Wading in the blackening field
the bending, brittle stems threatening crackle and graze
needle and thread
june-grass
and pasture sage

Mnemosyne waits there in her sodden robes
near the depression
where the farmhouse once stood
still,
as I meet her there at the pit’s dreadful edge

and then they come,
the torrent of beasts,
spilling long-limbed from her arms in shameful profusion
at their ******* each the snarling lick of a wound
and all become a rapid, swollen crowd, yelping and squalling,
given hungrily to some grim and certain task
They nip at my ankles, my fingers,
my small florid lip

And I remember how,
month after month
the heart-shaped leaves of the split-leaf philodendrons
unraveled all asunder;
glossy and enormous
but eroded and porous before they were ever new,
yet I was sure the cleavage must serve some pure purpose,
because thats the way they all grew

First in the sun-room of the woman
who grafted them from the mother stalk
and then sold them on craigslist
they came then to the concrete apartment
with its twelve-foot ceilings
where the fan hushes them, now,
so they quite slightly rustle;
It’s breath must still be blowing on down
through the little holes

I woke up late this morning, my phone was dead. I guess I never plugged it in, I found it buried under my pillow (erah!). I barely had time for anything, just managing to cover the basics as the “Whoop” sound signaled my first virtual classroom opening. A pop-up announced that the class would be recorded and available later. “Yessss!” I thought, as I put in my airpods.

My room is surprisingly full of houseplants. There’s a ponytail palm, an anthurium and philodendrons sending down tendrils of heart-shaped leaves from shelves and tables. I drew open my curtains and the room bloomed, morning sunny. It was 22° but my windows are almost always cracked open to let in some real air.

I’m dressed in an unstylish, black school hoodie, short pajama pants, long socks and fluffy, pink slippers for my virtual class. My still-wet hair looked attractively mop-like. I began brushing it out while arranging the colored gel-pens and highlighters I use to take notes.

Was I ever starving, but I could only imagine breakfast. Ever notice how the sun looks like a giant egg-yolk? At least my Keurig was on the job - burping, whirring and dripping like a malfunctioning steam engine as it rendered lifesaving French Vanilla coffee that smelled like caffeinated heaven.

As the professor started talking about the syllabus, outlining the types of problems we’ll be working on this semester and reminding us of things we learned in our intro to econ class, a teaching assistant, in another window, asked us to press the roll-call icon and reminded us we had a paper due (this is why we read our syllabus, people). Then the assistant's window became a countdown timer showing what remained of the ten minutes we’d been given to upload the first-day’s homework.

Twenty minutes into the class, I was combed out and ponytailed, coffeed-up and positively vibrating with pleasure - I LOVE this stuff - strategies, actions, outcomes and payoffs. Student life is unnatural, stressful and myopic - but it can be thrilling too.

There was a knock on my door frame (the door to my room is almost always open), and one of my roommates, Sunny, was there. “Morning, Princess Anesthesia,” she said, teasing me about over-sleeping.

I pointed to my pink-M1-iMac screen, to indicate I was in class and she tossed me a bag. I knew, at once, that it was breakfast from the cafeteria. “I love you,” I mouthed, before turning back to the screen.

Spring Semester has begun.

Today, early on a
Saturday morning, I'm
trying a little trick I
learned from Bukowski.
I put on some classical
music and I am trying
to write.
Beethoven's 5th in C minor.

I sit in my favorite chair and
watch my black cat lie on the
back of the loveseat and
watch the snowfall.
She looks triumphant,
but it could just be the music.
The philodendrons that hang
around the house and the
bamboo plants seem happier, too.
There's no hope for the palm tree.

Well, the main thing is that I put the
pen to paper, and Beethoven,
my cat and you came along for the
ride.

Maybe the cellos, violins, and
trombones will fertilize my
creativity.
Now, my other two cats have joined
the fun.
They wrestle by the heater and laugh at
all the fat, rich *******.

/-\          
                    /----\
                  /-------\
                /----------\  
               /----_----\
              /-----|   |-----\
\ // (\ /  /------|   |------\ ) // \ / /( // \////
|||||||||||||[||]||||||||||||||||||||||
-----------------------------------------------


On hot days, out on errands...dealing
with a quicksand situation...maybe a
quicksand of not so useful thoughts,
i close my eyes, to find a calm moment,
in a sea of honking cars and blabbering
voices....to stop a pounding headache,
.........to find some silence....but,
.................................................­...

"How does one find silence, anyway?"
.....................................................

D­eep among tiresome thoughts,
i take flight......a short bridge,
an ascending road,
with rows of quaint coffee shops,
small diners that serve hot, fresh
and delicious home-made meals.

Walk farther on...turn right, to  
a guarded entrance...towards a
hilly, sloping walk...tough, painful
to the thighs and legs...headed to
a humble  abode...a small white  
house...a white gate with white fence.

The dogs are such noisy welcomers,
five ladies, all accurate storytellers;
i gladly listen to both...then, sit by
the small graveled space, with potted
philodendrons, succulents, and crotons,
lush from the daily rain showers...always
the best place to detox, to heal, all ways.

Being there at a graveled refuge, sipping
some sunset cuppa coffee, while gazing at
a copper-hued horizon, kind of unleash
a silence, so peaceful, it is where hot
summer winds...turn to cool breezes.

Amidst cacophony, silence is found
when flooded with notions of home,
.........../\ as if i were there /...........


sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 9, 2025

If I take a hold of my corruption,
like the sun it will go down in the evening
or dry out like cinnamon,
as flat as Philodendrons in the scenery.

I’m a shark about to bite,
but i’m taking in my surroundings
and burgundy flags come to belittle me,
they’re people with only grounding.