Actions speak louder than words but words cut deeper than actions...just like an arrow which leaves the bow or a bullet that leaves the gun cannot be summoned back...it is the same with words..so just be a little careful as to what you say..words are such that they can uplift a person and as well as shatter a person.

One night, while I waited for you
I sat in the midwest summer heat, hot and sticky
like juice from a sun-ripened peach-
a balcony in the city, a small temple amidst the headlights and occasional sweet, gasping breezes
the house was asleep, settling in its aged wooden bones
while I wrote you poetry on its back.

you never arrived, but I felt somehow better for it:
the warm and pulsing beauty of my silent night's watch.

If I were to write you a poem

I might appeal to your senses

Tastes and smells
That trigger comfort
And satiety

Images that make a man
Stand taller

There would have to be
A mountain
And some tall trees.

If I were to write you a poem

There would be a hand to hold
Shining eyes
And communication without words

One day soon
I will write it

same reason some
picked up their charcoal
to paint on cave walls
then others
wailed inside their
exploding hearts at onsight
renderings of Mozart
these half moons in half time
the old rhythms
and cheap rhymes
play with our utmost expressions
and for some
the only potential
to release the drive
to madness
and pure love

In title it dangles.
A portentous root-vegetable.
Aggressive in its promise.
Domestic in allure.

Swelling is unavoidable.
It comes with a gut.
It comes with a harness
and a wrinkling leather belt.

I’m growling, more bear-like.
Vascular, blooded in cocktails
of babies, phone-calls, a raise.
More love, less time.

Nails are yellow-er
Weather-beaten, careworn.
It comes with her
Unconditional resignation

Poor girl, to a man, to me,
Poor boy, with skin like eggshell.
Perennial givers -
‘We must take what we want.’

I look at the back of my hand,
see if I know it
knuckles like rock, touch
light as a feather.

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my *******,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.