Perhaps and maybe 'tis true
Poetry was written on stone
many, many years before, like eons
Before an invention of a phone,
a pencil, or even a pen
Just imagine

Too many people have asked me
The same question,
So many times:
“What do you want to do when you grow up?”
I always respond:
“I don’t know”

But this,
This is what I do know.

When I write,
I feel free.
I love the feeling
Of simply
Writing.
I can write
Anything,
Everything,
So little,
So much.
I can write
What cannot be spoken,
What cannot be imagined.
Its like a rudder,
It leads me to different worlds,
Worlds where I find
Peace,
Comfort,
Understanding.
Where I find myself.
Where
My pains,
My problems,
My evils,
It all goes away.
When my pencil
Kisses my paper,
It feels like magic.
Writing...
I don’t know its gender
But
She is my friend.
He is my friend.

I don’t know much,
But this is what I do know;

I want to keep writing.
Until words cannot be written,
Until words cannot be spoken,
Until words cannot be sang,
Until words cannot be pronounced,
Until words cannot be spelled.



I will always keep writing.

It started with a few strokes,
a pointed charcoal,
pulsed...led by the
thumb and index finger, that
initiated a sway of arcs, the contours
of boyish hair, clinging to the nape
a few short strands on a not so wide
forehead,
very near...........a pair of
not so bushy eyebrows, under which
stared...peeping, smiling
almond-shaped, brown eyes.
then...followed gentle strokes
of perfect highs and lows
of a
medium-bridged
nose.
:::::
hills, valleys, and softened arcs
shaped and manifested character-
high cheekbones....a pointed,
but softened chin,
suddenly, i was
looking at
sensual,
full, pouting,
luscious lips.
:::::
index finger covered tip, to help
define jaws....then slid down lower,
a slick,
slender
neck
appeared,
propped up by
a shallow clavicle
and gently shaped  shoulders,
that fool judging eyes and minds
they seem small, and weak
and fragile, but, they can carry
tons of worries...determinedly.
:::::
fingers angled, pencil tip slowly
danced...in careful strokes,
and curved lines,
artfully creating
a valley,
'tween two heavenly mountains,
with pinkish brown crowns
conspicuously tensed at the tops...
pencil moved decidedly....so sure...but,
slow in shaping waist...then curved
on rounded hips..sliding inwards
to the front.....to a central point,
essential, fundamental, umbilical.
its surroundings raised, as if to protect
a knotted cord...filled with stories...closed,
atop a slightly fleshy belly...
from there, a short distance downward,
led to a hidden flower
the reason...a cradle...a port,
covered by a triangular shield,
squeezed in between
chubby thighs and legs.
:::::
lines went lower, narrower...
shaped a pair of fair feet,
with painted toes
ably supporting
a bare maiden
::::::::::::
wonderfully
sketched,
:::::::::
in
deep
charcoal.
:::::


Sally

Copyright July 30, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

You were once vast, large and never lied
Stretching far and reaching high
Now you are a wooden twig
Pulled away and Broken by a pig
The pig who didn't care for what used to be
the magnificent tree
who sat in my yard by the garage and the pool
In which, you had rule,
over all those tiny sapling oaks
who now look up and mope
Because trees are limited and rigged with beehives,
but many see that as the loss of their wives.