You’re still sitting there

In the middle of my heart

Plucking at its strings

With your fingers made of razors

It started with a few strokes,
a pointed charcoal,
pulsed...led by the
thumb and index finger, that
initiated a sway of arcs, the contours
of boyish hair, clinging to the nape
a few short strands on a not so wide
forehead,
very near...........a pair of
not so bushy eyebrows, under which
stared...peeping, smiling
almond-shaped, brown eyes.
then...followed gentle strokes
of perfect highs and lows
of a
medium-bridged
nose.
:::::
hills, valleys, and softened arcs
shaped and manifested character-
high cheekbones....a pointed,
but softened chin,
suddenly, i was
looking at
sensual,
full, pouting,
luscious lips.
:::::
index finger covered tip, to help
define jaws....then slid down lower,
a slick,
slender
neck
appeared,
propped up by
a shallow clavicle
and gently shaped  shoulders,
that fool judging eyes and minds
they seem small, and weak
and fragile, but, they can carry
tons of worries...determinedly.
:::::
fingers angled, pencil tip slowly
danced...in careful strokes,
and curved lines,
artfully creating
a valley,
'tween two heavenly mountains,
with pinkish brown crowns
conspicuously tensed at the tops...
pencil moved decidedly....so sure...but,
slow in shaping waist...then curved
on rounded hips..sliding inwards
to the front.....to a central point,
essential, fundamental, umbilical.
its surroundings raised, as if to protect
a knotted cord...filled with stories...closed,
atop a slightly fleshy belly...
from there, a short distance downward,
led to a hidden flower
the reason...a cradle...a port,
covered by a triangular shield,
squeezed in between
chubby thighs and legs.
:::::
lines went lower, narrower...
shaped a pair of fair feet,
with painted toes
ably supporting
a bare maiden
::::::::::::
wonderfully
sketched,
:::::::::
in
deep
charcoal.
:::::


Sally

Copyright July 30, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

The man who loved blue
Was a joyful soul
With eyes of diamond
And heart of gold.
His voice was breeze
In summer's air
With songs to sing
And stories to share.
His house of blue
Was easy to find,
So bright you could see it
Even if you were blind.
And all would come round
For a blue cup of tea
With biscuits that came
In blue packets of three.
They'd hear his advice,
For he had lots to give,
And all the adventures
Through which he had lived.
He laughed of his youth,
The days climbing trees
That he spent with his siblings
At age of thirteen.
Since then his face wrinkled,
His hair had turned grey,
But his life-loving soul
Didn't age a day.
And when the time came
That his house lost hue,
We never forgot
The man who loved blue.