This woman I know had a fox that lived in her root cellar. She'd knock on the door to let it know she was going to enter, and the fox would vacate temporarily to allow her time to store or remove canning jars. She ceased to leave her root vegetables down there, as they would nearly always become part the fox's nesting material. The fox had raised several litters in that cellar and my friend was always certain never to bother her distinguished guest while she had pups. The root cellar was under the house which was built half off a cliff and was cattywampus. It had lots of cracks in the siding and in places was missing planks altogether. This allowed mice easy access, and since my lady friend was such a fine cook, there were hoards. This served the fox well, who would keep at least the underside of the rickety cabin free of vermin. My friend could never keep a cat because of the fox naturally, though she did try to employ several. They would never stay. I had always tried to make repairs on the cabin, much to my friend's chagrin. Seemed she had an aversion to any change she didn't instigate herself, and was quite particular about not having any modern materials come her way. Any suggestion of modern convenience and you'd be read the riot act. She liked things, "organic," and her whole lifestyle, with the exception cheap cigarettes and tequila, exuded such.

One day, county officials came and put a red tag on her house. This meant the home was not in accordance with sanitation laws, on account there was no septic, just an old outhouse down the hill past the garden. Being that my friend had little to no income really, her "lifestyle," was in sudden jeopardy of being uprooted. Some kindly folks pulled together to be certain our friend did not lose her home. She got a new indoor toilet, a septic tank, and some siding to keep the mice out. Never once did she use that toilet, always kept the outhouse. The fox left on account the mice population dwindled. My friend keeps her root cellar well stocked now and whenever I visit, we laugh about that fox and enjoy some fine pickled snap beans. Change isn't always easy, but living easy is sometimes worth a few changes.

Hello, fellow human mortal soul,
it is nice to find folks
who can converse
in the same foolish language
that I make.

being Muse makes me very happy

It is nice to find poets
who know all
my secret favorite words.

a lot can happen
to a person during times of
struggle/growth

there are still nightmares to decipher
and songs to sing

you keep me company
from way down there
in the garden of Eden
where you're all pine
and we're all cedar
i bet the rain even smells different,
where we're all limestone and you're clay

Yes, like I am -
I won't forget you.

Good to see you healthy and about! How does the carp dream go?
If I were wealthy, I too would build a fish farm where Saudis and Donald Trump might go to
cast a line if I could but dream like A liar, too!

Poems are never just poems. They’re compensating for something. Here are the words I wish I had written. Here are a hundred words for “stay,” and a hundred more for “please.” Here is how I hold a pen. Here is how the pen holds me. Here are my thoughts, over-steeped in empty fervor. Here is nothing and everything all at the same time.

under my blue polo
with the emergency logo
i think there is a hole
in my chest
but i am afraid to look

another deep breath
and another

send the ambulance
to the old lady
who has fallen

what if on further inspection
there really is a hole
in my chest
and i find that i am missing
that big cardiac muscle

i still remember
when he said i was
heartless

( A reaction to Atul's poem, "Acknowledgement Long Due")


A well of words springs forth in every man's mind....they are either uttered...or written down...they could raise...or break,
someone's nerves, hopes or wall...

Words,  too, could be a source of strength
to be read...to be heard...channeled...offered...
to those in need of help...

Words may be a cradle....swaying.....
catching what could be falling...
or what has almost fallen...flat on the ground
a pad, that could soften the impact of a fall...

Words are a hammock, tied securely, between two trees
the trees move...but stay firm and steadfast
as the hammock swings to and fro...

I am a tree...my leaves and twigs,
being blown wild, by gusty winds
but i was swayed...i was calmed,
upon reading the words...sincere thoughts of a fellow poet...
my day was saved.

Sally

Copyright February 23, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Alone he sits in an empty pew
Enveloped in the silence of his mind
Old aged wood creeks and echoes through the sanctuary
As he drops to his knees
The only light is a sliver of sunshine cascading through the stained glass
portrait of a savior
Creating an almost heavenly glow, illuminating the hope buried deep in his soul.
He begins to pray but is interrupted
by the devious acts that plague his past
Haunted by decisions
Marked for eternity by the path he has chosen to travel
Memories and regret flood his heart
How can he be forgiven by his creator if he cannot forgive himself?
Blinded by guilt that has ridden havoc on his physical body and his spiritual soul
A small whisper tickles his ear
So faint, so soft
Like a lullaby sung to a small child
Where does it come from?
What is the source of its existence?
He recognizes the melody but can't remember the words.
An hypnotizing tune that drew him to this very place
Faith, however faint and tiny
Fleeting breeze it may seem
Has taken root long ago
It grows and replays its tune like a broken record
Beckoning to the listener
Pulling at the fiber of his very being
This man is humanity itself
And faith need only a single note
to become a glorious symphony and lead him to the answers and forgiveness he so seeks.

The year
1966.
Manson was on his spree
Hippies chilled the breeze.
Chicks dancing with rubies on hips.
Then came 1967
Hendrix wowed the crowd
Janis Joplins soul came out
Music splashed
Hallucinogenic heaven.
1968, patterns of clothing
Seemed to be from faraway.
It wasn't American to the main stream
Still wouldn't be today.
1969, Woodstock, the time
Of all togetherness, and weightless
Rockers heads filled with dust and buds.
Cities broke to riots
Gangbanging quiets over colors lust!
1970, met grandmammy
Touched the farmers scene.
Found the happy
In the sixties baby in me.
Today, now a mountain boy
On a machine that cuts down anything
In its way.
The farming hand
Making a living off of dirt and hay.
Spit and clay.

Sunday morning,
the air froze, the dahlias
once bloomed angry,
now they shiver and sigh.

Autumn breeze, faint but still,
the padded ghost-steps
of your laugh, running wild,
like vintage photographs;
scattered Polaroids of
my memory - a smile here,
a grimace there.

How the heat of
emotions buries itself
in the clothes of yesterday,
How difficult it is to
fetch from the seams.
The needles only *****
at a faint feeling.

I wonder; do you forget me
as winter forgets the living?

Because once an old man
told me I had sad eyes

Sunsets melt to chalky lines,
like cigarette stubs, they died
when you met her.

These days only my fingers
remember summer,
I touch the hearts of others
to warm them too.

My voice wind chimes,
the eulogy of the storm,
when I breath your
name I shudder...

And listen-
because I am in
the echoes
of her, of us.