Mary owns a bakery
So plump and dough boy round
She likes to check out movies
For there's no one else around
She drives an old Toyota
That's seen it's better days
The horn has been broken
The radio never plays
Mary has many pets
Two dogs and lots of alley cats
And one used up circus clown
Pees off the porch out back
She likes to take her pets for rides
Sometimes they go downtown
To the city parks where her dogs
Dump upon the ground
Joe was Mary's older brother
He died in Me Lei , Vietnam
She has a younger brother
But it's been some time
Since he has been around
Once Mary got an offer
To run the library on the green
She procasternated until it was to late ,
the job was filled by Mr Clean
Mary had a boyfriend
But that was long ago
Now she eats buttered popcorn
While the movies roll on and on
With a cat purring on her lap
Two dogs sleeping by her feet
It's Sunday morning rising
And the clown gives me the creeps

:::::::::When head wears a crown
of cumbersome thoughts... confused, in a crowd...
and heaven and earth drop clouds that shroud
followed by roaring thunder and flashes of lightning
God, they are  overwhelming---
we take moments to reflect...try hard not to panic
it won't help, to think we're depressive, or manic,
we know ourselves well...yet, when we feel the end is nigh
gasp, for precious air...try to give out a long sigh,
an Energy leads us, to persist...walk on, head up high...
there's a quiet, sacred place, our heart and soul know,
visible, or imagined quiet space, where we're heard, where blows
a whisp'ring breeze...ripples softly hum, rivers peacefully flow...
our sanctuary waits, a Voice leads us, what to do, where to go:::::
:::::::::::::::::::


Sally

Copyright July 31, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

feel wet and get swept
down mountains in currents
get all muddy in life
let others go on clean
i get down and ***** with realness
like hug a pine tree or
jump a twig like you did
when you were innocent
and caught a bug in your hands
and gave the dirt a kiss
pet
a stray dog took him home
this is life
this is loving

they laugh
because i want to know
all the weeds by name

and when they overhear me
talking to the plants
in the garden

it isn't enough to know
a plant
by name and purpose

or to be able to carry on
half a conversation

i have to know all the seasons
and stages

and guess what might
be lurking
under those leaves

I wonder, sometimes,
if this is how
our Creator feels

Here I wait among the dead
within the shadows, seldom seen
with mind as silent as the grave
a nightmare tucked within a dream.

Though my soul be scarred and flayed
by secrets deep and wounded thighs
There sits a withered hope within
to be the girl from days gone by.

Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.

What if
          I
                                                  ­Fall
In
              Love
With
      A
       Poet?
What if he mesmerises me
       With his lines?
What if
        His words touch me
        And kiss
           Through my skin?
     What if i search for
Him
Everyday
And
      Travel through
              His words
    And meet him
                  Somewhere
       And
We
       Become bare
          And he caresses
Me
          With every
      Stanza
And
       Here
           I am
                Again
Searching
           For him,
    Wanting
Him
        With
                 All
                      Desire
Waiting
             For
                 His
                   Next
                      Poem
                         To
                            Take
                             ­ Me
                          To
                       His
                   World
                Where
             We
          Will
        Lay
      Bare
   What if
               I
                  Fall in love
                      With
                  A
             ­         Poet?

© Evna-Luna

I may be
Losing my mind.

The secret of it
Is
I don't mind
As much
As I thought I would.

Every body
Wonders
What is wrong
With that girl

And I sit
Still singing
Snatches of songs
Out of tune