,
his eyes probe intensely
for the trail of the traveller
he walked with yesterday.
The jungle stiffly silent
hides the secret deep within
veiling it in dark shrubs.
The man feels a smoke
rise in his eyes,
‘where is the traveller,
who just the day before,
walked with me? ’
His questions
more like wailings
rend the unresponding wind.
Before him as far as the eyes go
stretches the unending path.
He begins the search once again
not knowing
the next traveller is on his trail.

“Ring-a-ring-a-rosie,” we screamed
holding hands in circles. We laughed,
fell, tumbled when the end came
and rolled about in the thick grass.

Mothers would scold us and click
their tongues. Big sighs came;
we knew the games were over
and retired the evening inside.

At night I played the game myself,
pulled on my teddy bear’s arms
and loudly whispered the rhyme
as I danced around my room.

Like a possessed child I danced,
fully drunk in the night’s vigour
until there came the trumpets,
slowly gathering pace outside.

They became louder. So did I.
I twirled as the house shook,
span around me and laughed
until it all blurred violently.

The sound was deafening
much like my heart in my ears.
Ba-doomph. Ba-doomph.
The explosions rattled me

as wailings came and cawed,
but I carried on in my fever:
“We all fall down” I said, dizzy.
I knew I wouldn’t dance again.

Thanx for the crumbs they taste great, they are a little green though. **** it I don't want crumbs, I don't want a piece of the pie, I want the whole **** thing.

Thanx for the bone, I gnawed on it all day, though I it was a bit green too. I'm sick of the bones, and I don't want scraps from your self indulgent plate. I want the whole **** steak.

Thanx for wasting my time. It took a while to do but I got it done and it was good but you wasted it anyway. Now I think I will Just burn it. I'm sure you wont mind, it's of no consequence to you.

They don't understand, That was my foot in the door that just got slammed in my face. Oh sure you'll use it on a secondary nature, tertiary at best. No prominence there, I guess you don't think the for front is good enough for the sounds you'll be making. Mine sounds are wailings.

Thanx for investing in me only to pull your offer back then wag it under my nose like yer teasing a dog. Its nice to know you believe in what I do. Its okay though, really, I can handle.another scar. They just add character.

But hey you gotta go with what's gonna work best for Your bottom line to pad your pockets, ***** the little Guy, He don't need to catch a break even if he shows he can do it the hard way. It was only my foot in the door but its okay, you didn't break it when you slammed the door shut on my face.

Thanx for your crumbs and bones. They taste great.

In the birth of our world,
These creatures emerged violently,
In preparation for heinous deeds,
To be carried out viciously.

An uproar from the dark pit
Like the sound of a billion tornadoes,
Quaking the earth from end to end
With disturbing alarming tones.

The king sat on the throne,
Having messengers scamper around him
While he issued orders
According to a blood thirsty scheme.

Thick clouds gather,
Lightening bolts appear and dissappear,
The sunlight blackened,
Putting men in deep dispair.

An outflow of music-
A never been heard before,
Having such melodious charm
As to lighten and sucour.

But only for a moment
Until its original purpose achieved-
To blind and lead astray,
Those who trust and are deceived.

From whence cometh this fury?
Of what reason is such anger
Invested so much to the
Fulfilment of a wicked agenda?

Now comes the subtleness of a king,
Who is neither great nor small,
Holding out his golden scepter,
So that men would taste its gull.

With sweet voice he draws men close,
With open arms he gives men all,
But one thing he kept from them,
The truth that should keep them tall.

Off goes the adnihilos
From the throne of slavery
To fulfil the oath
Of bringing men to misery.

Here he stands upon the hill
With outstretched hands,
Claiming ownership of the universe,
Its kingdoms and lands.

Merry making here and there,
Fortunes lost to drunkeness,
Passionate pleasures being fulfilled,
In extravagance and wantonness.

Now is the war,
The streets are desolate,
The survival of any
Isn't by strength but faith.

Bright gory eyes lighting the dark,
Silent progressive steps emerging from afar.
The wailings of the bruised and maimed-
The smell of rotten blood like tar.

Hiding behind a wall,
Watching our open wounds bleed.
Skulls and bones scattered around-
Remnants of the dragons feed.

The kids around me-
Shivering in the cold.
Some have lost a limb or more
And have lost their old.

Maggot crawling up my legs,
Heading towards my sore.
The stench of my rotten bone-
My sacrifice to this war.

I assure this kids of safety-
A lie from my darkened heart;
In hours we'll all be dead,
And our members torn apart.

Within the ocean sits mother,
Or that's what she is called.
Dozens of maidens surround her,
Worshiping her as their lord.

Unto these we sold our seed,
Through lusting and whoremonging.
We could not but cast a second glance,
Which has ****** us for everlasting.

The kids are gone,
Smell of fresh blood fills the air.
The grunt of the beast from behind-
My heart is filled with fear.

Didn't they scream atall?
Where could I have been?
Was I carried away by the beauty I saw?
The same which caused me to sin?

Then comes the requiem.
From the kings choir;
Hmm, a captivating symphony-
One everyone would admire.

"Come unto me my friends,
My lost but stolen ones;
Come unto me blind ones,
Let us drink and dance."

How close could inferno be?
The smell of its smoke fills the air.
Or could it be the breath of the dragon,
Staring at me from the rare?

Oh phosphorus,controller of venus,
You have wiped off paradise,
You have crept in cold places,
And have devised subtle lies.

You have searched deligently,
For a companion to share in your pain.
You have wept concerning our freedom,
Hoping that we loose so that you'll gain.

Oh hades, why betray thine inhabitants?
Through pain have they come to you.
As an abode to find rest.
But with a spear you pierce them through.

On my knees I go,
Too weak to stand on one leg,
Not that I bow to you,
Neither am I here to beg.

Black creatures gliding in the sky,
Too far to know what they really are;
Four-footed beasts staring from the dark,
Having eyes that twinkles like a star.

Candles lights glowing in the dark,
An indication that another still lives;
But who could possess such boldness
As to knowingly alert these thieves.

Aren't these the priests we once knew?
Shouldn't they be hunted at all cost?
What price could they have paid?
Maybe saving their lives by ensuring that ours is lost.

They have chosen dishonor in place of honor;
They have chosen slavery in place of freedom;
They once gave wise counsel to the confused;
oracles of the dark they have now become.

Now they drink and laugh at our downfall
Taking warmt from the fire place
Having maidens sit on their thighs-
Whoremonging in our worship place.

Oh the river of tears that flow
Prompted by my broken heart through weak eyes;
As I remember my folly and arrogance
Of rejecting love and one free sacrifice.

Oh how clearly I can now see;
How they made my body their abode.
I see how they took my soul,
Making me heartless and cold.

The darkness never ends;
The daylight will never come-
A sign that a government is gone
And a new one has come.

I remember the unprofitable riots and wars,
That caused men, women and children to bleed.
A fight for dominance, land and power-
An exhibition of strife, hatred and greed.

Where are the men of power?
Aren't they lamenting in belly of hades?
Where are the slave masters?
Aren't they also in the belly of hades?

Where are those kings, rulers and masters?
Who thought that their throne is a life time abode.
Where is their power to command one or the other?
Aren't they in the same place as the children they sold?

What is thy duty abaddon?
Is it to guard or torture?
Is it to ensure severe pain?
Or is it for us to suffer sore?

Where is the great babylon?
She was so beautiful,
No one stood against her-
She was so powerful.

Where are her children?
They were properly fed,
No one compared to them.
Today they lack bread.

Finally, I surrender myself,
To a battle I cannot win,
To him who rules now
To this evil being.

For I am dead anyway-
We have made him ruler anyway,
When we harkened to his command-
When we sinned and stayed astray.

******* internet,
Stop picking roses and asking me to ignore the thorns,
Cut off their heads,
Give me the thorns,
I don’t need to make myself smell sweet for you,
Empty head,
Brain dead,
Fill it up with faults in our stars and the perks of being a wallflower,
We all know ants can carry away common sense,
If there are enough of the *******,
But don’t peg me as a simpering idiot,
Sitting in the dark waiting for poetry to illuminate demise,
I’m not black and white, tears rolling, all alone,
Go **** your rusty razors,
I don’t need anyone to kiss my scars,
I am forty thousand thunderstorms,
I destroy what I want and I will always make you run for cover,
I will use all my energy to summon starving rain,
Just to make everything feel normal,
I have been my own casualty and I have been my own champion,
But victim isn’t in my vocabulary,
I never wrote wailings on white,
Or measured my problems in aesthetics and ‘reblogs’,
You are not ‘beautifully broken’,
Love is not masked by exquisite pain,
And I don’t believe in the charms of your never ending night,
Because the sun always rises,
And I would rather let it burn me up,
Then lurk in the shadows like you.

Once as the Cape Fear River
Was being overflowed with
It's strange brew , a traditional mint
The color of fallen brown tears
A aroma of green tea over rice
A particular unknown fragrance
An Ancient river lacks
Of other sweet scents erased
The heart of the Hurricane is fading
Yet you were once a women
Just as you were once named after a man
You were once a women
Just as you were once named after a man
You are a women just as you are a man
Tea over rice
A cup of tea
The background of operatic wailings
A chilling before the haunting chords
A cup of tea for me

There is not much luxury  
within the four walls of my territory
but, this is where steel arrows,
and sharp shiny daggers invisibly fly
i feel the winds blow...strong and gentle
though the drapes and blinds do not move at all
there's a lot to hear outside  
-------far and deep...into the night-------

from a not so distant place
i hear the cries of a newborn baby,
waiting...maybe, to be breastfed by her mother,
or be coaxed by the ****** of the feeding bottle...

there goes those softened footfalls on the street,
or maybe, just outside the house, could be next door;
a swish of air usually signals the onset
of the suicidal activities of the bats;
the eager voices of a family with their television on
waiting for the father to arrive from work,
brings a smile...

there's a mother, her daughter and son
discussing family issues over late dinner...
i hear the crying and lamentations of a widowed wife,
of a sick mother who was abandoned by her family,
i fight the urge to go out in the dark
upon hearing the soft whimpering.of a sick dog,
the muffled sobs of a lady neighbor, brokenhearted,
****** my heart without end
i would've sobbed with her...comforted her...
the silent weeping of an orphaned child
is hard to fathom...hard to ignore
........i even hear my own unspoken woes,
their wailings and mine, side by side
all heard...by the spirits of the night...

sounds seem the loudest
during these late, late hours, when
the rest are asleep, and quietude reigns
curiosity is so stirred, for
i don't...i can't see the source
of these nightly sounds

in the dark silence of the night
i hear...
...and
i write...


Sally



Copyright May 25, 2015---4:51 PM
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan



::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::­:::::::::::::::::::::::::

REMEMBER US THIS WAY

I look back on the memories we’ve had sometimes ago
When life was free for every one of us, both young and old
When hiding in dilapidated buildings wasn’t a survival technique
And death was from nature, not a man-made epidemic

When our young ones were free to go to school, grow up and become men who’ll rule
And the dead sons of our land weren’t having their cadavers along the road-path
When our daughters were whole to be married
And not hampered like now as they have to be carried

I’ll look back on the time happiness was never far from our sides
And joy wasn’t gotten from seeing our enemies die
I’ll look back on the building up front
With so many moments had therein, good and bad, all that we hold fond

I’ll remember that fahir was in us too
But now, as soon as the day brings itself new
I’ll see that the brother I’ve had my whole life is gone
To his end of time at the mercy of a ******’s shot

I’ll go to the death-counter, and see another sun’s been decimated
And another light has just been put off
All for what?
The land,
Power,
Money,
Or religion?

Another 12-Year’ld has just been laid to rest
With his mother wailings as the day before yesterday, he laid on her chest,
Promised her “I will grow up, become a feared militant and put the wars to an end”
But, he has just been pushed off of earth

We had holidays
Now only morning days
Yet as the dust fills our faces
We’ll hold on to our faith

For someday, we shall all together, say
“It was all yesterday”
So for this, I’ll always remember us this way!

From a friend that cares,
©Emmiasky Ojex

Brethren Hear This
〰〰〰〰〰〰〰
Brethren but why doubt God's prowess?
Even the devil knoweth:He is the creator
And the Greater,
High above in Heavens is his palace,

Creator but created suffering not,
He has counted and recorded your wailings,
And has weighed all your fraught,
He standeth at your door:Knocking and Waiting,
Why not answer his call?
Open your door to him:And seek solace,
Cast your burdens on him:not one but all,
For he cares;the bible speaketh his promises,
Like a police;He watches and enforce them,
Go to him brethren:And see his splendid gem,

A Poem Written By
©Historian E.Lexano

Rain
Loving
Fireworks
Accidents of
Death due to a tear

The
Blink and
Blare of a
Screaming horn sounds
Baby left alone

To
Die in
Time is all
A man can ask

And
To say
Poetry
Are merely an
Attempt to share dreams

Shows
How far
The magic
Has gone from you

Case
Of the
Casket man
Left solemn for
He knows no one else
Only a wish for home

Wise
Are the
Wailings of
The beating youth
Gongs made of the high,
Bloodied red rising dawn

And
When I
Try to run
Your life like God
Would its holy sirs

Turn
Tail and
Dash because
The end is a
Turn, not a final
Sign of destination

Each
Drunken
Holler from
Outside my home
Could be a mirror
Of what I used to be

I
Pick up
My sheets with
Nothing but the
Sense that something here
Has gone horribly wrong

And
The moon
Winks its eye
Wide with a sigh
That can be heard far
Past the migrating herd

To
Say Bon
Voyage to
An old friend who
Has been the light for
All of these long, dark years
Is a pain I want to hold,
Lay with, as if a Christmas gift

Has life no sweeter sounds than breathes your chords?
Sensations have me wild to ancient voice;
To powered wailings, of Armada's swords.
Tho' known my ears, would you'd been sailor's choice
And if so moved as I, then they'd have won.
The muse of classic notes, had they'd been sung
To tunes of angel mine when morn' meets sun
Would not had tragic end, but love that strung
With solo harps and scores of violins.
Ah! None could meet the air as your recite;
Aloud this ode, as from such tongue begins.
tho' blind to beauty owned, O' read despite!

And if so swayed as whom the pen began
then known no other song; I love more than.

Do writers who cry,
Unread in the wilderness,
Ever make a sound?

Inattentive to blackened slopped lashes,
which run coal tributaries land-sliding
from her eyes to her chin, he walks
in direct aim for an exit. She squawks

her “You never loved me,” wailings
to whom she, never loved herself. As frenzy
slams between them, violent collision
of his realization, sparks his next decision

and he stops. One hand in empty pocket,
on empty wallet, he is spun illogically
and holds second palm against door.
Lacquered eye in peephole’s furor,

is  batting on other side. He softly makes
his sweet tortured apology, “Sorry.”
You see how for pitiful poor love,
is for pitiful poor, all there to speak of.

to hear your voice again
lifts it from my stomache
where it hides in pain --
to my throat
in sweet Hallelujah
a thanksgiving hymn
a gregorian chant of Love

doubt is the handmaiden of fear
who carries a basket full
of tears and banshee wailings
and makes it hard to keep
my head above the ego
yet
it is my head that is off key
my heart is on
I listen to it harmonize
with the song of your voice

that lifts my soulheart to hear


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater

With your gaze piercing through the darkness
I awake stunned and silent
As we lock eyes it all rushes towards me
All of your pain and misery washing over me as a cacophony into the realization that I am the cause
The tyrannical wailings, night after night
Your daily insomniac presentation

My heart has not been your shield
It became the tool with which to pierce your remaining humanity
Collapsing to my feet I scream,
"How could I not have known?"
The days you unneededly suffered
Barbarically tortured by my fervourous, so called act of healing

No words I speak, nor attempt at apology
Be enough to make okay
That which has been said
That which has been done.

Sobbing mixed with wailings
as nature loses life
is loudest in human ears

water bodies are swallowed up
fierce desert attacks are unstoppable
temperatures fry air
beyond the boiling point!

cities and industries germinate
wealth rushes to accounts
life turns soft and rosy

billions of dollars bulging your account
useless they shall be proved
when nature is declared lifeless

environment nursing is a must
never an option!

The conquering darkness announces his arrival
Serpents trailing down in his path
Now, Seated on his magnificent golden throne
Time freezes to bow
His elegant gestures, summoning the sinners
Plays with their grief and pain indeed
Wailings, Wailings, his favorite piece of music
Tears are his holy water
Haunting nightmares are his Bed time stories
His unspoken words are definition of truth
Fear his favorite sensations
He seem to kind hearted,
For he never troubles anyone with troubles
He can never be conquered
As his frozen golden heart pumps immortal blood
The mystique character of his mystifies everything
A warning is always passed to the children of the mortal
As he tends to mess with their souls
For he is Hades – The lord of Death

Storm Michael: One More Symbolic Sign

Worsening fires,
More dire censures
From poor mother Nature;
Storm winds and torrents
Since last tempest Florence
Hit North Carolinas;
Coastlines more flooded,
And still those who doubt it.
Like President Trump,
Dumping the evidence,
Still in denial.
Shunning the evidence…
What about Pence?
The climate thing vile.

Yesterday’s hurricanes,
Quickening winds and the rains with no drains…
Roofs blown off, trees blown down;
All of it happening all over town,
And all of it shown on TV.

We are living in times without equal.
With sequel statistical  flooding next door.
Storms know no borders,
And people are urged to be hoarders -
For crises like this are but chains,
And the rains have no enemies.
(maybe the sun - but that’s only one,
And nature’s not done with us -
That is for sure.

I’d bet my Schwinn bike
That Michael is far
From ‘taking a hike’
And happy to hear
That there’s not been one like it
Since records began.


This entire ramble
Is merely a gamble:
A figure of speech
For the breach in the wall
Of political wailings
And also their failings.

Storm Michael: One More Symbolic Sign 10.12.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II;Circling Round Nature II; Arlene Nover Corwin

Flat-bellied sandsurfer:
        Go away from our kingdom!
        We didn't ask for an apology.

Slime-coated worm:
        There is more at stake
        than your pleasure.

Broad-lipped tonguecow:
        Your reckoning is come!
        Now see your deeds brought before you.

We revel in your
faults and failings.
It's refreshing
to hear your
salted wailings,

With
        every
lick
        of the
             knouter's
whip
          upon those naked ceilings.

Blood runs high on Valsabar,
drips down in the
steep valley of cravens –
more news to our ears,
as gravel to our spears,
and our sandal skin
will swallow up
your sand-shriveled
water hut.

What if this angst mine
this sometimes beautiful
crangst list of syllabic
****** and flowerings
wailings and whimsy
this double illusory
shell of opinions
has just gone hungry

and the beast feasts