Define me..........

a pebble? a shell, out of many?
the ocean, that never runs out of water?
a bud of pale pink rose? slowly opening its petals?
a tree, whose network of roots
spread wider...deeper, neath the ground?
am i the pristine water cascading down a waterfall?
a boulder in an isle? a seawall braving the stormy winds?
could i be a beacon, a lighthouse? high above the raging waters?
guiding those weary travelers, towards placid waters?
am i one of the various faces inside a quaint coffee shop?
like one i see right now, with unfocused eyes?
having a cup of fresh brew...waiting for someone...old? or new?


And you....who might you be?

a jazzy sway, a dip? a painting?  an instrumental tune?
are you the high and low of tide in june?
a story of lovers and sand dunes, that has no ending?
a haven for the homeless? a wall for the weak, those needing?
a kitten? a puppy? a bird, on a twig perching?
are you a voice in the night...calling me?
whispering my name to the wind?
is it you i hear singing, "The Long Run?"
did you come from Krypton? a falling star? a shooting star?
could you be one of the many faces inside a quaint coffee shop?
are you the one...with untainted smile headed towards me?
ahh, you're looking at my brew...you must be meeting someone too!
could we be, the you and me...the me and you?
who at this moment, are meant to have tea...for two?


Sally

Copyright September 1, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

boy coils in the lawn
& early air.
grass touching him wet,
smoke crawls from his lips,

into the blue awoken,
or sky before his face.
there it dances like wild life lived
& falls away with breezy.

dearly herb to glossy reds,
he purses, thus to inhale.
sparked ember, spark clench, fist to fist.
life given to life encapsulated.

the sense of it goes steady,
goes patent cool.
he exhales, and looks to the south,
where his legs once were.

Do not abort words from love's womb;
she will choke herself
because she could not be a mother.
Stitch lips together. Let silence,
nothing,
be purity.

Words end.
They
are hot and furious, oozing
sores relishing in their own
blood.
Organisms,
dull black embryos, eyeless
until
roiled on red tongues;
spluttered, screamed, snaked
out into being.

They heal themselves to death by the hemlock of Time.
Dying is a definite thing - words are not
immortal, not greater than us.
Not love.

Autopsies reveal varied, unwanted truths:
either
heart splintered too swiftly
or
poison turned flesh to gore,
cell by cell.

Do not abort words from love's womb;
you are wrapping the umbilical cord
around your own neck.