They say
Where there is hope
There will be life

 I say
What is life without
Happiness & fairness
What is life without
Proper funding
To buy even the
Basic Things
In life
              
 I say
 In hope
 I see our children
 Starving

In hope
I see our children
Gunned down
Everyday on our
Streets, and even
Inside their classrooms

In hope
I See too many
Heart broken

In hope
I see our blue Angels
Gunning down
My brothers, just
Because
Of the color of
Their skin

In hope
I see our elected
Officials
Corruptions at a
Different level

In hope
I see racism
Evolved

In hope
I see the world
On the verge
Of collapsing

In hope
I see pastors
Appearing
On television
Defending
The wicked

In hope
I see too many
Tears
From our
Mothers  Eyes

In hope
I see nothing
But a path of
Thorns towards
Peace

In hope
I say
I am hopeless

And in
Hopelessness
I am lifeless
       Yet
I’m still holding
   On to hope

No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile

readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,  
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...

a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on,  shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.

sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words,  a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....

a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...





Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    January 29, 2017

His head kept bumping on my shoulder
and he was not my father
or anyone I knew

he smelled as if a bath was overdue
and slept like wasn't a place better
than the ***** briefness of my shoulder.

Breaking down was my brittle patience
needled by his bristled cheek
brushed by his shabby dress,

was for rest the man hard pressed?

Wouldn't I have been nudged by pride
if the head on my shoulder was my father
happy to have him by my side?

as he gets older
does his blurry mind miss
a place where he is not alone

one or any shoulder
for an untimely nap in peace
a quiet stranger to rest upon?

you give me waaay too much credit;
u are investment; a great poet,
needing tending and nurture,
watering and encouragement;
since god could not be everywhere,
he made sure many poets exist
to tend
to their fellow's seeds
~~
the problem with seeds
they don't come with a guarantee
from the manufacturee,
or a note from home
for the teacher,
that makes ''my dog et it''
slightly more believable,
each a new babe seedy needy,
crying in the mid of night,
for water and loving attention
as it teethes roots in the soil,
and
the discourteously majority
fail to appear even if you read them
good night moon, nightly

you must plant ten,
hoping one child,
will sprite sprout
and even then,
survive the outrageous misfortunes of  natures
bumps and beaks of the day and night
that lurk about in a
disarmingly charmingly
destructive way

did i say ten?  
idiot.
plant a hundred
just to obtain one germination.

I think the seed guys have
conned us pretty good
the odds
truly ****
as you, the champion children
like to say nowadays,
and **** they are,
too right

sun I cannot control:
water and soil, I can,
for if n'ere to rain,
your seeds will be
well fed,
well read,
and the water,
my eyes will supply
naturally