The roses died

Oh my roses
All torn and dried out
Oh my roses died today
The garden looks so gloomy
Dried leaves on the ground
Colorless flowers thrown apart
Oh my garden of roses
a Killing field
a mourning place

The plants bowing and mourning
The smell of death
is everywhere...

All of a sudden
heavy rain falls from the sky
Clears aways the evidences
of terror...
Like nothing has ever happened

in my garden of roses
It wasn't a suicide
I plotted the death
A brilliant plan
I denied their rights to live

The rain washed away
all the debris...
The truth is forever hidden

Tomorrow...
I have a new plant
A new garden to be praised
and soon they will  forget  the roses...

Sometimes, I believe you were conceived in the womb of *Aphrodite
the subtle migrations of your mouth and tongue
manipulating my body in ways
that would make a courtesan blush

let me worship at the altar between your thighs

Sometimes, I think you are a descendant of Moses
your fingertips guiding me into warm places
your thighs and valleys so divine
I can't help but get lost in them

your lips and hidden places always causing exodus

Sometimes, I imagine you as a rose
your petals opening gracefully for select eyes
beautiful, in your surrender
your thorns, a barrier to most, yet

I would brave them, just to drink the dew from between your buds

Sometimes, I just need to know that you're mine
nothing more & nothing less than what  **you are

“If you're not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.”
-Malcolm X

I once read “The history of the world
is but the biography of great men.”
I read those words slowly, then paused
so I could take them all in

Show me a great man
and I'll show you a history of lies
historians cleansing blood from hand
muting the truth, no matter how loud it cries

The biographies of the "great" are almost always
inked in the blood of martyrs and greater men
scarring temporal lobes, and obfuscating memory
the sword, falling prey to pen


"Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as ravens claws"
-Jim Morrison

My voice and guitar echoed from
The wall of rain outside my
Window.

Wasps seek shelter like little
Refugees; pass my face and
Settle inside to

Dry little wings under roof.
I wave them only away from
My glass of wine.

All are welcome. Rain falls
Harder on the small.
Shelter and space.

Such easy
Things to
Share.  

Nothing unhuman
Could ever be a
Stranger.

Your true life began with your
Hands putting colour to  

Paper.
It was your first breath.

Words came to you, one by one;
Like steps; you learned to walk.

We held your hands as you
Progressed laughing, singing:

                       I want more.

I want to create. Transfer thoughts.
You reached your teens with your

First poem. The one about kittens.
Sometimes you fell.

Came home from school crying
Over painful words; rejection.

We had been through it too, and
Knew how to pick you back up,

Sit you down at a table to write
It out. *Just write, sweetheart.  

                       Just write.

I whisper your name to myself,
and it puts this smile on my lips that's hard to wash away.
This feeling that's come over me,
Is so very warm.
It spreads with delight from the top of my head,
to the very tips of my toes.

I'm tangled in words and emotions, thoughts spin out of control. Hypnotising me in endless day dreams. Possibilities as countless as heart beats.

You must be my new fascination.
I'm beginning to settle in,
becoming to comfortable in your thoughts.
I wonder how good your lips might taste touching mine,
How your body might feel under my touch.


Lay me down,
Let me belong to you.
Just don't let me fade away...
I crave to be more then an indent on your bed sheets.
This time,
I want more then a once whispered name.

The way the sun breaks through
Clouds dark with rain

Above a city that doesn't mind
Either

Reminds me that somewhere 
Something

Really good is happening
To someone deserving

Right
Now

Lizbeth let me out
the front door
while her parents rowed
in the kitchen
at the back

she was still only wearing
her ******* and bra

she wanted me to stay
but I couldn't stomach
her parents finding me there
especially as they
were in a foul mood
rowing

she closed the door
and was gone

I waited for the next bus
back to my house
miles away
and wondered what
she would be doing
back at her place

would she get dressed?
would her mother notice
her own long red dress
had been taken out and worn?

I imagined her back
in her room sulking
because I hadn't
had *** with her
despite her planning
despite her standing
by her bed
in ******* and bra

even when her parents
came home early
she was still up for it

I tried to imagine her
in her untidy room
putting on
the Fats Domino LP
and playing it loud
and prancing around
dancing

my bus came along
and I got on
and paid the fare

but unknown to me
she'd put on
the Buddy Holly LP
and sat
in her ******* and bra
staring
and not caring.