It is not only when I am alone
That I feel cold hand of desertion
Loneliness gnaws at me all the time
I tipped with love, not returned
Like water on back of a fowl
Poured out without a receptacle

After the clattering noises of children
Young boys and girls find their nests
The babbling crowd only an illusion
The rumbling thunder roars the return
Of dry season and cold harmattan wind
I sat under the eve listening to the songs

fingertip chipped nail
pushs the pretty pearl buttons
sweet stitch aperature

history ghosts
watch
along the
rippled hall
tired tile floor

fill my listening with
your words sung
by happiness's
lilt

sunwarmth touch
in a tomb spring heart
we keep up

Back in his youth when legs were strong
he never could sit still for long
'cause every view however grand
held no match to newer land.

As the years passed by and he gained age
with each day an added page,
he still liked to see new scenery
while leaning against some random tree.

Autumn became his favorite time
when standing waters first showed rime
for this was the special time of year
when he'd go forth and hunt for deer.

It was half past 3 am on Sunday night
down on Hawthrone st
I was keeping to the light
just workin’ the old beat

Not lookin’ for a fight
only a fix for the long night

He came for me, all what was left
I am not one who prays
maybe it started as theft
but it didn’t end that way

I remember that I wept
in the few moments that I’ve kept

They found me alone in the alley
lost and afraid of real shadows
they understood I had no family
held me as I shed my deepest sorrow

To seek the red dust of heaven with fistfuls of sky,
to gather impressions and assume lofty position
to imprison the earth
with quavering smile,
to be yoked with untenable chains of solemn regret
and symphonies of sparrow sorrow
in poetic folly,
I bear all unnamed consequences,
walking by signs to the road ahead,
wild wild wilderness,
I.

Big black boots
and a fedora,
low over my eyes.
Black chinos
with black braces
over black t-shirt.
Shuck on the leather jacket,
attach the Raybans
and ready to go.

Can't miss on the eight ball,
can't miss that Miss,
beefcake backs down,
tequila slides down.

This book is its cover.

But of course timeless too,
Sad I know not much,
of poetic skill
But artistic poetry,
I shall compose at
my sweet will .

Rhyme or no rhyme,
It's up to you to enjoy
Or tear my poetry up,
As a child would destroy
An unwanted toy

Maybe like some women do...
Theirs too...

To you who who have searched and did not find
we are one
To those who have been lost
we are one
To you who through searching for love have
lost your identities to a ruthless society
we are one
to you who you would rather ignore
tommorrow call
we are one
To you who lost herself on the pavements of happiness
To those who found a haven in the arms of now ,
we are one
There is a home for us ,there has to be.

Relax and enjoy, believe you.....me
while the plumes waft up through the air;
you quickly will find,
complete peace of mind,
erasing each primary care.

There's two ways to ingest this plant
baking will entice one to "teethe";
but other than that,
hold onto your hat!
Because then, all one must do is breathe.

Whenever I go to my cabinet
I not only think of myself;
I remember the "lot",
of friends that I've got,
and I decide we deserve the top shelf.

I've created scenarios around my eventual death,
sometimes a swan-like Camille in her finest performancec,
sometimes a fistful of shout like Eleni, "for my children".

I know nothing for sure, and each day
brings me to the cold rapture of sky--
Basho's poem and its scorpion sting.

Dying into this. Dying into this.

Splash.