The White Lady of Balete Drive
In my country there's a frightening story
Called the white lady of Balete Drive
And though the witnesses there have been many
The story is a legend that's still alive.
They say there was a beautiful young lady
Who went riding a taxi quite late
Alone in that taxi and the driver took a fancy
She met rape and murder as her fate.
Although there was no proof of a body
And the mystery had for years eluded ending,
The street Balete Drive became eerie
For a white lady there was appearing.
Some say she would flag down a taxi and ride
Through the same route, the drivers say.
But from the rearview mirror, there's no one inside
And the drivers, in horror, would run away.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello (17 February 2010)
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For My Brother Robert
MY BROTHER ROBERT
February 25,2009
God blessed your life, we know He did.
Your hopes and dreams were all fulfilled.
You did your best and gave your all,
And with honest work, you stood tall.
You loved with all your heart and life,
Your children and your faithful wife.
The best, a husband you had been,
And an even best father, we all have seen.
Now that you're fighting your last battle,
I pray God hold you in this hurdle.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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For Anna, My Cousin (RIP)
Anna never had a chance; she was wild
Before she could even grow as a child
Messed up parents wrapped in Religion
Never did care 'bout the child's condition
At two she saw the hatred and abuse
The ugly conflicts she could not refuse
Her father and mother with violent rage
In domestic scenes they always engaged.
As a teen she was lovely and attractive
But her person in lost values were captive
She worked in a bar and had lots of money
But she fell to drug dealing, eventually.
Anna met the actor's son who played the dice
Supplied the drugs for her merchandise
She must have crossed him in some devious way
She was murdered with drugs that took her away.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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A Map For The Seeker
In Proverbs lie the map of life
That guides the humble in his ways
Protects him from the useless strife
And lights his path through all his days.
A wealth of treasure for the wise
Gems of golden understanding
A blessed feast for the seeking eyes
No knowledge deeper there for taking.
Absorb its lessons and daily feed
Your mind and heart with eternal food
Plant there the Truth of God's own Seed
And all your life, your fruit will be Good.
We do not live on bread alone
Man's life is not just mere possessions,
For human wisdom is frail on its own
And only in God can we find Salvation.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Eyes Are Windows
The eyes are windows of the heart
Wherein transparency will show
A myriad feelings to impart
From where in sadness, tears do flow.
The eyes will say contents of heart
The speech two lovers freely speak,
For Silence eloquently starts
Romance in muted communique.
The eyes are windows of all cares,
Display the sad and wearied soul;
Distant looks and empty stares
Reveal a man who is not whole.
His weak attempts to somehow hide
What's clearly felt and seen-
Will showcase all the stuff inside
Deep secrets of where love had been.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Beulah -Zion's New Name
Your name in glory will shine forth
God blessed you with His Goodness.
He knows what you are really worth
He keeps you in His Faithfulness.
That glorious land of Israel
God's chosen people on Beulah land
Zion knows that name so well
But the wicked fail to understand.
Those who mock Your blessed Land
And scorn Isaiah's prophecies-
In the end they will never stand
But so perish in their iniquities.
For You O God know each man's heart
And see the folly of lips and pen,
Judgement and dealing You do impart
There is no escape for the evil of men.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Hunter (Narrative Poetry)
His time and wealth all there
For him, possessed just to enjoy
But hunting was a pleasure where
His shooting skills he could employ.
Flew his plane to the island
At will, he shot the fleeing birds
The gun obeyed his able hand
Only the sound of death was heard.
One shot took down the creature
Its partner gave a chilling cry,
As though its heart the bullet tore
Seeing its Love, fall there to die.
Around, around, it wailed in anguish
A bird lamenting the one it lost
It would not leave the love it cherished
Unmindful of what it would cost.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Spirits?
Though I've never seen one exactly
I've encountered some evil presence
The very sense of it overwhelms me
But with God, Fear lurks in absence.
Spirits of dead are mere wanderers
Some are evil and utterly vicious
Some are more harmful than the others
And some possess humans for their use.
The spirits who protect us are angels
And the spirits who harm us are vile
Some in realms of government control
And some enthroned in fake piety's style.
Spirits of the dead they call 'ghosts'
They seem to avoid me and hide
They're the ones I would like to ask most
What they felt at the moment they died.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Power of Prayer
Battles are fought on bended knees,
I believe in the power of Prayer.
By standing on His Promises
I see the proof of His great Power.
My land I lifted to God each day
Its people in His Mercy, bless
Earthquakes come, grounds may sway
But Prayer holds us in His Goodness.
Seven point five in magnitude!
And He spared us such a calamity,
I praise dear God in gratitude
With all my heart, thank Him deeply.
I pray He bless my beloved country
Make it a beacon of His Truth and Light,
May He raise it up in prosperity
For we call upon Him, the God of might.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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An Eerie Tale
Some nights you walk down a dark alley
And you hear someone call your name,
You turn..., but there's no one there really
Then you think someone's playing a game.
Some buildings you enter seem eerie -
Like eyes follow you through the stairs,
The footsteps behind you seem heavy
When you look back...there is no one there.
Some houses seem to have creaking windows
And have doors that unlock by themselves
With dark rooms whose walls stare and glow
And some china that dance on the shelves.
Through your fears you must try to sleep
Then you hear some soft tapping on the floor
A knocking on the door gives you creeps
When you open it...you smell candle odor.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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