This morning was cold and a foggy one.
It reminded me of a past colder morning,
When the holiday hustle and bustle had just ended.
I was here....at Windwood Park,
My arms squeezed across my chest.
While briskly I walked, a strong wind blew
And by me, a flock of black birds flew...

I passed along house gardens, with Christmas trees,
With angels and stars on their tops still lighted.
Further on was a row of evergreens,
Upright, unaffected by the cold December winds,
High above the Magnolias and Hollies.
Beside the orange-purplish Birds of Paradise
Stood two smaller, obliquely grown pine trees;
Leaning, but undaunted by the sway of the winds,
No angels, or stars to show....instead, I watched as
The Crows approached, and on the tree tops, they alighted...
And then came another group of three,
And then several more followed suit,
And settled
On the nearby trees,
Blurring the tree line...until
The treetops were darkly shaded....

High above, they perch...on the grass, they search,
On the streets, they cross, pick up food, doing
What birds of the same feathers do---to survive...
A group of beaked, footed, dark crescent creatures
On top of those trees, so green with life,
Against a sky pleasantly clear and blue...
The contrasts, the events I witnessed, lingered with the cold...
A small patch of darkness...emerging,
Widening, prevailing, gaining power,
Can eventually conquer a whole world.

The White Egrets, Herons, the Finch,
The Bluebirds, Junkos and the Parrots
Usually grace Windwood Park with their presence...
Only the Blue Jay was brave enough that cold morning,
While a large number of Crows scattered,
And bravely, skillfully scavenged,
Through the wet, verdant grass,
Through the tall cans of thrash...

This morning, the cold brought back these events...and
I thought of the violence and starvation existing in places worldwide,
The prevailing restlessness, the senseless killings...the children....
No more concern for human lives...and
I thought of Nigeria...
And Pakistan,
And Paris, France,
And those that happened before them,
And those that are about to happen...

Sally

Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan


...we never know what we may witness when we step out of our
   comfort zones...

I am unaware of the time right now,
I haven't got a clue.
The sun is gone.
The night is black.
And all I can think is you.

Usually the night time
is time for my escape;
time for me to slip to sleep
and dream of better things.

But lately I've been hesitant
to lay myself to bed
for I can't get thoughts of you
to stop spinning 'round my head.

I cannot fall into sleep
once switching off my light
for thoughts of you
and what we were
keep me up all night.

Until exhaustion finally pulls me
into long awaited sleep
where I wander aimlessly
through memories that I keep.

And, though I want it badly,
I know my rest can't last
for nightmares quickly drown me
in memories from our past.

Once again I am awake,
stirred restless by my mind.
I count sheep, not to sleep,
but to simply pass the time.

I am unaware of the time right now,
I haven't got a clue.
The stars have gone.
The sun is bright.
And all I can think is you.

in the middle of the night
when everything is at its quietest

i feel a tug at my hair
i feel a nudge in my side
i feel the pull of my hand
i feel a restlessness in my body

something is calling me
a distant land or perhaps a forgotten muse
something is calling me

and i cannot wait to answer

I have so much to do
But I am a statue.
I'm frozen.
Words are held just on my lips.
Power peppered on my finger tips.
When much is given much is expected.
Prose. Prose Prose Prose.
No one knows.
What do I know.
Am I a God.
I am a God.
Gods lead, Gods create.
I create.
I create at will what I will
I will what I create.
Not good enough. Too late.
I have so much to do...
When you're a God
Who do you pray to?

What "it" is exactly;
The world may never know.
But through clever subtle suggestion...
I hope to bestow or show.
Let it begin
To some it pushes;
Others he pulls.
It's the longing of writers
And the desire of fools.
The artist must scratch it
Creation its only appeasement.
But the industrial man
pretends he never sees it.
It stabs at my feet
And rouses my sleep
Like finding the peace
In the crashing of seas;
Shore; it has a name
But to know it would conjure blame
And we can't have that!
Or "it"
So make.
*ART

I'm restless and *******
but ******* isn't even really right
because I'm not angry,
I'm just not remotely content.
Frustrated, but it's more than that
and I'm unable to put into words
the inability to fake more
enthusiasm or happiness.
I'm not ok with where I'm at
not just in life, but literally,
geographically.
I want to pick up and run,
run far away, fill up the tank
and drive until I'm on empty,
and I'm not sure if I'm referring to gas.
Where would I end up
and could I find some semblance
of an adventure there,
something to kickstart
me back to life.

Give me rest.
The kind of slumber
that toddlers protest during naptime
but succumb to with a stream of drool
on their rested faces;
the kind of slumber
that enables my grandmother
to nap in a rocking chair
with a book teetering on the edge of her lap,
the sort of sleep
that wakes me up
an hour before the morning trumpets blast;

give me that,

because I'm tired
of the sheets clutching on to me
like handcuffs
engraved on criminal wrists.

I was a child of the river. Always living within walking distance of the restless water, the uneasy docks, and the anchors that kept the boats steady. Even as the current smacked against the starboars, the sailboats would waiver but never fall. I admired their tenacity. A child of the river: strong but restless; the anchor and the starboard; a suburban sadness-- a yearning for something beyond the river, but too weighed down to sail. A child of the river, stuck in a stagnant town.

You tucked your sugar candy wrapping
with surreptitious dainty dips
and lots of little body wriggles
in between my couch cushions
I found them when I did a clean

amongst a weight of quiet
tight squeezed tears
pushed by love out of sight
shaped in dainty pears
appealing with question shaped
twists and marks from subtle turns

I wish your apple secrets
kept so **** sweet
unwrapped and served
peeled with berries on a plate
in neat dressed shiny mint
response coated lozenges
so I could press that sadness out
and dissolve that reposed tinge
of unsolved hidden hurt
between your sensitive tongue
and my own open heart

I'd throw your cares
that empty wrapper stash
into red liquorice skies
to chew through a dash
of  lamp lit tinctures
and catch its splash
in tutti frutti sprays
wet with an array
of well licked flavours
but please keep away
those sticky fingers

look at your paper trail of pink and white
let's follow and pick up each far flung bow
there's a picture on one we can see smoothed out
a part of a boulevard not torn but bright
and it's a bonbon for eyes that dry I'd treat
tucked in a chat upon a couchette
to Paris with you tomorrow night