Author of Poem:  Mystic Rose


I stood there in a field of tall tall grass light pouring softly from the moon
beneath my feet, earth was getting ready for a dormant state of mind
I watched the dandelion puffs huddle amidst the dark and wondered,
what it would be like if we finally achieved world peace...
My gauzy gown of gray floated in the wind.  As I hugged myself
real tight, I started to pray to the moon that it would not withdraw
its liquid light of gold.  World peace had been sleeved for too long
and now I wanted to see it, before I grew old...
Laced in a field of nature I rounded up all my hopes and wishes
then I blew the dandelion puffs one by one like a brave child;
Yesterday I danced on a hot sidewalk with a skipping rope by the sun
tonight I dance on a patch of cool damp earth, hoping the battle is won
I cupped my ear to the sound of silence and sure enough it sounded
like a cease fired moment of nothing, a sound never heard before
one I knew nothing about, the sound of world peace.

Death is falling through a hole
   feeling me go holding my soul
   like a life vest in dark waters
   thinking of my missed daughters
   telling me this is the bitter end
   I just regret that I can't defend

It's a space within a space, where
all are transparent...i am myself.

On two layers of shelves on a wall,
a dictionary and a thesaurus,
share space with what seems like
an heirloom of books, old and new:
Gibran, Dylan Thomas, Dickinson,
Bronte, P. B. Shelley, Jane Eyre,
Hosseini, few Ludlum oldies, etc...

Here, a blending of the tangible and
the intangible is present, like habits
and thoughts that don't, and can't die,
stuffs that've endured the years: old
unposted poems with scribbled notes,
faded photos in sepia...faded jeans;
a bed that awaits fatigued body and
mind on toxic days, and becomes a
desk to write on...when needed.

It's not as though nothing's awry,
imperfections are seen by the eyes,
some details may not be precise
in this accepted clutter of daily goings-
on...of feelings...of some undoings
that interrupt and are mingling
with enigmas flashing up the ceiling;
lost shoe-laces wander, and go hiding
among indispensable habits and things,
kept...retained, like a hanging purse,
grabbed, when a sudden trip occurs.

It's hot and cold in this ***** place,
it's cozy, my neatly-cluttered space.



sally b

Rosalia Rosrio A. Bayan
March 24, 2022

When no one cared
and
listening became mime
Acceptance
never cast a stone
therefore
the
prodigal's roots
were
his only way home.