I never got to meet my father...
He died when I was nine months old,
But his presence, I always felt
While I was growing up,
Even up to this day...

He would often visit me in my dreams,
Told me not to worry or despair,
Took my hand,
Told me I could go with him..
Which I almost did...

A few times, in high school
I felt a light push on my back
When my Home Economics teacher
Almost caught me nodding...I was
Too bored, to focus on her sewing lessons...

I was always saved from falling
Each time I climbed the guava tree...
I feel some kind of force stopping me,
Standing ahead of me,
Whenever I cross the street, even now...

My late aunt said she found me
Looking up and giggling
When at three or five years old,
I played by myself beside
My father's tall and sturdy book case...

I see his face when I go through
His dwindling collection of
Edgar Allan Poe books, including his
Law books, and a few western pocketbooks left,
All, with mottled pages now...

The matrimonial bed he shared
With my late mother is still in use...
His portrait is hung on our wall...
Today, the fifteenth of June, his birthday,
I look through his eyes, and-----

In silence, I greet him,
"Happy birthday, papa,
Happy Father's Day, as well."
In my mind, my father lives,
And my own stories of him therein dwells...

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Shriveled up,
the body was
as it lay in shambles
behind the bus

No longer a person
no certain gender
globs of brain and hair
stuck to the fender

Screams were heard
across the street
as the driver stumbled out
and collapsed to his knees

Tears trailed down
his stubbly cheeks
as he crawled his way
down the street

He stared in disbelief
at the heap
of skin, blood, bones and ****
at his feet

He started to *****
and started to pray
he ran his son over
on father's day.

These words just won't go well with other words

These sentences just won't form together that well.

These deeper means just won't make sense

Nothing will go together

And I can't seem to fix that problem.