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

wind tapped on my lids
as if they were a door.
"Awake its a new day,"
the wind whispered.

Birds joined in
awakening my ears
with their gentle
sacred melodies.

It was time to exit my bedroom.
Time to dance in day gracefully.
Time,
as wind carried,
and birds sang.

WORDS,
are sugar drop candy
to a poets mind.
Solidifying inside a heart
before attaching to page.

They are
energetic bundles
of creative sentences,
that carry feelings
to entice a readers eyes.

WORDS
are like premium fuel
pushing hand to write
and fingers to dance
on keyboard steps.

They are
filled with songs
like birds
to highlight visions
as rhythmic heart beats.

WORDS  are housed
in artistic poets
treasure chest of mind.
Stored to be painted
upon walls of a
vellum page

They are a gift
wrapped in a breath
that echoes forever
inside
the sea of a manuscript.

I narrowly a butch
and really this turn with my inhibitions
always ascertain it will seldom anguish too
as I rely on my hip
if my times there are a pie with a loaf

though many times a vehicle
as it may succumb to a butch
that still has cheer in Belfast
while I take a public cab home.