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I've got 2 bit psychic powers
On that just trust me
Where barely beyond my nose
Is how far into the future I can see

And as far as communicating goes
With those on the other side
I have a hard enough time talking with
Loved ones here in life

My bank account is so low
I can't afford a Crystal ball
The closest thing I have to that
Is the glass **** on my door

Where the only reflection in it
That I have ever seen
Is my sweaty palm print
As I daily take my leave

And when it comes to Tarot cards
I would never dare to touch
The only pictures that I like
Are those in comic books

So sit across the table
And gaze into my eyes
You'll see I'll be a 2 bit psychic
Until the day I die
Ready or not here he comes
Best you batten down the hatches
Unless you were one of the smart ones to run
Like a **** Hound in July chasing rabbits

Alright, alright, alright
As you turn and face the wind
Open the door to a Category 4
And let Matthew come screaming in

Oh me, oh my, oh my, oh me
Is that Grandma in the yard below
Hanging tight with all her might to the clothes line
With her cat Skeeters in tow

This is getting rather exciting
As I see trees by the dozen crack in half
With my Boy scout skills I might need to later build
A sturdy family size raft

But for now we'll all hunker down
Try and stay away from the windows
And all the flying debris that I decided to leave
In the yard scattered between plastic Flamingos

I'm here wondering at this moment
Which of the two could be worse
Being blown away by a hurricane
Or eaten by a gator face first

Still you've got to love Florida
With 20 foot waves crashing to shore
As I step outside to grab that branch floating by
I think I need to start whittling some oars
I live in Jacksonville Florida and thought I'd try a little humor before my power goes out and I go to  a corner of the room to curl up and whimper.
An artful liar, his words beautifully cheat all,
speaks nonsense any one can believe
with  consummate flair, sees the essence without effort,
it fits well in metaphors and imageries galore,
he has wings to fly anywhere with ease, see things up close.
The  wind of imagination he blows makes waves,
he is taken to  ecstatic heights riding on  its crest,
yet he doesn't accept, when they call him a poet,
"Just at those moments I am inspired" he says"call me a poet,
not all the time I am one, being a poet is not a profession
but an attribute others bestow on one, out of appreciation"
A white egret, slowly treads on marshy land...picking food
unafraid, beside a big carabao that munches  grass...

...the tall reeds grow on their own, along riverbanks
........or on wide, unattended, sodden areas
no barbed wires control them from leaning, or sagging
they sway........where the wind goes.

Butterflies, dragonflies, birds
and bees in bright colors, hop on open blossoms
feasting on ripe seeds, nectar, and pollen grains.

and i, am wandering, flying, with these creatures,
perching on top of stalks.....even on carabaos' backs...
i am out there, in the open...swaying with the reeds
while dreams and inspirations spill over.
my mind roams free...no reins, no bounds,
above, and  below....or, even sideways,
i inch, and feel my way
through the breathing,
...and the non-breathing...

i am a poet...i write what i feel...what comes to my mind
i follow rules set before me...though, i have
my own existing rules  inside me...born with me
an innate knowledge of my limitations
as a person, as a parent, as a writer;
what should...and what shouldn't be,
what to reveal...and what to conceal,
how it is to be compassionate...and
how it is to be indifferent.

i am a poet, still hearing my late mother's voice,
emphasizing..."amor propio" and "delicadeza."

an  invisible *** of fresh yellow daffodils,
lives on in my mind...a discretion ingrained in me
a kind of freedom, i opened my eyes to....


Sally

Copyright September 20, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
A quick passing of a faint sound...reached my ear
A whisper of a whimper
Floated...in the silence of the midnight's atmosphere
Over coffee...i listened harder,
One minute, it was there
The next moment...it was gone

Morning quickly came
But, it just wasn't the same
Before noon was over,
The "weirdly quiet" backyard
Became crazy...with activities...

The whimpering started again....then stopped,
Followed by tiny whining voices
My pet's eyes were so alert...her looks shifting
From one pinkish creature to the other(s)
Like...she was doing the counting, herself...

Last time i looked, there were only three,
But, then...three became five!
Apart from Larry, Curly and Moe
I  need two more names.....
No, wait! I need three more, for
I now see six white, squirming square-faced puppies!

If i had things my way
My backyard would extend further, wider....i'd
have eight dogs, a mix of labradors and retrievers
An all female band...to  roam and guard the place
So that my pet dog, wouldn't have to be
As big and heavy as a pregnant ewe
Never again to suffer....the pain of giving birth to six puppies
Never again to whimper, in the stillness of one dark midnight...


Sally


Copyright April 10, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...puppies were born in April...only four left, two died...
all mongrels, but so fierce, puppies and parents....
He walked the streets a begger
they buried him like a king
he played a six string guitar
he wore no golden ring

She had the voice of angels
survived a valley called death
then fearing no evil
she passed every test

They wrote the songs with sunsets
they walked the line together
they stood in a ring of fire
in love they burned forever
Tribute to Johnny Cash and June Carter
(10wx2)


~...i'm balancing ~...~...~
~...~...~ wading on cool
~...~...~...serene waters
...~...~...preparing
~...~...~...to douse,

.....a volcano,
...burning fervidly...
.......................
imperatively,
it musn't spew
..........its brew.  


Sally


Copyright September 17, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***once, an angry bird...***
There's nothing new I'm telling you
No rear view mirror on top of your head
There is no time to look behind
But what's ahead instead

When I looked last the past is past
Where down the drain it goes
There's not a thing you can do to bring
It back, that's all she wrote

It makes no sense to dwell on it
When it is up and gone
With each new day,  yesterday fades
With the coming of the new mornings dawn

So if you should ask about the past
I'll say what's done is done
No need to look back on what has been left
Just keep on keeping on
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