her bare toes touch the
wet grass,
the bottoms of her feet
now covered in mud
her feet are the garden
growing fresh movements
her mind is the water
nourishing the herbs

Drowning.
Everything is wet, like my temples
Perspiring.
Reaching out for a hand to hold but
Even if I could find one I would
Slip out of grasp and
Sever that connection because
Everything is black and I'm
Drowning.

Our headlights out there
In this wet October night
Sink into the cold asphalt
Glowing lumps of coal
Lobbed into a black ocean.

I want to be this
wet white dress
hanging alone on the line,
on such a gentle
Sunday morning.

Why do I want to be this dress
so badly?
Every time I glance it’s way
I’m surprised with the jealousy I feel.
I must be jealous of its peace,
I suppose.

It has no need to do anything
all day long,
except hang there
and sweetly dry
in its own time.

I hear the carve of oars,
I see your palms enfold the wood,
as shards of stars shred
a black and glistening wave.

I hear the carve of oars,
the shore is breached,
we reach dank granite stairs, climb
a tower in moon gritty light.

I hear the carve of oars,
you speak, your turgid cheek
blue-steel-gray, your gaze grates,
my salt raged eyes summon waves and stars.

I hear the carve of oars,
waves rattle a candle's flame,
chill the bed frame, the wet stony room ––
the door closes, it scrapes.

I hear the carve of oars.
I know your lurching gate,
the clank as oar lock’s turn.
You slip the shore.
I hear the carve of oars

Copyright © 2002 Gary Brocks

She is crying
Under the rain
I never let her get wet
I'm here to hold
The umbrella up
For her.

The sight of rain,
of wet clothes, wet plants,
wet doorsteps, wet hopes and dreams,
and, that known scent of sadness and grief
all these...create soggy, sluggish minds

we just lost two dogs to the virus
the glum of monsoon rains affects the moods
the "yays" from cancelled classes
have all passed...
sun is shining, not too bright, though,
peeps like a tease, but,
enough to dry the ground...

i see vacant lots...almost naked now
motor's droning hum is a lullaby
that lulls the mind
a strong smell stirs the nostrils and
defines a welcome pleasance...
i sniff....and chase away sadness,
with this intriguing scent
.....of freshly cut grass....


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    July 25, 2018