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If your mind were a book,
I'd memorize every page.
Who else but only the miser knows
Preciousness of attachment!*

He would not easily give up, not easily part
Loss of what he values easily breaks his heart!

He demeans not one object, knows to love not discard
Treasures each possession, each zealously guards!

Nothing for him grows old, with each he’s intimate
His ownership is blind, associations passionate!

Never demean the miser, rather adore his commitment
None else but only he knows true meanings of attachment!
Leave alone what lies beneath the mountain

The labyrinthined caves and deep burning fire

Take instead the cold stinging creeks

The summer pines and pale blue sky

Take the rocky trails and sharp stone

And all the beauty for your eye

But don't stray below and leave alone

What lies beneath the mountain
one late afternoon,
the dark was setting in...
the veranda was inviting,
for some moments alone
where shell chimes rang and flung
noisily
with the blowing  wind...
seated my self on the rocking chair,
sipping
from my big mug of hot coffee,
nibbling on some vanilla wafers...
a lone bat swung from above the roof
and swooshed through the sweetsop tree,
leaving but a few leaves
falling down the ground.
there was this strange feeling
of not being alone...
that someone was watching me.
i searched, raised my head,
looked at both sides, then
saw two brilliant, glowing *****...
i
stared back...and
swam through those blue-green eyes,
now focused on my hot, hot drink...
we were eye to eye,
like, it was telling me, begging me,
"please, just run your
soft fingers slowly through my fur
i am so cold, i need some warmth,
care to share your hot drink with
me?
I need  some cuddling, too..."
her round tummy told me
all that i needed to
know...
it was hard, deciding, whether or not
to have her on my lap...

but then, i heard some ringing,
i had to
answer the phone.
upon returning,
i sat back on the rocking chair
very near the table,
nothing changed,
but wait...
a few coffee drops?
almost inconspicuous,
nothing there, no one there,
just my big, wide mug, now empty...
my vanilla wafers, all gone...
no longer hungry
no longer thirsty,
the roundly, pregnant cat,
the wise and intelligent
heavy, purring creature
was nowhere in sight...
still, i felt her presence,
near, and strong,
watching me,
watching herself...
somewhere in my garden
in a hidden corner,
slowed down by her heavy tummy,
waiting,
for her kittens to be born...



Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
I sit on a swing
Unstable and free
I slide through the air
No one notices me

I sit on a swing
With a noose on my neck
The seat falls out
My life was a wreck

They put up a swing
To remember me by
The swing never swings
Their act was a lie

The tree crushed the swing
They cut that ***** down
My memory is gone
But my ghost is around
 Mar 2014 Fiona Crouch
Just GS
Let's just sell each other -
That's what we should do
You for two of me
Me for two of you
Let's just tell each other -
When asked what it's about
The art was just a question
While the answer was in doubt
I do love Saturdays,
for crafting in mastery a Sunday
that's a master at breaking promises,

a S(hu)unday when she breaks her promises
I invariably break mine
and soon Sunday fades like a penciled line
leaving the Mon(strous)day to glare at you!

I do love Saturdays
with the prospect of a Sunday
with no prospect of ever keeping the commitments
and let the day speed by!

I do love Saturdays
the day I can freely lie
and realize why
I do need a Sunday!

I do love Saturdays
for we pair up well,

*commit all and fail!
"sumulat ng mga "paano kung" sa buhay ng isang tao
may mga pag-ikot o pagbabago sa mga konklusyon
sansaglit nguni't mahaba nung nilikha
may mga tainga sa mundong ito, nag nagkukusang-loob
bukas and mga palad at bukas ang mga labi akong tatanggapin
nangingibabaw sa kanilang isipan ang pagbating ito:
"Maligayang pagdating, Makata,
Sabihin mo sa amin..."

welcome poet, tell us....

Translated-for me by Sally, who welcomes everyone...

Just an an excerpt from http://hellopoetry.com/poem/615068/where-has-writing-gotten-me/
"write of the ifs of a man's life,
and come aboutface to conclusions,
instant and long in the making,
there are willing ears on this globe,
welcoming me open armed, opened lipped,
knowing firstly this open-eyed greeting,
welcome poet, tell us."
a fair question, deserving of thought,
goodly soft care and hard consideration,
strangely, instantly and undeniable,
one worldly, word achieves *******

whether first or foremost,
après ma raison d'être,
cannot list, nor rank or certain state,
yet my heart repeats, nation, nation,
my understanding, instant and complete

worthy journey to self-fulfillment,
contentedly unhappy to be permanently,
one poem short on the one continuum,
the-road-trip to salvation,
my end, my finality / our self-acualization

aking pagtatapos, ang aking katotohanan
my einde, my realiteit
fen m 'yo, reyalite mwen
akhir saya, realiti saya
ma fin, ma réalité
M
write of the ifs of a man's life,
and come aboutface to conclusions,
instant and long in the making,
there are willing ears on this globe,
welcoming me open armed, opened lipped,
knowing firstly this open-eyed greeting,
welcome poet, tell us

for we are one nation, everywhere invisible,
indivisible with liberty and justice inherent,
creation our common good, in fact it is our
lifelong wares and goods, letter by letter composing,
we sell for the price of free

This then single common currency,
our ouro, derivation of
languages multi and mellifluous here spoke,
this my/our nation where birthright and
citizenship ego-and-geo boundless,
my loves, continentally arrayed,
to whom I pledge until last breath
utter all, guttural devotion

when one of us creates,
good manifests, I care not
in what tongue,
for our tongues
intertwine and intertaste
this one flavor,
communitas,
meine gemeinschaft, meine gesellschaft
where spoken
goodness all the days of life,
it has goodly gotten me to you...
inspired by an overheard conversation on Facebook between two poets, and this article about Robert Frost asking, can bad people write poetry.

This poem is dedicated to the so, so many good friends, in my life now attained, on continents near and so far away, of you I thought first, first, when this question, self-imposed interrogatory,  demanded answers.

http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303650204579376813629376986?KEYWORDS=Robert+frost&mg;=reno64-wsj

if you cannot open the article, I will send if one asks..

Filipino, Afrikaans, Haitian Creole, Malay, French
She was standing at the temple gate
Beside where hung the big padlock
Sorry sir you are by an hour late
The temple will reopen at four o’clock.


I had gone at the abode of the goddess
To be blessed by touching her feet
Forgetting she too needed a recess
After standing hours for the devout's meet.

My watch told me an hour was not too soon
And time would run out without seeing more
But the banyan’s shade of the early summer noon
In its sunlight and shadows held something in store.

The girl at the gate gave an all knowing smile
An hour’s wait sir would not go in vain
The goddess’ face at the end of the weary mile
Would make you forget all your travel’s pain.


Her smiles broke through the dark tan of her skin
The barefoot girl watching over that godforsaken hamlet
And as from the river the southern wind blew in
I decided to wait with her at the temple gate.

Then we walked to the river following the wind’s smell
She showed me on the bank the zamindar’s broken palace
Took me to the cornfields boastful in their golden swell
Before the hour flew us back to the temple’s terrace.

When I asked her about her school and standard
In her eyes I found rising the rustic river’s mist

*Doing it all by himself is for my father too hard
In the chores of worship he needs me to assist.
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