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Rory Ian Bualan Poem
Hint: This is not a poem.
If one can put words in feelings then
things will go easy for me.
And if feelings will have words with them
then things will never be.
…
Let’s start with the blue bird -
a mane, that’s what you shall have;
because a birdie with no mane
is an owl exposed to sunlight.
Let’s not forget the blue moon -
a muzzle, that will be handy for you;
Let all your screams dwarf the stars
and for once shine.
And the blue eagle -
a character. All you have is
a large beak and rowdy feathers!
Fly not with false pride.
…
And if this is not coming across,
all I can say is that, “You have
to have an eye for a poem and
an ear for a nice painting.”
Copyright © Rory Ian Bualan | Year Posted 2010
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Rory Ian Bualan Poem
Thirty -
it’s not a great number.
There’s forty; everybody loves forty -
life begins and man finds love in forty.
Thirty?
Ahh, who knows a famous thirty?
No sporty sports a thirty on his jersey;
or even thinks it when the whistle blows.
Thirty!
I bet there’s something special to it, yeah.
It is payday thirty… Yes, but after the
check and cash outs, it’s forgotten.
Lame thirty. Lame thirty.
So why be afraid of thirty?!
Dunno.
Maybe it is the number before it: 29.
You can look at February,
need I explain it here? No.
When you experience divergence,
like Mr. Frost, you’ll choose.
Left or right. Here or there.
This or that. Decisions, decisions.
If you’re twenty nine, it’s easy.
You don’t think ahead like you care.
But if you’re Robert,
then you have to think first;
which makes it even worse…
…so you write about it -
and end up rethinking it
thirty times even or more.
Copyright © Rory Ian Bualan | Year Posted 2010
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Rory Ian Bualan Poem
He took his time and made his mind,
now he talks in front with spectacles on -
“This is not a way of life - it’s the way I am.”
So the line goes; and being sarcastic
makes him feel good, like a pat on his
square-model shoulders.
He glanced at the sun, noticed it’s early
so he lingers and walks like forever -
“It is not fashion babe, it’s passion!”
So he proclaims! And comments, rants,
insults with pure joy and pride - like
a panelist in one of those ramp realities.
He decided to go. Erased the colors off,
brought the curl down and took it all off.
“This is life - we have to live it garl!”
There he winks and checks for extra
make-up on his face. Then walks out,
away to the center of the city; he walks.
He’s here at last. Two hours late or something…
I can’t take that against him, no - ‘coz it’s him
who taught me how to skinny dip under the stars
and it’s him who taught me how to eat sarcasm.
(…and I’ll gently take the tiara off of him.)
Copyright © Rory Ian Bualan | Year Posted 2010
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Rory Ian Bualan Poem
Can you look out the window of your apartment
and say to the lone tree down the street,
“There’ll be no kittens on your branch today.”?
Or coax a raindrop to fall forthwith up,
back to its gray-blue consort
just to save a grownup rose’s precious petals?
I know the latter’s way too easy; so easy…
Can you advice excited stars
to untwinkle missed flickers of skylight
all for a blind man’s sake?
You do agnize it makes no difference, huh?
So might you try mustering words for this.
To make just what you think is best.
Then -
Why not put your spectacles away?
Or lay naked with emotions?
Why read the paper indoors
when light is out in the open?
Now I declare:
We’re lions with big game to catch;
what matters is the opinion of the pack
and what’s essential is the pride’s nod.
Now look out your window.
Let sunshine pierce through and for once
say to the tree down the street,
“I’ll grow branches for you today.”
Copyright © Rory Ian Bualan | Year Posted 2010
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