(back in the late 50's early 60's all of the children who lived on two farms near Maxey,  me included, had to cycle along a stretch of country road,cross the railway line, and then cycle along another stretch of road before we caught the bus to the Secondary Modern college we attended.  The dragonflies back then were quite scary, humming past us and sometimes at us)

They were humming darts
aimed, we felt, directly at each of us
skimming through each pale morning’s  ray
heralding us with a secret
knowledge of what we would
be faced with
each and every hour of
each unwilling school day
so was their tune unwillingly
into our minds sown
a song sung by aliens
the words not known
that even now
grown older  although not necessarily wiser
the song sung by the Dragonflies
into my memory has set its seed
and grown
the song sung by the dragonflies
My life is sometimes only that green
that everybody see's during the day,
and at night when you awake
with your window open wide
and perceive the fresh scent
of a brand new beginning,
with the joy it transfers to us all,
conveyed within the air we breath,
that comes only in nature we see.
Today composed by my 11 year
old grandson Cooper. A Poet in
the making. All his thoughts and words.
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...

While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...

You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?

worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...

so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity

Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect

these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*

Sept. 13, 2014
Thank you SALLY for reminding me of this long ago poem 6/21/18


I happened upon a stranger

who asked me
"who are you?"

I pondered
then replied

I am son

born
to a mother unknown
a father unseen

I am father

three times blessed
with life's miracle

I am joy

having beheld
each child's coming

I am betrothed

touched by
a lover's heart

I am sorrow

having lost
my eldest son

I am wonder

marveling
at the gift of life
the beauty
of this natural realm

I am song

fortuned with
a lyric voice

I am art

bestowed with
a balanced eye

I am athlete

fleet of foot
strong of frame

I am word

burdened with
a poet's plight

I am gratitude

to have known
this life at all

I am a simple man

who stands this day
before you

in the end

I am you
and
you are me

we are one another

most uncertain
quite who we are

_


rob kistner © 2007
a contemplation on the complexity of "being"
and the commonalty of perceived differences
Something caught me off guard, that hot day,
an unexpected thunder roared its presence,
violent...continuously rose in volume...
the throbbing...the thumping...the
pounding intensified...while swarms of red
and pink fragments simultaneously emerged,
and skillfully created arcs...becoming orbs,
multiplying, spreading...merging...then
shaping into rounds, like atoms...combining,
revealing...bearing a scary realization...
suddenly, arms and hands felt cold,
thunder softened...waned...arcs and orbs stilled,
chest started to rise and fall, peacefully.......yet, here i am,
anticipating a next time...when thunder roars anew...

Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
   June 19, 2018
...heart palpitations yesterday,while far from the house,
tried capturing the images...the feeling...
I would've given birth
To you,
Endured whatever
Mothers do.
Instead, I did
What Dads do.

I rocked you
Til my future shook;
Watched you til
I couldn't look.
As you changed,
I changed too,
To do the things
That Dads do.

You were bathed,
Dressed and fed;
I loved you so much
I was saved.

If there's credit,
Well, I get it,
For teaching you to read.
I took the blame
When you got bored
With school's ABC's.

I followed you
In all your roles,
Your teams,
Your solos,
Your trips,
Your shows.
First to clap,
Last to sit;
I taped it all,
From start -
To finish.

I taught you
How to tie a lace,
Ride a bike,
Golf and skate.
When time arrived
For you to drive,
You learned
On standard,
Never stranded,
You came home alive.

Your highs
I took in stride,
By example taught
Humility's pride.
Your lows,
I couldn't internalize,
I dropped my guard
With my eyes.

When Dad's do well
It's a double edge,
The future wedge.
The world
Revealed
Desired you too.
I don't dismiss
What mothers do,
But when Dads do well,
Both lose you.
Repost: Happy Father's Day, Dads everywhere.
When people ask me
Why poetry
Why not pick a paying profession

Take hold this truth
That I'm laying on you
In which there is a valuable lesson

If you do what you like
You're going to find
Life holds treasure in wonder

Instead of the dough
Taking you out in its tow
And then pulling you under

When you're doing things
Think more the gifts they bring
And not money to be made

When people ask me
Why poetry
Do I really need to say
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