Who led the parade
76 trombones did
Along with cornets...

Brian Hill - 2019#137

A place where dark becomes the light
and inner candle burns so bright.
Where dreams center to grow and sprout
and feel great peace so one can shout.

A place where love drifts in the clouds
and sounds of birds play nice and loud.
Where you and me can feel as one
inside the night and setting sun.

A Wonderlands not far at all
It is the place where we stand tall.
To face great change for fear to fade  
replaced by love do join parade.

Patrick longed
for Deo
and shared
a wafer
and where
we'd detail
a hamlet
to spite
a hornet's
nest with
a sparrow
on the
hedgy ledge
on the
south shore
and trump
New Yorker

I be a troubadour
marching streets paved
in lines of vellum.

My trombone of pen
releases words elegantly.
My breath dances,
on courtyards for eyes.

I am a troubadour
that moves before
all prince and princesses
born upon earth.

My instrument
is stored in heart
of red velvet case.
My intention is
to spread lyrics joyfully.

I am a troubadour
marching proudly
with my troupe of script.

My invitation stands
for all to gather on sidelines.
My intention is to share
melodies from a scribes score.

<>

There is power over what's in front,
what's behind, cannot be vouched for.

any one, anything that accost me, are
all taken at face value....just as they are,
disregarding love, or dislike,
or, what dwells deep within.

when not shrouded, i am most useful
some say i'm cruel
others think, i'm kindest
but, i am just being honest.
with the least of light, i try my best,
i earn praises...they come back, they need me
sometimes i am bathed with hatred
i end up in the attic...or given away,
just because the truth is unacceptable.

the area across is most times regular,
a man on his table...what hungs on his wall.
occasionally, it becomes spectacular,
countenances, joyful, or sorrowful
come to and fro...all sorts of accolades
a mix of emotions...each day, an array
of lively colors and moods......a parade
of varied appearances feed my view
it's not what i want...it's what i am given
any time of any day...any season.
whatever the reason
someone or something
stands  to face me.

when night is late, and in complete silence
that man by the table....ever writes on paper
and gets them all wet...with his falling tears,
he writes of volcanoes spewing fire, of rain pouring,
speaks to himself, then to me, of betrayal, promises
lost, of broken vows, and shattered expectations.
i am speechless, yet filled with his pain ....he is restive
til the wee hours of the morning....then i see light in
this visage, his face...giving an end to the dark
giving way to another day's noise,
......a facade.....

Sally

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
October 11, 2018