why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

****.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...

(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

Sometimes
I feel like those milliseconds
Before a hanging death
Where you stop struggling
But aren’t dead yet either
The frantic clawing
Burning fight for life
No longer visible on the body
But inside still raging.
Locked in a torture
That looks serenely peaceful
Sometimes
Its like my emotions are
Suspended
In that choke of death
On the brink of a black hole
Where it crushes you
In the timelessness
Of forever
Like universal roadkill

her ring sits on the mantlepiece
worn thin on one side
that dull warm yellow
that gold sometimes takes on

i remember it cutting into my hand
as she held it tightly as we shopped
it was bright and shiny then

she used to wear it on her  longest finger
after dad left us, she left it off for awhile
and then wore it on the other hand

it was tight on her workworn hands then
she took it off again before she went into
this last home, but kept it locked in a security draw

now it sits on the mantlepiece, waiting
for me to find a safe place for it
for it is the little bit of my mother's spirit
that will one day be part of my son's  wedding ring,

missing her face today
as the winter frost sets in

in my mind  i hear the gentle click
of her knitting needles,
she knitted her love with artistry
in 8 ply wool jumpers, scarves,
vests and cardìgans, all scented
with peppermint, jasmine  and rose
the handcream she used for so many years

i go to the cupboard and pùll out the last
piece of her craftsmanship,  a cardigan
in shades of blue and purple, pull it on,
wrapping my body in her love, sighing
as the tears fall from my eyes

i am missing her today....
as the winter frosts sets in

I am looking at the door and
My heart is ever sore
My hands are aching
From forever slapping at the door
I know that golden memories are there.

When I stop slapping at the door
I stand naked in despair
I realize that love is there somewhere
Somewhere and everywhere
It keeps me straying from the truth or dare.

That love is always somewhere
Somewhere and yet so near
Neither less in spirit form
Neither more in earthly norm
Love is always here somewhere, so close.

I am looking at my feet
Bare and on the floor
And deep within my heart I find
There is an unlocked door
To feel that love has gone before.

I turn the **** and
Open the door at will
To find the golden memories in there
I grab the shackles off my heart
And pull out the storm
To blow away my heart's despair

Now I understand
That love, your love is here deep within my soul
Love is here and everywhere
I have only to let it flow.

I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Over eight years a family friend,
his daily antics always on display,
morning and afternoon walks and talks,
his joyful baths in his small pond while
he playfully bobbed and dove beneath
the spray of my garden hose.

This was no human being,
a handsome Mallard Duck instead.
The self proclaimed King
of our barnyard clan,
always strolling and patrolling the
grounds, waiting for us, quacking
his greetings, excitingly flapping
his flightless wings at our approach.

His loneliness petticoat showing, he
followed everywhere, seemed to live
merely to be in our company, eat corn
from our hands, living precious minutes
of needed shared congeniality.

Two morning ago he was not there,
we searched and called his name
but he had completely disappeared.

A coyote perhaps, or bird of prey
our King taken and gone away.
Our lives are diminished by his loss,
Though only a bird, he was our
dear companion, a convivial friend.

I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Today I mourn his loss.