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  Nov 2023 Sally A Bayan
August
He gave me dead flowers
So I can smell them every day
The rotten petals falling
The color of decay

The washed out sunflower
The dehydrated leaves
The mold on the water
The color of debris

The richly red rose
Now drooping to the floor
The color of love
Existed no more

But still I saved the flowers
And smelled them every day
And watered them with tears
To let them grow again.
Sally A Bayan Nov 2023
🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🌹💐🌷


Doves and roses are sought
when hurtful, tempestuous thoughts
flood and create lumps in the throat,
the urge...the surge grow stronger,
much to write...we grab pen...paper,
suddenly......we are "there,"
in that comfortable nook...where,

We create fictional love scenes,
or...relive tremulous experiences
of blazing lava flows, souls despondent
driven by disastrous rains, by discontent,
or, of souls cherishing rare times, serene,
a lake, warm sun...calm coffee moments;
all these become messages conveyed
they're the carbon dioxide we exhale;

Verses are afloat above our heads
until they're written.....and read.

Both old poets and newcomers
come up with stuff...funny or bizarre,
some readers relate...epiphanies occur.
isn't that what really matters?

No kings or queens in prose or poetry.
some came first, others came later.
surely, both want to write...to share.
in God's eyes, no one is above the other.

::::::::::::::

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
November 27, 2023
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