I take the grass in my hands
My mom was wearing a blue
patterned dress as she was
pregnant
Her hair was black
Her eyes are black
And I love the smell of the rice
she cooks everyday

من چمن ها را در دست هایم می گیرم
مادرم وقتی حامله بود
لباس آبی طرح دارش را می پوشید
موهایش مشکی بود
چشم هایش سیاه است
و من بوی برنجی که هر روز صبح
مادرم درست می کند
...دوست دارم

Grapefruit tree blooms lush
Its proud fragrance dominates
Stirs senses...in white...

Redolence wakens.....
Mind and nostrils, side by side
Inspire and create...

'neath Sunday's twilight
Branches mate....shadows connect,
Entwine....entangle.....

Curved silhouettes form
An arabesque....of shapes
And my own dance steps...

Night impregnates mind,
Scents, trees, starry nights..are turned
To runes..........some, with tunes.

................................
(A cluster of haikus)


Sally


Copyright April 2, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

The art of breathing
Is remembering you are alive

Walking with my dog,
sunbeams are smiling through trees;
pure love on the leash.

Fact:** My sister is a wonderful human being.


After hearing about the tragedies happening around us, she decides to make paper stars. Lots and lots of stars.

She asks for empty bottles from the neighbours and her friends. She fills the bottles with these stars, folding away all her problems into glass bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes. After she fills the bottles and jars she hands them to her friends and family.

She gives one to me.

The paper stars in a rainbow pattern, they seem so full of wonder. Even if they are nothing more than paper encased in glass.

I take the glass jar and place it on the top shelf of my school locker. Reminding me that I can keep a piece of home and happiness close to me.

But it didn't last.

After I made some mistakes I didn't feel as though I wanted any happiness near me. I wanted to take every bit of hope and hide it away.

I took the jar of paper stars out of my locker 2 days ago.

Holding it close to my chest as I walked down the halls of my school.

My head hanging.
Eyes glued to the floor.

Walking away from everything.

But still sort of hopeful...
Wishing for a bit more optimism.

A shining star.

Sleeping is often
A restless chore
Something to be endured

10  Words

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

A bitter old man;
His last words are gusts of ice.
Land of leafless trees.

acidic
tomatoes
sunshine's fruit
sliced thinly
on crusty
olive bread
bursting now
on my tongue
simply
taking me
to heaven

Yesterdays are just ghosts of
unchangeable depiction's.

While that which is to come are
possibilities driving on junctions
of thought not realizing there destination.