The Cities we grown to love and hate at the same time:


We live in corrupt city folks
keeping the guns at the ready while we sleep:
is our mojo:
while the nightlight burn bright

We speak different languages
While listening to some nasal accents
These are our neighbors, the city dwellers
You and I, we are the foreigners of the city
Inside us we long for our homeland:

There goes the fast moving yellow cab in the city
Driven by the visitors: the ones with the bad accents
We knew all along, we are not free
From the stares, and the resentment of I.C.E: enforcement:

It quiet inside, it loud out there and when we
Opened our mouth we are the loud people
that speak the language of our ancestor:

Before them city Judges: we are judge, we are label:
We are the aliens, 1 Chronicles 29:15

We are foreigners and strangers in your sight,
as were all our ancestors. Our days on earth are like a shadow without hope. *

We speak the languages with some nasal accents:
this morning the spirit of my ancestor came calling:
it time to follow my heart..

I will not
Breathe life
Into the past
Dead is dead.

Always speak clearly
In order for people to understand
Use voice projection
As you walk across the land
Let those words enlighten and empower
Positive thoughts are there for you to bring
Be of a succinct nature
Energy is everything

No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile

readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,  
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...

a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on,  shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.

sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words,  a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....

a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...





Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    January 29, 2017

Growing old is a blessing,
and can be a surprise but
growing old does not mean

                growing up


Because          ^             is a choice

She sits rather still, stitching her loom
shackled and bound to the whispering room
While the walls shutter speeches
she slouches then reaches,
her stitching resumed.

Threads of silk pool in spools
cast to the floor
Hushing the voices
as they pour

the voices repeat their crippling phrase
dancing the space
bound to their maze