First,
I strive for beauty
I wait for the bell to chime
the lightning to strike

Today, it seems,
the skies are clear
those chimes of midnight
are silenced
they boycott my breath
heap ash on the urgency of ringing
and leave me dizzy
in my decline.

But if the past
truly is prologue
it will all come round again.

Language will make its magic.
Sweetness will ooze from
the open wound
of my heart.

There will be words
in the order and rhythm
in which they were intended.

And poetry will breathe yet again.

In the lull
Of our constricted voice

In the hushing
Of our sullen realm

In the finite
Of our broken hinterlands

A watermark
No, rather

A barrow
A grave

Without inscription
Only handprints

In memoriam
Of the receding surf

Never heard
Never reached

A low-flying helicopter
took minds off
a fiery mountain
about to collapse

tempers,
were restless volcanoes,
on a simple issue, dared explode
precious serenity crumbled.


brushes of April winds, fanned
dying embers of bonfire-d days,
revived, and turned them into waves
of red and orange.

hours passed so slow,
silent fires, brightly glowed
all day long......in the mind,
chaos was resurrected.

it was evening in the living room
windows were widely opened,
yet, the whole house was an oven,
everything was hot......hot words,
hot temperature...hot eyes...hot heads
the heat conquered...dwelt in the heads.

soul, became a still life next to the wall
heart rebelled.....vowed never to fall.
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sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
   July 5, 2021