The winds softly whisper,
Singing a gentle romantic tune,
As dusty pink roses ... bathed in dewdrops,
Leaving a pleasant fragrance,
In attune.

When the petals sway and unfold,
Into the tender breeze,
'Neath the lucent moon,
And the sky sparkle like diamonds,
Twinkling from above ... with ease.

Overlooking a refine emerald blanket,
Surrounded by sprinkles of white smooth pebbles,
Beside a lovely exotic tree,
On this playful summers night,
And it seems quite special.

(For a sweet girl named Mc Writes)


Who would have imagined?


It seemed only yesterday
when I chanced upon
this sweet lovely girl
have known her
ever since,
without
meeting
her in
person.

Brokenhearted,
she was then in her
former  profile  photo
her head, almost always
bowed, as  if  in mourning
laden with so  much  weight,
heavy with pain,  and  sadness.

How I wished I could carry some
for her... to lessen the load,
but...I didn't know how.

Yet, time could
never be stopped.

So occupied she became
busy as the young are
her mind geared
to make her
dreams
come
true,
a fine
writer is
what she
aims to be.

I picture her now, in my mind

Who would have imagined

A young girl like
her, would be
the one to
pull me

u p --

when
i was
down
there
in my
lowest
moment.

For, it was the
other way around,
when last year
we first met.

Who would have imagined?



Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

I never got to meet my father...
He died when I was nine months old,
But his presence, I always felt
While I was growing up,
Even up to this day...

He would often visit me in my dreams,
Told me not to worry or despair,
Took my hand,
Told me I could go with him..
Which I almost did...

A few times, in high school
I felt a light push on my back
When my Home Economics teacher
Almost caught me nodding...I was
Too bored, to focus on her sewing lessons...

I was always saved from falling
Each time I climbed the guava tree...
I feel some kind of force stopping me,
Standing ahead of me,
Whenever I cross the street, even now...

My late aunt said she found me
Looking up and giggling
When at three or five years old,
I played by myself beside
My father's tall and sturdy book case...

I see his face when I go through
His dwindling collection of
Edgar Allan Poe books, including his
Law books, and a few western pocketbooks left,
All, with mottled pages now...

The matrimonial bed he shared
With my late mother is still in use...
His portrait is hung on our wall...
Today, the fifteenth of June, his birthday,
I look through his eyes, and-----

In silence, I greet him,
"Happy birthday, papa,
Happy Father's Day, as well."
In my mind, my father lives,
And my own stories of him therein dwells...

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan