Home airs have become quieter,
Things are back to normal...
Here in this house, which isn't my home,
The soundless afternoon winds bring a touch of melancholy,
Holiday season is finished, the hours pass by so slowly.
In the living room, my eyes strayed upwards,
Towards a Christmas wreath left hanging on the wall...
A sunbeam was shining weakly over it...but,
It rested on the wreath long...long enough, it dazzled me with a reality
That changed the preponderant gloomy atmosphere...
The wreath will be kept, for next year...
It is sad to think, another season over
Another year over....and
December is still eleven months away,
But.... the reason for the season could linger on, if we choose to.

It is said, charity begins at home, but it doesn't have to end there...
We quickly stretch our hands for our family,  close friends in need,
They are our loved ones, it feels good...feels like Christmas!
But the old, the blind, the disabled people, are strangers, waiting...
What if we gave them even just a bit of ourselves....even just for a while?
Some warmth, or smiles...a hand to find their way,
The Christmas feeling would be alive! Stronger!
For the street children, the orphans in a hospice, it means Christmas,
To be fed, kept warm with clothing and shelter, any time, day, or month.
They... we...would feel a heavenly kind of peace surround us...
It would mean everything for the prisoners, the juvenile delinquents
If we could spend an aftenoon with them,
Listen to their rumblings, litanies of their pain, their losses,
Hear their past moments of glory...of how it is
To be neglected... deserted by their own loved ones...
It is Christmas day, to see them lifted from their agonizing silence, beaming...
To see a child's lost front teeth, as he/she gives a smile of happiness
While holding a bag of goodies and gifts of toys,
Would melt the ice...the stone-cold airs dwelling within...
Maybe, even the lukewarm souls could change...
It is Christmas for them...... for, these short-lived holiday moments,
Mean the world to them...

Yes.....
Charity begins at home, but it does not end there...
If only we could stretch our hands...bearing in mind---
A kind deed done to our fellow human beings,
Is as good as done to God.

The sun shines bright on that Christmas wreath on the wall,
Any time, any day of the year....
Even if it's not there at all...


"Whatever you have done to the least of my brethren, you have done unto me..."        (Matthew 25:40)


Sally

Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

There is black mascara smeared down your cheeks.

All you could do was apologize & show meekness; them it was up to them to decide.

For when it's not enough you said, or maybe it was too much you thought, that you did in the past for them to take in.

"Forgive them for they know not what they do." Does that scripture even apply to you?

You DID know what you were doing, and what the consequences could have been, yet you did it anyway, out of pride, again.

You sit there not knowing what to do. You find yourself on the ground, out of the blue.

"At least I know you'll forgive me." you say humbly lifting your neck upward, with blurry eyes . You know he will, you know he does. He tells you so, for he said himself he says no lies.

Gentle friends gather
some where between
A tear and Anger
As we march like silent thunder
Into cloudy hill tops higher
To free the minds of forgotten children
While lifting mist from their future

Children burned by the fires
Of societies scorn
They are rejected and rejected
For does anyone know
When someone last said
I love you Johnny
or jenny
or James

So together we march
To mark an awareness in God

Good moods are blown
Through life saying
Trust in God
Trust in existence  
But they are as weak
As houses made of
Flaky straw
In a world full of hungry  Wolves

So me and my friends together march

For Becki and Debbie
Who's parents cancelled Christmas
On Christmas morning
Or Rachel's lost innocence

FOR I ASK GOD
   Do you even know their name
   Even know they live
  
This  shame  needs a home

For I ask anyone
If you see God
Please tell him about the children
Who live betrayed in the
Shadows of existence

In the mean time me and my friends
Will march to higher states on Snowdon
Some where between a tear and anger

am i going to make it?
-- well, that depends on where you want to go.--
i don't know where i'd like to go. are you happy where you are?
-- yes.--
then i'd like to go there, wherever that is.
am i going to make it?
-- if you want to.--
i don't particularly enjoy it down here. everything seems like an empty dream. and i am just going through the motions. do you feel? i just want to be human. i want to have emotions and be a real person again.
-- i feel. why don't you want to feel?--
because it hurts. it hurts to give yourself up and accept that other people might not give themselves up back.
-- well, i gave myself up.--
you did?
-- yes.--
and did it make you happy?
-- yes.--
even though not everyone gives themselves up back?
-- that is the thing about love. it must be unconditional in order for it to bring happiness. one must come to understand that happiness is found when one looks outside of their self and stops focusing on what he or she is taking.
give, and one will find that they have an infinite amount to give.--
that seems like so much to ask.
-- but it is the only pathway to happiness.--

An arid desert
hanging tear-like in the eye
of an unborn child.

Pouring, the bucket
splashes gifts upon the rich
leaving slaves to starve.

Waking, a dreamer
from lands untouched and unknown;
he sees the madness.

Deare God, preserve the innocent
For they have put their trust in thee
They follow nature without recourse
Thou art their Lord, so protect them

They have not harmed anyone
Their sorrows multiply from the
Minds of Men that thou created
Their inheritance is a portion of thy creation

They suffer now without need
Preserve Them, O God: for in thee
They put their last symbol of faith
They have nothing to bargain with

They cannot pay to escape chaos
They would sell their daughters to
Feed their families, with holy tears
For so little freedom is granted the poor

Therefore my heart would be glad
If you spared a few of the poor
The pure, the self-sacrificed, the down-trodden
Remember them too, while nature inherits

The wicked, the industrious, the hoarders
Those profiteers know nothing about you
God, if there is such a thing as a hell
As a punishment for sin, let it be seen

Let the Nations that do wrong be punished
And let their children bear the weight of the stain.

Blessed is the poor of wealth
For he learns to value real things
Like love and his social being
For there are many kinds of food

On this Earth, some closed to
The greedy, for his delight is
Born from humility & simple things
And his dreams are not to

Emulate the successful, for he
Witnesses their vanity, corruption
Blessed is the man who cannot
Be bought, he hath no price

He does not frequent the marketplace
With rumors, propaganda, selfishness
Instead he walketh by the river
Instead he helps the unfortunate

For he has suffered enough to know
Who requires help and true meditation
And understands the necessity of charity
And the right conditions of altruism.

hidden heart do tell
secret way of wonder
where one way branches

stand on a box corner
and shout believable

hear the sound of
death's last breath
eyes open assault

holding court announce
revolution speaks
a physical language

too poor for peace
hunger watches grumbling
a bed too cold to sleep

The box that pumps my blood has four,
Four chambers,
One holds all the light and airy facts of love along with the dark and heavy,
Another holds my memories,
The third and fourth are queer indeed, I never know what in them I’ll find,
Whether they’ll be full or empty.
The third is reserved for what I give to others,
The fourth for what I get.
The first and second display my lifetime,
The third and fourth: a day.