Sometimes I still long
for the places I used to be,
for the spaces I used to fill,
for the hands I used to hold,
and for the people which used to surround.
But then I look around,
see the places I get to go,
where I am today,
and the world I occupy daily.
I look within to see a healing and serene mind,
free from the whims of self-destructive thoughts,
yours or mine.
I see people that take my shortcomings
as I take theirs,
with love and steady comfort,
and I long
no longer.

.......a parade of thoughts,
crowd its tip......sad...sweet,
scary...unpleasant...pleasant,
hopeful...or prohibited,thoughts
come.....one after the other,
like white circled smokes from a spectre,
smoking....hiding, behind the curtain,
triggered by a song, a verse, or somethin'
else.....like a photo, a voice...a memory...

when they come to haunt...and taunt
..... i just bow my head,
and let my  pen stand *****
or lean inside my palm,
allow it to make curves, loops and  
lines, to cross out untimely thoughts
on white blank pages...
pen struggles with me--whether or not, to share
my likes, dislikes, my disgust, fears, my despair...
my endless questions are frozen...wintered
within...i wonder, will they remain unuttered?
....the answers, as before, are uncertain...
.........my discontent, oh, so apparent...
::::
.....when i hold my pen...is when my soul
breathes and relaxes...it journeys...i forget all,
....hunger pangs do not enter my mind
..my troubled self....and the peaceful me
....join forces....their combined energy
flow freely, inside my inner streams...
...i sit tall when they bring out the best in me,
...wonder if i could bring back worst moments,
......and correct the wrong in them...but,
who's to say what is right? what is wrong?

when i hold my pen, i realize its might,
its omnipotent power....its written bold words,
exclamations, lines, commas, dots and dashes,
can incite, or douse strong actions and feelings
it softens the sharp edges of anger and pain
it can puncture deeper...better than a sword,
it can heal...soothe wounds and  slashes
.................inflicted by other pens


........when i hold my pen,
i let it speak for me...time and again...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 21, 2018

Her hands of seventy years
Teach without saying a word
All those baby’s heads cradled
All of her recipes stirred
Delighting in gardens she’s planted
Her hands bring deliverance
Pure fluidity like a young child
Textured by experience
All the stitches embroidered
All the cake flour sifted
So intricate, seasoned, lovely those
Hands creatively gifted
Precisely she chooses vegetables
So tenderly and knowing
Arranging flowers from her garden
All those seeds she’s still sowing
With hands of seventy years
Assured intention without guessing
That teach me without speaking
Is why I can’t forget the lesson