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Aquila Aug 2019
Goodbye,
at long last.
You are not the girl i fell in love with.
A fascinating trick,
a banshee in disguise,
a charmer with scales.
you will not trick me anymore.
I will never let you.
we broke up on july 1st.
Sally A Bayan Jul 2019
Under a shady Banyan tree,
i am a unicorn, my lone horn is shining,
front hooves raised, set to gallop, to help
dreams and desires to materialize...
:::::
on another day, i'm a silver-haired erudite,
amidst scrolls and volumes of  tomes,
pondering on THAT, which ruffles my waters,
and defies what i've known, what i believe in;
i'm challenged, i pursue the topic.....i write,
and when pleasance rules.....verses swell...
:::::
however, when my mind is drought-driven,
and my days fail me, i become a banshee,
wailing my ineptitude...my inadequacy,
warning myself...of worst days coming...
there's nary a line, or a verse to celebrate
when exists, this poverty, in poetry......
:::::
i see a poet sailing on either one of two rivers
one always moves on...wind tiptoes on its
surface, its ripples are soldiers marching on...
the other river is snagged...flows off and on;
but, water always finds, creates new paths,
eventually, it flows....at times, it overflows...
::::::
the urge to write is water to the poet,
touching his/her toes...always reminding,
there's plenty to write, out there...in here...
you suddenly hear rain hitting roof like nails
or, the neighbor's car revving up, the smoke
and noise ruin your morning air...it irks you,
giving way to an angry 10-word....or haiku...

in poetry...bad and good days occur, whether
near, far, or under a shady Banyan tree....


Sally

Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 4, 2019
( "Under a shady Banyan tree" is a cozy, comfortable place,
   where i write, or just reflect..where inspirations are birthed.)
PJ Poesy Oct 2018
Lives inside me fierce fire *****
Which for most days, I do quell
Yet, for way I feel this day
I am about to release her spell

Yell and holler, release this collar
Blazing banshee is free to roam
When she begins that vile trial
Safe is no house or home

Intrinsic flame inside her brain
Igniting ****** compunction
Singeing fever about to leave her
Detonation now her function

Causing alarm, great ****** harm
This harridan does seek justice
For when this witch is released
Corrosive is she as rust is

Mincing mind, heeding to find
Unequivocal violent answer
Obey all fearing, all leering
Her eyes burn into you cancer

Armies can’t keep her
Dance with her Devil, I dare
Her powers cut deeper
Without ever giving a care
Merry Feb 2018
Fitful rest in the place of slumber
A jolted start
Lulled by darkness
It was too early
It was too late
The night was dark
Then, I heard it in the distance:
An unidentified voice

Sweet, silver song sung
Solitude in solemn shadow
I could not identify the singer
Neither male nor female

Peculiar voice in a peculiar morning
An hour past midnight
I did hear the song
And then something caught my fear
I hath been taken by the ear

Were they a Siren of a tarred river
Flowing through a small town
Tempting me to the street
And turn me into a meal sweet
Or perhaps a Banshee
Irish crying, sobbing,
Mistaken for a singer
When they are a harbinger

Distant, faint,
And indescribable
Words and babble
But a song nonetheless
But a lullaby nonetheless
I had a weird experience this morning at 1:06am exactly....
Diána Bósa Nov 2017
Entombing the scream
into my body to hide
the banshee
for the sake of guarding
this terra incognita;
the peacetime of ours.
Mary Winslow Oct 2017
She lived along the Atlantic coast
and had a collection of lobster pots
by the porch
and her lawn was trimmed for croquet
smelled of clams at low tide
the house was set near barnacle rocks
just beyond a stand of trees.

I found her by looking in a phonebook
next to her name it said, "Poetry Journals,"
so I called the number, and said I was on my way.
"Is that ok?" I added hesitantly.

“Well, yes,” she laughed, “You can come buy one.”
I passed the sign for fresh eggs
and arrived at a black wrought iron gate that said,
"Poetry Journals - 2 for $5.00."

“You’re the first one
who’s ever made it all the way to the house for a journal…”
“In four dozen years,"
she said.
Then she asked,
“What’s your name?”

“I don’t really have a name," I said.
She nodded and understood.
She'd heard from Byron
that the Banshee drags souls out to sea
but sometimes the nameless
manage to float back looking for poetry
these lost ones are like driftwood
bringing a sense of chilly dusk
a retrospective on the sea
in a seashell
appearing by happenstance
at low tide
"yes, I hear a distant mumble of waves,"
she might have said of me
I was one of the lost
turning her porch into a quay of despair
the first one in almost 50 years
who had made it so far
to latch on
until high tide
when the rush of sea returned
washed me out again clinging for dear life
to a raft of poetry
copyright 2015 Mary Winslow all rights reserved re-post of an old  favorite
The Judge Apr 2017
In the darkness of the night
I see her body rise.
My ears pick up a faint noise
as I hear the townfolks cries.

I steal the blade of my sword
and don my trusty cloak.
Hoping that the former
will not find any blood to soak.

But all through the night,
I hear the banshee's cries.
But she'll be the only one screaming
for she's my sword's bride.
Sorry bout the long wait guys, I've been really busy with school and honestly forgot this site existed. Hope you enjoy!
Dead Account Feb 2017
Darkness consumes the room;
time is running out, the end is coming soon.

The moon grins wickedly,
waiting silently for the story to unfold.

Alone she stood in the corner,
eyes closed, but face plastered with horror
feeling the presence of the man who dared enter the house,
the house that blinded her soul.

The intruder observed her cautiously,
as she whispered ominously,
"It's coming, it's coming."

Turn back, warned a voice in the man's head,
but he stood there frozen like ice instead.

Suddenly, her pupilless eyes snapped open wide
as the wails from inside
escaped her mouth and shook the world.

Overwhelming malicious power surge through her
while her black-and-white vision began to blur.

Her hands clamped onto her head
as she collided with the ground.

With that, the man held his heart as she fell,
his lifeless body helping increase the pile of other dead souls.

"Hear the screams of death!" the female spirit proclaimed,
with a voice the sound of broken glass.

Then the banshee went to rest until the time came again.
This was an old assignment early in the school year. I rediscovered it and decided to share it with you (though I found an embarrassing error).
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