I'd like to cover
our concrete fence
with white paint all over
:::::::::::::::::::
it is right now, choking
with an overgrowth of healthy moss...
i intend to wipe the spreading green
off its surface
:::::::::::::::::::
............it seems too cruel, though,
plucking....scraping....or pulling something
.....away from its habitation,
......................its comfort zone
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
i thought it similar to something
that had happened a long time ago...
..................it left us with no choice,
.........we had to leave the house
where we were born
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
my mother, my siblings and i,
we moved in
....with my aunt and her family,
.....................in a faraway place
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
things weren't the same again
.............after my father died...
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



Sall­y


Copyright September 15, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

In England brown birds make dusty circles on overcast days,
The ground blankets itself in moss and cappuccino leaves.
So when the sharp lemony sun fills the breeze with warmth,
And white cotton clouds punctuate the sky and my eyelids,
It feels like home

I went to feed the birds today

I took a hike so very deep and long
Birds chirped out my favorite song
To hurry me along

I found the perfect place In this infinite universe of space
Twisted trees guard all around
Thick green moss lay luscious on the ground
Beckons me with every sound

The sun can finnally warm these bones
With the flesh all stiped away
My life of constant sorrow
Can simply fly away

I went to feed the birds today!

You smell like rain
kissing dry earth. Your
magnificent torso rises
over buttocks I want
to sculpt. Your skin is softer
than cocoa butter and I am

lost. In your eyes, I see
stories. In your taste, I forget.
The rhythm of your heartbeat
lulls me to safety. But
will you stay to steep
the tea? Or halve my pills?

Everywhere is mulch and moss.
And fog and despair. But I come
back to the smell of rain.
And wait
for the sun to shine.

The mountain becomes microscopic
when the sun shines on a leaf
or the ripples of a shallow stream.
The leaf has the precise shadow
of a winter stem on its white tongue
and the ripples make the stones
look like little dwelling places.
The mossy one I kneel upon
is like a carpet of fresh ancient forest.
A wind rises from on high
ranges over ranges…
There is still so much
possibility.

The world grows many times over
as the eye sees more than its sight.

I make faces and fingers
out of the stones and branches
and my own face in the water
is feline, a primitive mask
I take off for shining water underneath.

forged into the sea
carved into the waves
chiselled into the moss
and welded to the days

combined with the skin
stitched into the sand
nailed through the mind
to bleed into the hand