Cold silence makes the day run long,
The night as well.  She misses most
His chin, clean-shaven as a palm,
Her slanting fingers touch a ghost.
He never talked about the war,
Liked culture of the harvest land,
Sometimes an evening at the bar,
Cold mornings waiting in a stand
While  counting antlers,  powder dry,
Field dressing, hauling, freezing meat,
Indulging dogs with half the tripe,
Then sleeping in his favorite seat,
The old recliner, much repaired,
Now empty as the winter air.

A misty breeze…the birds’ songs,
the aroma of coffee brewing,
easily disrupt a new day’s
diaphanous veil of quietude,
to give way to morning rituals.

Stubborn, newly-woken arthritic
hands start to stretch...it takes
longer now for tight fingers to
uncurl or straighten each sunrise.

Palms open and close gently, and
then abruptly...fingers move in a
circle…clockwise, counter clockwise,
blood must flow, even when they hurt.

Some of these hands have worked
through water and soil…through
pen and paper…through rain and
sun…building, creating, moulding,
withstanding fire, getting burned,
toughened by time…..honed by
nature’s elements, and life's
many implements.

Veins are protruding,
knuckles are lined and wrinkled,
swelling with the many sketches
of life…good and bad stories,
lessons from daily existence.

It's sad, these wayward fingers
will one day…care no longer,
will turn stiff and cold...their
untold stories, kept forever.



sally b

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 17, 2022

We mere mortals too often forget who is actually
in charge on this spinning spaceship, we call Earth.
We are but passengers, ungrateful ones at that, we
use up, litter and destroy, we foul the very air we
breathe, our excrement and discarded waste clogs
and pollutes the oceans, creeks and rivers.
We callously **** other living creatures for sport
mounting their heads as trophies on our walls.
Not because we are hungry.

We are the only creatures on earth that make war
on and **** our own kind. Flawed, evil or just stupid?
Perhaps all these labels apply.

For our wasteful transgressions Nature will one day
purge us from the planet and we will deserve that
retribution. A dire and stark reality, but one need
only look around to see the direction things are going.
There are no lifeboats on this ship and no deity above
to save us.

And in the end the streams will again run clear, and the
air will be fit to breath. The green things will flourish,
and the small creatures of wing and four legs will once
again, rule the days. Humankind will be purged from
the earth, leaving nothing of any merit behind to mark
our passing. As if we never existed.

Oh, little grey cat,
come sit on my lap.
and snuggle like
my old departed
feline used to do.

Too independent
as cats tend to be,
maybe in time you
will perch on my lap
and purr contentedly.

Truth be told, I fully
understand your
affection shown is
way more about your
needs than mine.
The rest of the time
you could not care less.
Cats are the ultimate
animal hedonist.