Each flower blooms
with charm and grace.
The one hid by leaves
isn't shy.
It craves to be seen
and inhaled,
like a veiled damsel.

Re-REVISED VERSION COURTESY STAN LEADER and Mark of Neopoet

I Walk as an Image
on the surface of the ocean
as did the Lord once
but
I am just an imagery
of a candle light
burnt by the Sun
cooled by the Moon
all day and night

all glare at me walking
but none wants to speak
a ghost am I
or just an illusion
can anyone knowledgeable
tell me
I beseech

I continue strolling on the surf
just across the beach
within your reach

I know not
how many sat by this shore.
I can't imagine
what they heard, saw, inhaled
laughter, sunset, sea shells; and
was it salt or sugar for them.

I wonder
if they let their spirit
ebb and flow,
or if they drowned it
in turbulent waves.
May be some absently drew
a ship without sails
to feel the thrill of a voyage,
or some let the waves
play with their toes
and slip away.

I am sorry it took me too long
to explain who I am.
I have grown older and changed on the way.
I forgot the beginning of my own story
and nobody’s left to listen to me at the end.

Naked I sit on the shore,
happy that I have learned one thing
that there is no need to explain anything to anybody,
that I can breathe, love, and draw
as much as I need. Nobody wants to know.
Nobody needs to hear. Nobody dares to care.

Ham steak and mushroom onion,
not to mention cause for the oven
Snoop got in a fight but he still delivers
another wanna be Nigga
stick out his middle finger
plans we make in Hughs estate
Playboy ain't nude anymore
Nah, I'm not giving you a sermon with veins to explore
some spotted wolf out on the plains,

Beyond a moment
is a moment, and
yet another....

They keep on coming
in all shades and hues
forming dots on the canvas
left behind_

Once more I'm writing my poem
A poem that's worth something or nothing at all
Would it get published; does it have a rhythm or tone?
Who cares? After all, it's just for me and mine alone.

My poem carries the thoughts that come
from my restless consciousness
Thoughts are formless and begging to be molded
or else they take flight and are gone no more.

The write was written
red ice
twice bitten
his soul a black clot

a faucet for a neck
she fell in a crepuscular fold
odor of tincture fuckubus

red mouth
a snarling kiss
a hot hiss chariot
a black bite

her womb spread wide
for a tongue that didn't end

nail polished nipples
like torn cherries
soft gauze tourniquet
a slow yield
milk petals and rivulets

a ghastly confection
leaning over like a spilled pot

so much for the kitchen gods

It didn't rain.
So black and heavy
Are the clouds.

It didn't rain.

So thirsty is the land
And pale the lane.

It didn't rain.

The soul's crying,
Seeking cleansing
From the pain,
But
It didn't rain!