Kites fly
when the wind carrying your words
Touches them,
And with them they take the dreams
that align
the stars in your eyes.


Whenever you speak of the things,
you wish to do

Once death is upon us –
lingering quietly
along every corner
in nooks and crannies,
seeping blindly
through dusty door frames;

Once death shelters us –
holding us hostage
behind the mourned safety
of our very own gates,
pointing fingers at those
with whom we share our homes;

Once death isolates us –
forcing stubborn kids
to find joy
in sticks & plastics,
flying simple pleasures
in tight portions of the sky;

Only then are we
too ashamed to look up –
our necks paralyzed
by the unsettling guilt
we have called
upon ourselves.

Incapable of
basking in the beauty
of diamonds in the clouds,
we stare sorrowfully
down at the soil,
where our feet are pinned –

where we may soon lay beneath.

Do you remember flying kites
The anticipation
The frustration of trying to catch just enough wind to feel finally caught
Through extension of a thin line we would be flying high and oh how the air felt nice and as the wind pocked up we would soar higher into that mesmerizing blue sky
We werent in control but that didnt matter for the sky is a much more forgiving sea
We sailed the skies reaching as far as the amount of string we had

You can be likened to a kite
Bright, vibrant, fun
And you fly higher
The longer the string you are given
And I know
Even though I know nothing
That you would soar
With nothing tied to your ankle.

In one's life,
A Happy Place, which we often recall...must have existed
....t'was where we felt at peace...and contented
None can  break the serenity
Of home...or church, or maybe a shady tree
...its proximity...offering safety,
....no worries, no fears that blur our eyes........
...like that easy morning...with blue animated skies
........the smell of rice, ready for reaping, filled the air
....it felt nice, to sit by the creek...wind, messing hair
..........while throwing stones, on the water flowing
.......having fun...watching people harvesting

One day, those rice fields
..............had no more rice to yield
....just wide open spaces left, where young boys
...surrendered to the winds, their artfully designed toys
...colorful, Japanese paper...smooth, with sheen
...framed by several bamboo sticks...long and thin
...big, colorful birds and butterflies, flying high
Naive, impermanent kites..... soaring to the skies

We can never be sure....some  kites fly straight away,
............while a few others....stray
...fading songbirds, losing their way........broken dreams,
Heading....towards distant, forgotten realms
.......they're like words that couldn't rhyme
............like discordant tunes of a broken chime...

In our minds, that Happy Place with kites......resides
Sometimes, it stays behind, refusing light...it  hides
......for some reasons, it goes further down...deep inside
Oftentimes, it inspires...and becomes our source of pride...
:::::::::::::
Life, after all, is a potpourri of lengthy, and ephemeral strides,
::::::::::::::
Proving further, black and white are two of life's many colors
Light, or dark shade shouldn't  matter.....
Because, in many ways...our cups always runneth over.
:::::::::::::::


Sally


Copyright October 5, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan