It glowed gold
not orange or yellow
It was gold I say!
When I lifted the blind
there it was
from behind those distant hills.
Gift of the morning
and I welcomed it.

The warped cutting board
the stinking drains
not enough soap,
nor medicine.
Never enough
Gratitude a long way off
Then this gift changed
a complaining heart.


Out there I am queen
Out there I can breath
Unsullied by housework
and balancing accounts
cheated of playfulness
and human contact.
This gift of the morning
this  ribbon of gold.

I've used up the speed I used to need
Running hard at walls
All I got was blood and snot
And a large boot in the *****
But it's not over
Nothing's done
Oh no
The fight goes on

I've had knock backs from throwbacks
And been ridiculed by imbeciles
Half wits have had their say too
But eventually I'll get through
The fight goes on
On and on
Until I change their minds

                                         By Phil Roberts

This loving you does me no good,
Why won't Time help ease my pain?
In the late hours, memories gather 'round,
Smouldering ashes are stirred again

First an ember, and then a spark,
Soon the flames are leaping high,
Our symphony of love begins to play,
(I just can't let this music die)

Do you recall how we would hide
And love each other for hours?
That old shack by the lake would welcome us
With its fragrant jasmine bowers

Strange how the moon always found us,
He'd perch high above some tree,
Unfolding his rays of silver satin
He would cover us tenderly

Did you know how much I loved you?
Were my whispered vows too weak?
My heart and my soul are tormented now
By words I may have failed to speak

Nothing has changed since you left me,
I still love you, this I know,
(How can love that's been starved and abandoned
Still thrive and continue to grow?)

As darkness peers through my window,
I miss you more than I should,
It's taken me much too long to admit
This loving you does me no good

Just because to love,
someone completely,
is not an easy thing to do,
it is no good reason,
to stop doing it all.

Ma Cherie © 2017

As I sit alone on the shore
of a desolate, gray ocean of tears
with an aching in my heart
for the time I have lost,
I find myself wishing before I go,
that you would think of me

because all those years, I was there
a sunflower among the weeds,
they surrounded me, whining in my ear
trying to change me, to take away the truth
but even still in the end,
I rose, and continued
to turn towards the sun

and life is like an ocean
and I am like the tide,
everyone chooses to swim past
or let themselves sink to the bottom,
but all along I had been content with just floating on,
embracing everything and everyone
heading towards me,
but in the end, I was still never enough

and I was never one to ask for much,
standing by in the hurricane of desire
with half closed eyes and soft wits
in the lovely, cool, shimmering rain,
I did what they asked
wiped my tears away and swallowed my pride,
and no matter how it hurt
I still got up each day, and smiled

and now, our time is almost up,
and this is when we reach the threshold
of never realizing what we had
until it's all gone,
and although I'm not one to hold grudges,
I can't help but wish

that the day
all the sunflowers on the tide
drown,
they; the oppressors will all perish,
and pure light
will be able to flood
the ocean of tears again.

I walk into class.
I am alone there...
Because I like
To get to places
Early. I wait for
Group to begin.
People start
Rolling in.

We all all say
Hi and Hello
How are you
And you and
You? All is
Well we each
Say out of
Politeness:
But really,
None of
Us are.
That is why
We attend
Group.

Each of us
Are damaged
In some way,
Or just have
A void in our
Lives. We each
Have a diagnosis,
Or two, or so.

So class begins
Late every day
Like clockwork,
And then it
Takes the entire
Session for one
Person to say
A few things
About themselves,
And we have
A few moments
To make comments
If the counselor
Allows any
Opinion but
Her own be
Expressed.

And then it's
Break time
And we all
Smoke our
Chosen
Poison because
It is scientifically
Proven that most
People with say,
Schizophrenia
Or Schizoaffective
Disorder or Bipolar
Disorder, (any type,)
Are addicted to nicotine
Because our nicotinic
Receptors are out of
Whack.

Then it's back to class,
Which starts late again
And another person
Gets a moment to share
Their uncertainty about
Their lives. And I have
To sit there with the
Answer in my head,
Because I am not
Allowed to speak
Anymore. I was
Told one too many
Times by the
Class that I
Make too
Much sense
To be a group
Member, and
Should teach
The class.

The counselors
Always hate
That sort of
Thing. They really
Hate it when you
Psychoanalyze
Them. Group
Is helpful, despite
It's many short-
Comings. Well,
I guess I better
Continue going,
Because I don't
Want to miss
Out on Jack's
Repeated *******'
About how Jill
Won't listen,
Or how Humpty
Can't lose weight
Despite a balanced
Diet. You know the
Type... A Diet Coke
In one hand, and a
Snickers bar in the
Other. We are all        
     UnBaLaNcE
                           d.

Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
                     Staring at faith
                   Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
               The sound of deep
                       Calling to deep.

Repressed feelings buried by time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten grave:

"Here lies the child now grown.
  His hopes and dreams
       Dashed to pieces.
  This is where the child died."

I often hear the Mystic Keeper
        Calling from night
And tradition calling from artificial light

As I run through scorched barren
                          Fields of doubt.

Walking barefoot over these coals
    Crouching low
                   To hide my eyes

As I run    
         And as I hide    
  From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.

When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
                White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea. 
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
     Seeds of religious platitudes.

      And then there is the ready reflection
Of the looking glass
        That often tricks the beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
       Hiding the crumbling
                         Cracks of age–

The threshold where
         Sanity meets its end.

Isolation has become
       A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
    Into the heart of hearts.

Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional prosthetics--
Phantom pain
                  When nothing is there.

But in the midst of these devastations
I am learning to take--

     Howbeit reluctantly--

The hand of trust and grace.
Allowing
            Hope to build
      A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
       Than no control at all.

A
S
w e
.tread
....along
...the paths
of life,  comes
a time when roads
t u r n   to  z i g z a g s
sometimes beaten, painful
to walk on...and the blue sky
darkens to gray...and the clouds
hide from us, and the sun sets, and
we need arrows and rays to guide  us
t h r o u g h:::::
]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]
From nowhere
.........any hour
y o u    appear
b r i g h t     as
morning  s u n
your   BEAMS
ILLUMINATE
you are a light
that guides us
.....through the
[[[ D A R K ]]].

...For Timothy...

Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Like a toothpick on a mammoth river,
I have no say in where I’ll go.
I think I know where I’ll end up.

A tiny sliver on a massive torrent-
I will not sink, though I may tangle
With another floating twig  

And find me carried in its direction
Whether that be to the salty ocean
Or washed up on a riverbank.

I’ll fetch up where the current puts me-
There’s no arguing with life
Or the mighty Columbia River.
ljm