My sister bought it years ago,
too bad, my mother didn’t
get the chance to enjoy it,
she would've treasured it.

It became a reminder of sadness,
an unintended metaphor, for loss
and pain...it always brought back
that very unexpected, very sad
early morning in February.

Its bright red handle...faded
through weeks, months and
years of changing seasons,
stood on a corner for a long
time...unused, but still intact,
until i took notice one day,
brought it out of its dusty wrap
and opened the red cane umbrella.

A smiling face suddenly flashed
in mind...a presence who, on
early mornings, eagerly recited,
“I am the master of my fate:
  I am the captain of my soul,”
tirelessly sketched portraits of
unknown faces during unholy hours,
planted, cooked, sewed, while
humming "Ramona"...one who
taught us about silent vows and
undying promises that eventually,
became ours to keep.

It's now an accompanying cane,
the red umbrella...it saves me
from miscalculating steps, from
falling debris, when keeping walls
from crumbling.


sally b

©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
September 29, 2022

oblivious to surrounding
seeing inner strength

a cane guides

I aged a small number of hours,
     none the worse
since posting about Daylight Savings Time,
     a radiant playful verse

teasingly succeeded against being terse,
a cogent tangential thread,
     where passage of "time"
     ranks front and center

     this central theme constitutes cultish obsession
     with vibrant youthfulness
     as if senescence a crime imposed
(at birth) on every purse

son, thus a healthy and prominant grow wing
(nee bursting out all over)
     market and cottage industries didst swing
into high gear (make that overdrive)

     addressing telomeres shortcomings
     justifies tamper ring
with chromosomal genes
     to sustain bug eyed sales figures,

     asper amazing grace full spy king
scales into the stratosphere,
     with cosmetic surgeons *** ping
where, (particularly among
     baby boomer generation)

     appear younger looking than offspring
(albeit, whereat either gender undergoing
     bust ting bosoms and tightening tushies)
     to foster said tune, where billions of dollars

     come into play, I haint joe king
this feeding frenzy removing without a trace
     (of surgeon's needle) unsightly wrinkles,
     stretch marks, blemishes, et cetera
     (over a life time) fulfilling vanity

in the name of eternal quest to dupe biology
     paying mega bucks postponing twilight/ evening
years not yielding to depredations when dotage
a stark reminder what natural aging doth bring

superficial (skin deep) transformations,
     which cannot reboot major organs
     allowing elderly to rock with van
halen again, since primary maximal apex

     i.e. post adolescence/
     early adulthood marked urban
boisterous antics, the tacitly accepted behavior,
     that would appear down right foolish

     as if elders played kick the can
     if chronologically old geezers let Mother Nature
     rightfully round up steering committee
     gently rowing rickety ship of lovely bones
     dutifully paying (chump change) to the bargeman.