I doubt,
I woke up this morning with doubt
I doubt I would ever find happiness
In a spike smoothie
I am being driven more toward;
the sea madness

I doubt I will ever take that trip to California
Or print my name on the wall of Jericho
because of the Israelites;

I doubt I would ever buy that $3000 Gucci bag
Just to empty out my account
I doubt I will ever swim in the ocean, again
my courage always rises with
every attempt to intimidate me.

I doubt I will ever walk the lonely street late at night again
If a pervert **** his mother,
No doubt what he would do to me
For him I am a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.
I doubt I would ever be able to write a sonnet, because
The feeling of frustration comes as a result
of my mixed emotional states
My parents doubted that I would have never made it this far
Because most micro preemie baby never survived

I doubt, doubt would never leave my side
Through the pain, through the doubt, here I am
today the doubtful unknown poet

I watch through a sliding glass door
she sits in her wicker chair
in the yard
with clouds unrelenting
there's a chill pushed by a strong breeze
yet she reads
I had hoped against odds
to find her here
inside
a smile waiting before I leave
a kiss to linger in the hours apart

our lives
our love
slip silent into these empty moments
of realization
fade deeper and closer
to a time when I will stare
into an empty yard

I see you too much
I hear you to much
I smell you too much
I taste you too much
I feel you too much

That you became my
6th sense

Come, take my hand
Follow me into the forest
The fallen leaves, drenched with rain, will guide our path
Through the shaded glade and up the moss covered hill
Don’t be afraid to step in the mud
Listen, hear the crisp snap of twigs echo in the distance
The soft lull of trickling water, flowing in the creek
Watch, catch a glimpse of the timid deer
Hiding in the thicket and the little squirrel
Lilting across the treetops, acorns in cheek
Touch, stroke the rough bark beneath your fingertips
Caress the summer leaves, immerse your hands
In the tranquility of soothing waters
Feel, accept the dawn’s gentle kisses upon your face
The pure spirits that inhabit the trees
Feel nature pulsing through your body with renewed vitality
Breathe deeply;
Infuse your lungs with the richness of life
And speak:

Tell me, Mr. Arborist,
Do you still wish to destroy the forest?

On cloudless moonlit nights
When the world is silver and darkest blue
And silence seems to reign supreme
If you stretch your hearing inwards
You will hear the distant moans
Of long lost lonely dreams
Homeless and obsolete
Fading away
To become endless shadows

                                           By Phil Roberts

A poet writes
about truths,
what is, and what is not...
a poet writes about nature,
people....the sun, moon and stars,
a poet dares to feel...to see the whole world...


A poet writes...
to vent his/her own shares of  joy
of agony...and aches...miseries...afflictions
as well as those of the others'
a poet reads...sees through someone else's eyes,
face...words...voice...and actions...

A poet writes,
to euphemize the sharp truths and facts in life
make them less painful to the ears
to at least, soften the pointed edges of every trial...to hurt less
to pad the impact of a fall...from frustration and despair
and, through words...encourage one...to rise...when fallen...

A poet writes
to cite reasons...so a hurting one would believe again
have faith in life...in love...again
to reach out...to those who have gone far, in the dark
and take them back to the fold ...of the bright side...

A poet writes...
to tell the woes of those oppressed
the world over
those tortured...violated...and killed
of children abused
their future stolen away from them...

A poet writes
of how nature has been exploited...and maltreated
how human beings
would one day disappear,
how nature...would be around.......no matter what...

A poet is sensitive
observant
and vigilant...
A poet is compelled to see and tell all truths...
truths of yesterday...those that are here now...happening
and those of tomorrow.....and beyond...
All these,
A poet must write...
...nothing more
...and nothing less...


Sally

Copyright January 3, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan



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