smallish birds chatter
scolding the weak winter sun
yet  glad to  see it

little cat sitting
dreaming of a bird breakfast
thwarted by windows

shaft of light, dappled
makes devious, angelic
little cat now sleeps

breakfast now broken
daily rush well underway
no cat naps for me

golden crumpets
toasting under the grill
butter and amber applebox honey
waiting to be spread  and fill
those litle wells of battered goodness

warm milk and cocoa, mingling in the cup
before dancing around for a minute
in the microwave....then tap dancing
with tantalizing richness on the tongue

this is midnight snackery at it's finest
all  sweet and decadent, touched by
whimsy and eaten in the silver moonlight

then it's back to bed with honey still
on lips.....making them sweet and smackery

Quick! Call the poetic constabulary
I'm mincing words about my vocabulary
Help! I'm drowning in my thesaurus
evidence that i'm merely a brontosaurus

Listen up to my Greek chorus:
"Such silly word play should place her in poem prison
a ponderous place from which few have risen
Locked in the cell, losing her sense
consequence of writing with no poetic license"

Writing on with no reason or rhyme
just doing my poetic time
iambic meters bite me in the ****
trying to force me out of my sonnetic rut

stumbling on ideas most trite
all the pitfalls of making the choice to write

in the cold puddles
concentric rings play tag
with the sky flannelled in
shades of grey, soft from
the wind and granite from
the anger of shouted thunder
arguments, the tree's shake
losing what little cover
they have left and stand
stark naked and dripping
on the muddy floor.
the river flows high and
unchecked vomiting brown
bile and wreckage out into
the sea, only for it to become
a puzzle of detrius on the beaches edge
leaving junkheaps and carcasses for
treasure hunters to find....
and still the puddles play
tag with the cold and weeping sky

"Your kohl black Indian eyes,
emitting  silver lightening
**** me in small instalments"
I whisper, softly in her ear
"From my beloved mother,
but much less lethal"she explains
the generational difference.

"This kick *** legginess"
I begin while doing
an *"Aarti"with my eyes ,
on that magnificence;
it soon turned panegyric,
yes she loved it, of course.

"A family inheritance,
athletic genes, handed over
from a day past, but your attention,
at this juncture is misguided"
she turns cheeky at such times.
"A heart that beats faster whenever
a thing of beauty is at sight, nothing more"
I attempt to smoothen the friction.

"The spirit instilled by a father,who'd
die for beauty and then polished it to such shine
by one special,who is kept here"winking at me
says she, pointing at her chest, assets ample,
vying with each other, for a space,
on her front page, though what she
meant was her heart,in a space much deeper.

The path was too dark, alone and down, still fighting

She badly was in need to feel upbeat and elated.

The talent to embrace truth, through electrifying poems

Was her way out of troubles of any kind at any time.

She wrote one on "The loneliness of the crescent moon"

The moon peeped through the window,said with concern:

"Girl,you are are wonderful,don't you know that,get up,

Read this poem aloud to the world and end it in laughter"

She tried, she tried, but at the end,she uncontrollably cried!"

..[O]..
:::::::and
:::::::::::::::::shy
some moths dare
hang around a light,
dim, peeping....a lone
terra cotta lamp........not
bright enough....to guide a
journeying mind.....through
some dark paths......one....two
more  lamps could help stop the
tripping..... .on life's many humps,
it makes the air....stale......with sighs,
uncomfortably moist, with  cold sweat
the window curtains are a shield, a weak
wall, pregnant  with longing
and apprehension.......soon
it will collapse, more moths
will fly free........the fleeing
the healing.......could make
nights longer...........the air
staler...............in this dark
conquering.............silence
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::­:
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Evening rain  showers  merge with the
humid air.......the strong scent of the
growing pine tree...the scarce light
the aroma of chicken, simmering
in a mix of vinegar, soy  sauce
...............garlic and spices
penetrate my nostrils and
infuse the atmosphere,
and.....disconcert  me
i'm taken back, i gulp
i salivate...a late solo
dinner awaits...glass
of  wine.......beckons
i give in....i sit by the
garden table.......raise
my wine glass.......i say
"Cheers!"...........tonight's  
.................not so full moon
..........is shy............and hazy
as i hum....Patsy Cline's, "Crazy."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::Sunday moon, May 1, 2016:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Sally


Cop­yright May 1, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan