High up there, I glance at you
You hide again, sometimes peeping,
While I put aside
My worries for this day.
Waves and curves seem to shroud you
This early April  evening
Though you are perfectly rounded.
We watch each other,
You eye me down,
I look above, to you...
We speak in our silence,
With me, listening,
Offering all the warmth i could share with you,
For, your Ivory white light, is cold and distant
Unlike your warm yellow crescent
.........of some nights ago....

This evening, you awake in me
Dormant, unsettling thoughts,
I am confused, yet,
You show me a panoramic view of faces
They dwell in my mind as I gaze at you
But there is this brilliant one
That smiles beneath your moon glow
It stares me in the eye,
Speaks to me, without words...

My breathing evens out,
It becomes a melody
Because the time has arrived...
These few moments,
When restlessness drifts away
As you shine down on me
When impatience departs from me,
And I am calmed suddenly
And I don't know what else to think of...
For, this evening,
You, and this brilliant face have once again
........comforted me....
I am warmed, I am glad.
I am now smiling, looking up, at you,
My April moon, I bid you goodnight,
I am beaming, as silently...I thank you....


(A repost of an older poem...edited)


Sally

Copyright April 11, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

In the beginning
There was nothing,
Nothing but the minute possibility
For life to spring into reality

From that potential I -
Yet a sapling - grew.
All beamed with freshness
All was green, lush and new

Seasons changed,
And I with them.
Fragments of my primordial self
Began to wither at the hem.

Being so young
I clung fervently
To these parts of me
Instead of setting them free

But once I pruned them away
Like the shrivelled branches of a grapevine
What came back
Was stronger and more bountiful than before

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

I stood in the February snow
the freezing sleet
no boots
no coat
Steam wafting off my fury

My father read the lie
two hundred yards away
and walking toward me

So I owned it
told it
With a snarl
Without a flinch
Both knowing

I held my ground before him
and wore the red of his hand
on my face for a week