She is the strength that I breed,
She is the fresh air that I breathe.
She is the beauty that they all see,
She is my ocean and even my sea.
She is the light in the dark,
She is often the target of my words like a dart.
She is my sleep in the night,
She is my confidence through the worst niete.
She is the veil that protects me,
She is the love that I mean.
She is the tears that cry for you,
She is the tree growing up as a yew.
I never told her how much I loved her,
I never really needed to.
She could always see what I would become
She was beyond special
She was my mum.

In the swash zone
a desperate crab somehow overturned,
belly-up. Dome-backed, helpless,
she twitches feet and claws
grasping only air
as seagulls gather, smacking lips.

Shall I intervene?
Who do I favor, crab or gull?
Frankly I have problems with both personalities.

Can’t ignore a creature in distress.
(Who programmed that?)
Wiggle my toes into damp sand beneath the beast.
Flip.
With nary an acknowledgement, crab scuttles
sideways to a spot in the wave wash
where in a flutter of little legs she half-buries herself,
eyeballs above.
Seagulls scream curses.

What did I expect, a thank you?

Milk and honey;
one is more luscious and inviting
dripping down your pouty, cherry red lips.
The other is warm and tempting,
but for some reason,
I can't stand to stomach it.

she have to die a thousand deaths,
for people to laugh a thousand smile.
she have to bleed a liter of blood,
for her name to be remembered.
so never underestimate poets and their poetry,
for they have to underwent direst of circumstances,
to be solely accepted.

Quick! Call the poetic constabulary
I'm mincing words about my vocabulary
Help! I'm drowning in my thesaurus
evidence that i'm merely a brontosaurus

Listen up to my Greek chorus:
"Such silly word play should place her in poem prison
a ponderous place from which few have risen
Locked in the cell, losing her sense
consequence of writing with no poetic license"

Writing on with no reason or rhyme
just doing my poetic time
iambic meters bite me in the ****
trying to force me out of my sonnetic rut

stumbling on ideas most trite
all the pitfalls of making the choice to write

Nostalgia

The word rings true;
"The pain from an old wound"
Nostalgia; every photo
I see of you.

You both left too soon,
If I could bring you back...
The words repeat in my head
Like a skipping track.

Far away for far too long
And always out of touch,
Can my words reach you in heaven?
I miss you both so much

If you can see your daughter now
I hope you are proud.
I know she's a feisty one
But her future roars so loud.

I thank you every day for the gift she is,
She gets so much from you
I just wish I could see your eyes:
So bright and baby blue.

My little mermaid,
My baby sis...
Are there any words
For how much time we've missed?

Every day that passes
I want you here to call
I hope you know
I'll always love you with my all

For Aaron and Ariel
Gone and treasured
Never forgotten and truly missed

Dear young poet you had discover that you have an amazing gift, a gift of words,
As your mind will start to think freely and spreading like beautiful wings of a bird.
But you have a long way to go for you are still learning,
To explore the gift of poetry as your hands to paint your art of words the mind of your creativity piece by piece of your journey.

But having a gift can also be a cures,
You can open the deepest darkest and happiest part of your mind,
It can be better or can be for the worst.
Your emotions makes who you are let your imagination create something perfectly with your words. With your words, maybe your mind and your hands can probably stop time.

**JacobCuadro