Another love poem? I ask myself.

She's a red streak
where the waves froth her feet white
a girl scouring the sands for shells
in the ageless haze the sea spews
bending and rising like the doubt
if time by some quirk has stopped
and the slanting beach is that warped space
where for long has homed
all the free souls of the world
love being their only name.

I walk up to her richer
by another love poem.

Remember brother we didn't play with toys
we were two little toy soldiers
on two sides of the cold war
crawling on elbows and knees
in the backyard with a blackberry tree
firing at each other with invisible guns
our mouths echoing the rat-tat of bullets
and it was not blood that soaked us
but drops of heavily falling rains
upon soil long parched by the heat
exuding smell of love all over the wind
when the two would roll over each other
escaping from a war with no real enemies
pleading i'm wounded, don't shoot me.

We don't play wars any more brother
the cold war is long over
and we stopped being not enemies.

I wish there was such a place where
Every sundown we both could meet
Let our love expand as the deep blue sea
Under open blue sky we could breathe free
We could then sit under the shed of green tree
Far from all where nothing could come between you and me!!

it’s 2 am
a world I never get to see
i’d stay up all night for you
i love you

(a Father's Day acrostic, reposted...edited)


F-athers don't always show their feelings, they're not

A-s demonstrative and warm as most mothers are...yet,

T-heir love is deep...beyond measure....it's amazing

H-ow they hold their weak moments, without a tear falling...they're

E-steemed...like a statesman of enduring greatness...silently,

R-apidly perceiving the needs of their children, their family...always

S-elfless, as mothers are....to FATHERS, family is  their priority...

::::::

A father is made of  concrete,
hard as stone...a bit creviced at times
.......yet, always replete
with pebbles of love...and warmth, especially
when he nears the threshold of his home
to his children, his heart is soft as satin
...in his home, he is the hearth...the wall
........the love for his family,
............a fire burning within him:::



Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    June 17, 2017

No, she isn't a poet
has never inked one
she takes off my weight
gets my things done

so I have enough time
to afford in a way
the luxury of rhyme
clever wordplay!

No, she isn't a poet
not written one line
clean is her slate
sees I'm fine

so I have enough space
and hour of my own
to indulge the grace
of thoughts mind grown!

No, she isn't a poet
no way she would be
she does her best
to see I'm happy

so my words run smooth
poems are easy born
truth and half truth
are spun night and morn!

No, she isn't a poet
cares not a bit
from her toil's sweat
my poems birth sweet

poems aren't her art
in the sun and showers
she grows from her heart
our garden's best flowers!