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Sally A Bayan Dec 2013
Visitors had flown back home
The much awaited respite
Finally, was at hand.
It felt good...to be on your own
Leaning on the bed, alone, though
Still nursing a cold from two weeks past.
To catch up with sleep
Was all that mattered.

Quietude was a blessing.
There was no noise at all
At 5:00 in the morning.

What?   5:00 AM?
No rushing footsteps?  No showering?
No flushing of the toilet?
On a school day?
This can't be!

Wondered why
Rising from the bed was a struggle,
Everything seemed light...floating,
Turning...spinning
Panic lurked in all corners of my room,
Loomed, it did, and spread all around,
In the midst of a widening cloak of fear.
The vacuum...in the right ear
Cleared those fuzzy thoughts.
The
Truth
Stood out
Transparently:
My right ear could no longer hear.

Whether lying cringed or curled,
Prostrate, or supine,
Grieving, worrying
Predominated in the days that followed
Diagnoses and prognoses, all were bleak
The cruel, deadly virus did it all
The loss superceded, and
Displaced every strand of confidence
A downward pull was imminent.

No phone calls were accepted.
Unexpectedly, true colors surfaced,
Real friends came forward
Family, other voices kept whispering:
"Shibashi waits, tai chi helps,
Both can alleviate, heal the heart,
Heal the mind, to be able
To accept the unacceptable."

Fourteen days seemed a year already,
Moments spent in soul-searching
But...restlessness won.
With prayers and courage, gathered within,
I dared cross that busy street,
Though shaking, quivering from fear
And from the cold winds of February
Almost got hit by a car,
Cursed by its driver,
But reached the church grounds in one piece.
Practice started at 7:00 AM, sharp.

Movements were calming,
Healing,
Strengthening
Concentration was perfect!
It was sunny
Wind blew softly,
Carrying small things, floating, flying
Tiny strips that went with the wind
What I thought were garbage
Strips of thrash paper, from a shredder,
Thrown from a house I passed by
Blown even further, higher up
I walked back home,
With strips of paper on my head.

Two weeks were too short, I was still confused,
Unaccepting, mad, sad, felt cheated,
Still in denial, of what had occurred
Standing in front of a vanity mirror,
I pondered,
What could be God's message this time?
Those strips of thrash paper,
What if they were confetti from Heaven?
My situation wasn't a festive event!
Could I have overlooked something here?
Was God trying to call my attention?
I wasn't sure...all I knew was,
I was depressed
I lost equanimity, I lost my serenity
I was distraught, I was everything but happy.
But, those strips of paper
Falling on my head
Made me look up to the sky that morning.

There were no tears before, and even today
I am a bit afraid, but
There is a calmer me
There is solace in the fact that,
God gave me two ears
I could still hear with the other
I live quite an active life 'til now
I move briskly
I sit where the speaker's voice is clearest
To my left ear.
When something is difficult to hear, or understand,
I get so frustrated
Sometimes, I forget about it,
It has its good effects.

It would soon be seven years after
I have learned to
adjust to my limitations,
Still wanting to know how to overcome
Or resolve these limitations
One day, I might just
One day, I might just
Accept what should be accepted

I can get myself through this
I hope to be understood
And not pitied.


Early morning ,December 11, 2013
    (From journals of 2007-2008)

Sally

Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Knees weak and trembling
Lost to rhythm, lost to times
To the flashing lights and ancient lies
Of your laugh and ****** humor,
To your eyes and wrinkled warped wisdom
With how you always held your hands,
With the million ways you used them
And the games we would play  
All the days spent on repeat  
Poison broken hope hid in hell and
Torment disguising the life and decay
In the bottom of your soul
gone.
Your immense presence dwindling
Into nothing as you cave in.
Defined by your addiction,
Owned and liberated to be
Defined by your prognoses
Still hosting those same feelings
Of self hate, depreciation
Creating your own hell
For temporary damnation
I pray you save yourself,
There’s no one here to help you.
I’m sorry I couldn't stop you,
I’m sorry your life haunts you
Weighs on you taunts you like the guilt
Causing pressure on your chest,
Lung cancer it spreads,
I hate to whisper to myself
Because all that’s left to be said
Is you shouldn't hold your breath.
Judy Ponceby Jan 2011
There once was a crazy nurse,
She drove around driving a hearse,
Whenever she hit a victim,
She would cry out "Admit 'em!"
The prognoses couldn't have been worse.
My first limerick ever!  A bit morbid I must say.  Insomnia does strange things to the mind....
CR Jul 2014
you stand on the corner of your just-gone home, dirt from below the torn-up asphalt making its way beneath your sunglasses, the distance between now and then something you can no longer stretch your knees and step over. your first love is boarded up across the street, succumbed finally to the burn of nineteen’s shallow pockets and standing in the way of a new apartment complex. you walk on, humming so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. it’s a strain on your ventricles, loving and losing and owning and letting go, when you’re here again. knowing the porch’s soft wood at number 18 while the door is bolted and a stranger’s boots line your closet floor.

it’s not all lockouts and dire prognoses. your tomorrow professes to accommodate a higher wattage than the sconces in your old room, and your visits taste like love and memory and breakfast, and his bed is warmer than your own because he’s in it, and he welcomes you home like that’s what it still is. it feels like he’s not wrong to say so—sometimes, you still belong there. cold coffee in hand from the farthest corner where they know your order still. an opinion on which pizza joint has better marinara. a favorite bathroom. an indelible mark on your old library desk. some of it is yours.

but some of it isn’t. some never was, and some has slipped through your fingers. you hum a little louder as the months go by and the boarded windows give way to a brand-new storefront—one that never knew you at nineteen—so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. but you keep coming back.
Andrew Guzaldo c Jul 2018
Occasionally notably one may travel and find,
Gawking carelessly on a barn in their midst,  
With fruits and grain scattered throughout,
Suffused with the sweet scent of the wheat,

With caulked vapors floret above at days end,  
The sundown spreads its beauty upon the lands,
And the obstinate blackbirds singing above
Among the glistening river the burbots jump,

One could never forget the daffodils cordage,
The scent of tilled lands afore one in ones travels,
And consistence a rancher with furlongs of cattle,
Or that old apple cider press in the old southern towns,

But where is the canticle of spring to come around,
Hours pass into days and the days into months,
Where are they when will this wonderful season come,  
As the sun percolates warmth upon the flowers to grow,

Carved work by hand of famed craftsman farm gates,  
The gates cast round fettered before my eyes,
A prognoses is all too clear of what lays afore me,
Winter will follow the fall as it always will do,

Spring summer and fall will again be part of the past,
As morning comes from eve amass the rooster’s crow,
I guess one can be compared to seasons born and bloom,
It is then we have experienced the seasons at their optimum,
   As the canticle of seasons have been attained”
                 By A. Guzaldo 07/06/2018 ©
By A. Guzaldo 07/06/2018 ©
Martin Addison Apr 2020
Certainly it has become a ubiquitous VIRAL DOPE

Here we are so TERRIFIED and trapped in a unique FEAR’S COPE

The search for prognoses remains a huge *****

It looks scary but we ought to hold on tenaciously to any available surviving ROPE

Our vim should skyrocket and never *****

And may we be exposed to the true LIGHT OF HOPE

Will COVID19 prevail eternally? NOPE...!

Martin Addison

— The End —