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Born at home and almost left behind
When the ambulance came,
I’ve spent my whole life
Trying to be remembered
And not overlooked.
ljm
True Story, as told in my spotlight narrative.
One dry night in June
brought a floating soft tune
of crickets' calling...air was strewn
with their song......the night wind
blew slow and felt silky on skin,
My steps were measured,
a good view, a right shot was needed
for, high up the neighbor's roof,
hang a creamy full moon.

On an empty street...quiet, moon-glowed
there, stood...me and my stilled shadow.
i felt, God put a finger on His lips, the world
was silenced...to hush sounds
to cease movements in the dark mounds
of vacant lots.......to call my attention,
.........to waken my perception.

It was too quiet...not a dog barked.
suddenly, i heard motions in the dark,
a crash...perhaps, a bat made its mark
in my mind, fear sparked
a cold wind swayed the branches
a scary noise, but i shunned my hunches
then fled, as restless leaves rustled 👀 👀
yet, me and my shadow never separated.



Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 24, 2024
A nation ravaged by political *****
Unable to look around and see
The mess they made that we must live in.
Seeing only the cookies on the counter,
Not minding the crumbs all over the floor
And the rats that are enjoying them.

Hearing only the Devil’s whisper
Oozing from the screens they watch
Telling them that Christmas tree lights
Are worth the death of all the reindeer.

Remembering a yesterday that never was
And trading in tomorrow for a fantasy
Of “there’s still time to fix the problems”
And “It’ll be all right on the day”.

But that day is going to be next Tuesday.
ljm
Keep coming bak to this theme. Indulge me, please.
The cats gather
en masse every
time I sit
down to write.
One by one, they
jump up on the
big maple desk,
and walk across the
keyboard.

Mojo swats at
Shadow's tail.
Bukowski nips at
my fingers as they
peck at the keys.
It's going to be
a long night.
The cats don't
understand poetry
or marketing.
Shadow hisses, and
jumps down.
Bukowski gets
bored, and bites at
the cords.
He gets overly
excited, and slips off
the back of the desk.
The wild look in
his eyes flash
centuries of power
and sadness.

I think of my feral
days on the streets,
stealing *****, and
sleeping under
bridges in
December.
I wrote my words on
the walls of the
abandoned
houses.
And now,
such beautiful
providence.
I quit drinking and
I live in a town with
a clear lake.  I catch
fish and eat them.
I've published three
books and I write my
poetry on a
computer that my
three cats view as
a playground.

Sometimes,
it all seems like a
furry dream.
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2roycihKc0

My new book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems is on Amazon.com.
~
She is not our shrine,
she prays differently
with eyes wide open,
fingers on votive offerings,
preferring her solitude
in the Tea Garden, drinking light

Tomorrow on the tarmac
one flowered suitcase,
stamped for the city of neon people,
will travel to her song,
the pilgrimage of anemic lovers

Her hoisting from water,
(ampullae in hand),
and the unique boutique
growing out of
an alabaster chamber
bring monks out of hiding

The center line of her,
where the flower blooms forth
and learns by observation,
is still an unvisited temple

Until in season of calligraphy,
when she releases the Kogai
from her hair and sits with friendly toes
outstretched in the warm intimacy of
shared water

~
i was watching
Shane's funeral

beautiful
and deservingly so

and i wondered
who would come to my funeral???

(debt collectors
police
2 x-wives
DEA)
(surely
i'm heading to purgatory)

perhaps she'll come
the woman who wants to be a mortician
i meant her at the liquor store

i answered her ad
in the A.P. press,
it read, as follows:

Female, a young 60
likes UFO stories
and exorcisms
loves to watch autopsies,
has a potato chip
that looks like D. Trump!
(not for sale)
will be in front of BY-WAY Liquor store
7 a.m. Tuesday. Gladys.

and one thing
led to another
SO,
here i am
and the the smoke
from the camp
fire's
burning my eyes
i'm on my 18th can
of miller light
Gladys and me
are looking for
UFO s
My breath shatters the
frozen ice of all
distinction.

Tomorrow I will clean
   the corridors of my
thoughts but tonight
   I will wait for the
mordant memories.

The red roses, in the
garden you planted
for me over

fifty years ago
do not grow inside
the cold Wisconsin
   battering on my
    
window tonight

I have no Valentine
     from you today.

No nor a whisper of
the door
closing behind you
  By the quiet nurse

so long ago.


Caroline Shank
2.14.2024
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