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 Aug 2017 cheryl love
In a country churchyard
Near the shade of a yew
That's where I'll be resting
And you will be there too

We'll be long past caring
Or fussing over things
We'll be admiring angels
And their gorgeous wings

Just reach out your hand
And I will reach out mine
As in life, together always
Traveling through time
My parents are 91 and 92.
I recently took them to their
reserved plot in a country
churchyard .
 Aug 2017 cheryl love
Mike Hauser
It's not the way you look at me
Or how your hair blows in the breeze
It's not how you smile like a night on the town
Or the skip of my heart when you are around

It's not in the way that you beautifully dress
Although I am always beyond impressed
It's not any of those although they're nice
It's more of the fact that you are mine

It's not in the shine of your radiant glow
Or how to me your love is gently shown
It's not in the fact that you're all I need
Or the softness of touch when you hold me

It's not that you take my breath away
Or the way you make it all okay
It's not in any of those things I so often find
It's more of the fact that you are mine
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
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
hills, valleys, and softened arcs
shaped and manifested character-
high cheekbones....a pointed,
but softened chin,
suddenly, i was
looking at
full, pouting,
luscious lips.
index finger covered tip, to help
define jaws....then slid down lower,
a slick,
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 careful strokes,
and curved lines,
artfully creating
a valley,
'tween two heavenly mountains,
with pinkish brown crowns
conspicuously tensed at the tops...
pencil moved sure...but,
slow in shaping waist...then curved
on rounded hips..sliding inwards
to the 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


Copyright July 30, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...just dabbled...then wrote...
 Jul 2017 cheryl love
Mike Hauser
There's some stories old men tell
Just so they can hear themselves
Always holds a certain ring
With their own brand of embellishing

Around the stove in the old country store
If they've told it once, they've told it more
Look you straight in the eye
Before their pants are set on fire

They'll have you staring in belief
That what you see is reality
Look at you with the straightest face
So as not to give themselves away

Listening to all the old men
Toss out the line to reel it back in again
Like a Salty dog on a fishing boat
Keeping the tall tales they tell afloat

There's some stories old men tell
Fooling you as they fool themselves
Always holds a certain ring
With their own brand of embellishing
Thinking back to when my Grandfather owned an old country store where as a kid I'd sit on the uneven worn out wooden floor and listen to all the old men spin their tales. Not sure if he ever sold much but boy we sure had fun!
By the shore...

.....i dropped wearily, on the sand...

"O, silent dragon, as you lurk, my cold sweat
....merges with a rush of angry waves
lapping ******* me...i'm a boat, that keeled,
i'm already scared as dead,
of something that can't ever yield."

i bit my lower lip, prickly with salty water
stinging my eyes...i'm all wet, with salty water
restlessly...alternately, legs are spreading,
toes touching tight......then crisscrossing
shifting positions...left, right, forward,  
then backward
thoughtfully lowering hand, feeling ****,

..."my poor weary ones, i'm sorry,
......for too long...i tarry
so much weight you carry."

sand was warmer where i sat,
above, a spinning atmosphere
i stood up...reeling....fell on my back
made a loud splash on that
afternoon's sea water...i was squinting,
my face, i was repeatedly wetting,
to douse panic that was clawing
on the heart....though the cold was soothing,
i knew...a red-eyed green monster was lying
beneath........keeping vigil.........waiting
patiently for relax my defenses,
then fall........and let go of my reflexes,
its fiery eyes, anticipating its success.

"o, am i but a coward? I sway, my feet sashay
i am very sane....and definitely, not lame
i know......myself,  i can never betray.
you and i, we've been watching each other,
for years........would this go on forever?"
"great fear, my old friend, why do you accompany me?
you pulsate in every corner within me
i'm too visible
too vulnerable.
i am farthest from the lips of the shore,
yet, i feel you, a monster, watching me from afar..."

intense fear...births a rebel
weariness takes opposes, it swells
takes a turn, throwing caution to the wind.
lumps of wet sand drop from gripped hands,
later, they'll be dry and loose again,
free.....and reunited with the rest.

"each time i struggle, i miraculously survive, you, my green dragon, you persist...stay alive,
...ebbing, flowing with the my mind,
............where, you comfortably hide......"


Copyright June 15, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(feeling my waters on this figure of speech
  ....hope i did it right)
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