For the 10th time, heartbreak is not a disaster: is heartbreak; disaster is when dear old poverty or nature comes into your life.

Absence is a period with a period.

Visible, not visible, and repeat,
the mighty feat
the enduring human spirit
in the faith of subsidence of pain
that the book on the table
will be picked up and read again.

It keeps us going
the strength in the sense
too real is the presence.

Then a day
the book is taken away
the loved pens an ode
of absence definite
without a period.

Sacchi Mohabbat hai zamaane me boht ***..
Mohabbat ki adakari boht hai.

(a Father's Day acrostic, reposted...edited)


F-athers don't always show their feelings, they're not

A-s demonstrative and warm as most mothers are...yet,

T-heir love is deep...beyond measure....it's amazing

H-ow they hold their weak moments, without a tear falling...they're

E-steemed...like a statesman of enduring greatness...silently,

R-apidly perceiving the needs of their children, their family...always

S-elfless, as mothers are....to FATHERS, family is  their priority...

::::::

A father is made of  concrete,
hard as stone...a bit creviced at times
.......yet, always replete
with pebbles of love...and warmth, especially
when he nears the threshold of his home
to his children, his heart is soft as satin
...in his home, he is the hearth...the wall
........the love for his family,
............a fire burning within him:::



Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    June 17, 2017

I don't know if you do
have trouble writing poetry at HP like I do
It's hard enough to stay on page
It jumps like jack rabbits caught in a hailstorm on the Texas sage
Then it will suddenly disappear only to turn stone cold sober as it has done year after year
The "Who's On" floods my screen .
Even ignores my command to go it seems
It's supposed to scroll not stroll across the page
Just wondering if others share my rage

When you be busy getting
to where you want to be going
don't be neglecting
the path you're now roaming
or before you know
it your now will be stolen,
other paths will go unknown,
other mysteries will never be shown,
other yous will never be grown.
And when you arrive you could be regretting
what's the good things you have now
when you get to where you be going.

The humankind was never kind to them.

From their peaceful Pliocene graves
they were dug out, doggedly read,
their skulls and bones laid bare
gorged upon every finest details
all the apparent lunacy
directed to determine a link
always close yet too far.

Roaming that placid basin
they could not dream
to be a mystery past two million years
crazily pursued to be cracked open.

They have been branded Nutcracker Man.

These Holocene men are truly nuts.