There's this smell in the mornings when
I walk to the bus stop alone
This smell brings a sensation of over satisfaction
The air is clear
My atmosphere warm
The scent so gratifying

Flashback to your bed I slept on
And your morning breath that greeted my lips
Those bright eyes that grounds me
The I love you exchanged before ours days

Flashback once more to the night before
Tired eyes
Our toes intertwined
My heart heavy and filled with you
My mind yours to consume

I have the world in front of me
The morning peaks over the buildings,
*are you not satisfied?

"The more time I spend with you, the more I want. The closer we get, the closer I want to be."

The kind of restlessness that does not bring you sleep
The kind of love that weighs your heart down, leave you to sink
The kind of tears that never dry, flowing abandoned and endlessly
The kind of hurt that spreads throughout your body, leaving you crippled
The kind of smile that always fails to touch your eyes
The kind of time you always keep running out of
The kind of life that kills you slowly

Another sleepless night you have taken from me.
Stolen. Along with my heart; I cannot be set free.
Why does it continue to happen - the thoughts, that flood my head.
As I lay awake and restless in my bed,
I remember the honeyed lies you fed me,
Sweet poison to my ears.
But now you have finished serving your bitter sweet lies
And the aftertaste is sour, as I lay here unable to close my eyes
Another sleepless night you have taken from me.

This murky grey of the everyday, of the ubiquitous pattern and structured time - these are the illusions, the straws to which I clutch and cling like a child at her mother's skirt. Afraid of the unknown, afraid it will hurt. Looking only backward at my old stories and truths, growing shabby with constant use, poor curating, and increasing age; I wear my willful blinders like a self-constructed cage. Wide roads open ahead, ready to explore, and yet I cringe, I cower:  weak, small and unsure.

Small spikes of... awareness, sharp sudden connections to the divine, in the midst of mundanity I am hit with moments of expansion, of elevation and escape. A soaring stretch of the soul, reaching its arms upward, yawn and strain, trying for something, reaching beyond its usual scope as if hoping to catch a half-remembered dream, yes -- chasing the remnants of a fantastic dream --

Is it still within my scope? This rush of potential, this flush of excited possibility, of hope? Am I walking into it, or waking from it? That feeling of joyful freedom - surely that is our natural state, when the mind and its anxieties are forgotten or put to rest. That heady elation that makes me feel larger than life: I will it to be so, for that stretch to stick, to rearrange my shape, the space I take, to alter the way I think, the decisions I make.

It could be, can be reality, can be more real than the press of uncertainties, the weight of worries and restless unease.

This morning was cold and a foggy one.
It reminded me of a past colder morning,
When the holiday hustle and bustle had just ended.
I was here....at Windwood Park,
My arms squeezed across my chest.
While briskly I walked, a strong wind blew
And by me, a flock of black birds flew...

I passed along house gardens, with Christmas trees,
With angels and stars on their tops still lighted.
Further on was a row of evergreens,
Upright, unaffected by the cold December winds,
High above the Magnolias and Hollies.
Beside the orange-purplish Birds of Paradise
Stood two smaller, obliquely grown pine trees;
Leaning, but undaunted by the sway of the winds,
No angels, or stars to show....instead, I watched as
The Crows approached, and on the tree tops, they alighted...
And then came another group of three,
And then several more followed suit,
And settled
On the nearby trees,
Blurring the tree line...until
The treetops were darkly shaded....

High above, they perch...on the grass, they search,
On the streets, they cross, pick up food, doing
What birds of the same feathers do---to survive...
A group of beaked, footed, dark crescent creatures
On top of those trees, so green with life,
Against a sky pleasantly clear and blue...
The contrasts, the events I witnessed, lingered with the cold...
A small patch of darkness...emerging,
Widening, prevailing, gaining power,
Can eventually conquer a whole world.

The White Egrets, Herons, the Finch,
The Bluebirds, Junkos and the Parrots
Usually grace Windwood Park with their presence...
Only the Blue Jay was brave enough that cold morning,
While a large number of Crows scattered,
And bravely, skillfully scavenged,
Through the wet, verdant grass,
Through the tall cans of thrash...

This morning, the cold brought back these events...and
I thought of the violence and starvation existing in places worldwide,
The prevailing restlessness, the senseless killings...the children....
No more concern for human lives...and
I thought of Nigeria...
And Pakistan,
And Paris, France,
And those that happened before them,
And those that are about to happen...

Sally

Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan


...we never know what we may witness when we step out of our
   comfort zones...

I am unaware of the time right now,
I haven't got a clue.
The sun is gone.
The night is black.
And all I can think is you.

Usually the night time
is time for my escape;
time for me to slip to sleep
and dream of better things.

But lately I've been hesitant
to lay myself to bed
for I can't get thoughts of you
to stop spinning 'round my head.

I cannot fall into sleep
once switching off my light
for thoughts of you
and what we were
keep me up all night.

Until exhaustion finally pulls me
into long awaited sleep
where I wander aimlessly
through memories that I keep.

And, though I want it badly,
I know my rest can't last
for nightmares quickly drown me
in memories from our past.

Once again I am awake,
stirred restless by my mind.
I count sheep, not to sleep,
but to simply pass the time.

I am unaware of the time right now,
I haven't got a clue.
The stars have gone.
The sun is bright.
And all I can think is you.

in the middle of the night
when everything is at its quietest

i feel a tug at my hair
i feel a nudge in my side
i feel the pull of my hand
i feel a restlessness in my body

something is calling me
a distant land or perhaps a forgotten muse
something is calling me

and i cannot wait to answer

I have so much to do
But I am a statue.
I'm frozen.
Words are held just on my lips.
Power peppered on my finger tips.
When much is given much is expected.
Prose. Prose Prose Prose.
No one knows.
What do I know.
Am I a God.
I am a God.
Gods lead, Gods create.
I create.
I create at will what I will
I will what I create.
Not good enough. Too late.
I have so much to do...
When you're a God
Who do you pray to?