i often wonder about the blanks,
the spaces between letters and words,
the gap in the middle of the "o"
that holds nothing.
i wonder what an entire page of blanks is really like,
if it speaks more than ink,
and what it might say.

Love

Fading Sun...

I was looking at the graying sky.
Trying to chase a fading sun
I peeped above the pointed leaves of the Yucca tree
My eyes were met by little bursts of orange stars
And oblique sunbeams... emitting fading brightness
Through the bushy leaves of the Sampaguita plant.

I was waiting for the moths to appear
Near my lighted candle,
But a gusty wind blew, and made the shell chimes
Sway back and forth...left and right
Round their base and through,
Until all five chimes made pleasant music
With the cool, whirring wind.

I was waiting for the late afternoon sky
To turn to elephant gray
To highlight the yellow glow from the street lamp
So I could test some newly hung Christmas lights
And the capiz lantern outside the french windows
But the rainshowers came all at once
And i found myself wet, from the pouring rain.

I was waiting...and saw a changing sky
The rain, just tip-tapping on the roof
A much cooler air blowing...
Bringing sprays of mist on my face...
Suddenly emerging...the shape of a bat or two,
Flying, crashing, through the dripping red palm tree.

On the horizon, sun was now a dipping balloon
If there's any, i would wait for any kind of moon.

On the garden chair, i sat
And just above me, came a regular stray cat
I heard its paws lightly scratching
The wet surface of the fiberglass roofing.

I still wait...and contemplate on hopes and prayers
I wait...for a lot of dreams to come true
i wait, for this long day to be over
While the night creatures,
In their own tones and tunes
Have started to croon...

Sally


Copyright October 16, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

In my Autumn garden I was fain
  To mourn among my scattered roses;
  Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
To Autumn's languid sun and rain
When all the world is on the wane!
  Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
  Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
  You are but coarse compared with roses:
  More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses
Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
That least and last which cold winds balk;
  A rose it is though least and last of all,
  A rose to me though at the fall.

I thought I've felt love,
but in reality the only love
I've known is the soft kisses
the bottle of alcohol has left
against my dry lips and
the sheets that hold my
tired and lonesome body at night.
The morning hangovers
remind me I'm the boy
who is destined to be
alone.
-o.b

This is a really good poem you will find
Having the perfect number of lines
That's not too deep where as you'll over think
Or one that's too vague that will put you to sleep

A really good poem I've written this time
Knows what it's doing when it comes to the rhyme
With just enough hidden to have you wanting more
Loaded with action so you'll never be bored

This really good poem is a lot like fine dining
A seven course meal laid out in its rhyming
Holding you captive from beginning to end
Making you wonder how without it you ever could live

With this really good poem you can see I'm not lying
As you read over it once getting ready for twice
Being impressed with its rhythm and flow
This is a really good poem just so you know