They hated you for your truth,
but you prevailed my dearest
friend.

Though you left too suddenly,
too soon to say goodbye,
and no one could say
"We are sorry for having misjudged
you, but we were blinded by your light."

I know that as long as even one person
stays alive and tastes the oranges growing
from your ashes, that your story will never
die.
Not in the poetry
not in the music,
not in the art
you left
behind, waiting.

Waiting. Wanting to be heard.

Put me in a wooded box, under an
Ancient tree I will go far on top of a hill
On my grave place some rocks and stones
I do not need a concrete vault nor a polished
Marble head stone or tears to fall close your eyes
And think of me walking beside you
Picking up pennies, rocks and feathers as I go

If at a later date you should visit my grave
Add one more rock to the pile that's been made
A nosegay of wild flowers would be ok but
Give to the living the best bouquets

Blame Who

Long time there has been no storming from you
but such an outcome of growing population
and
damning economy
no one can blame,
you nor me/I
but those who produce a family
when they could afford none.
why should you or I feel blameworthy,
for all those who had
no common sense…

Reality is rattling;
forcing fondness and frustration
fo meet and mix,
a medley of memories
that doesn’t taste good
coming back up.
Months spent swallowing
prose and poetry
refusing to remember
aching to express
but unwilling
to see sorrow and smiles
cruelly combined.

Brilliant,blazing, softly crimson
aglow against the midnight blue horizon

Fingers strong and gentle dipping into the glory
of the melting twilight sun

Slowly streaking the reddish hue
across the complexion of the evening sky

What wonderment to the eye
The Ultimate Artist, proving He still can

jagged curve
rush up and touch
flesh free

the quick and ravaged

thrown down the hall
while the dream tilts
and the picture glass
scrawls a scream

in the quiet the rain fall
is gentle
forest dark as night

this easement
as a replacement
a heart that can never
be held

a pain fresh

a scar sky

night is spilling
from her drains
drawing all away
and I wash
and wash
in the waterfall
in the waterfall
of tears

Standing at that intersection
cardboard sign displays his plight
haggard face near screams dejection
he has no place to sleep tonight

Time was such a sight was rare
a big city kind of malady
now it seems they're everywhere
how could this have come to be?

Not all these guys can just be lazy
too many good men on the street
whose future prospects look so hazy
no wonder they all seem so beat

These values I treasure, to you they seem odd or even strange but on them I believe and rely
Without measure,
Dont make a face or look with disdain
when with my fingers demolish mounds of yam
yams pounded smooth by the pestle in a mortar.
You need not sneer cause I prefer
the tough labour of strenuous pounding,
to the quick fix, of an appliance that can cook, bash and mix.
To me the methods differ, so also does the results:
the former makes a better feel on my tongue,
while the latter lumps short and long.

Can you SEE the demons in my head
Driving me crazy...
Leading me to the very places I dread?

Can you HEAR their whispered threats
Draining me dry...
Dragging me to life's roughest edge?

Can you FEEL their heated breaths
At the back of my neck...
As it laves eerily through my hair?

Can you SMELL their gory, bloody bodies
Doused in darkness...
Hovering over my flower garden like bees?

Can you almost reach out and TOUCH
Their lethal shadows...
As they patrol; doing the night watch?

To him, love is ugliness hatched from Aphrodite’s beauty
For charmed by her nymph bliss are the fools
Often found to fall into those drowsy pools,
Enchanted with her fine fantasies
And sleepless elves casting spells of nightmares
As love is a mountaintop of blossoming cherries
Descending into valleys of vines and sour berries