which grasp
has hold entirety
depends
moody I am on
Beethoven
immensely beautiful
wandering amiss in his dreams
I feel voyeuristic
red faced caught
looking in the boudoir
glass at my sister
and her young lover
or among tall grass
with heavenly  harped angels
silent breeze clearing my forehead
on the shore
the birds whistle
soft the surge closes
on sand and makes love
with the sun glistening
rapture
and I blush again

Just when I thought there wasn’t room enough
for another thought or poetry in my head,*

Up came this documentary poem
The Wednesday of May 24 was the day
President Trump meets with the pope Francis
at the Vatican: smiles and pleasantries aside
Who’s coming up with these lies?
Who have ties
with Russia and Putin?
We the outsiders are still unclear
about another golden buzzer:
But under a crystalline blue sky is where
Pope Francis and the President meet
Here I tipped my pen to
MARK LANDLER and JASON HOROWITZ
Reporting….
The fraught silence in political history

I'd like to whisper in your ear some year
ask what dear, might make your ears hear
your toes curl
the  effervescence of a crystal stream
the psalms of a vivid dream
what has your short hair in a
whorl
when alone and it's just you and me
I'd ask quite sultry
right at the limits of
human hearing
my dear sweet what has
you in it's grasp
then
make a paper airplane
and throw it in the air
wait
wait for you
watch it's flow
its timid throes in the air
and catch it in your hands
the metaphor

I remember the feeling
of ****** and sleep
or sobriety and insomnia,
it was one or the other,
a back deck stained
with eggshells and
whiskey candles
strapped to my tongue
and a flame burning
my throat,
eyes like like lungs
inhaling a ****
and tearing with
black spit,
too ******* stupid
and fried to look at
a knife with malice
and then it was
only with butter
to smear on a sandwich
or uneven bread like
**** water in a glass,
in the microwave instead
of a toaster for some reason,
too ******* fried
too ******* dumb,
I felt better and quit,
no cracking eggs on deck tops
now it’s beer can rings on desktops,
like a marriage to dizziness,
I remember the feeling
of ****** and sleep
and paranoia,
depression
and anxiety,
and now a green smoke
is a double sided mirror
into the past of what
I used to feel,
and I’m spreading butter
on my conscience
and wrists
and neck now,
instead of being lifted
I’m planted with dead roots,
no turning back
no speeding up.

exclusive the title to my novel my dramady
one thought to enter one soul to give
one day to see those big brown eyes
on a pole along the fence aglow

where along the last forty out of site
who but god knows what goes down
who sat and figured the last forties reality
on the last 29th day of February

her acre grew in foresight stretched
out far for then I went galloping
to find her other end
and went around in circles

It is May Day
Not a sign of the tulips blooming
The sun won’t stay behind the clouds forever,
Said the weatherman  
What the hell do they know”.

I woke up with the intention of burning
The African scented candle stick: forgetting
That I didn’t purchased them yesterday:

Darkness fell upon this May morn
The air is cold and gloomy: somehow my
Favorite visitors took time from the morning routine,

Landed on my window and sang to me

I texted my brother and reminded him
To water the roses,
Trimmed the dry leaves,
On my outdoor patio upstairs

I remember  May Day long ago
When I finally broke the *****
I have pondered about that old lover
From time to time: with a genuine smile
So far my memories is kind to me,

There is a picture of a rooster on the kitchen wall
it reminds me of my grandmother kitchen
Where food wasn’t an abundant
Despite adversity:  
but lots of love was there in that old house:

Dark sky can dampen one spirit.
However, a hot cup of coffee, a keyboard
Can boost ones energy,
Composing a poem, a happy poetess
Or a game of slots can brings out the art of creativity
As she takes on the morning with a few
Words, a few lines, hoping to put a smile
On the faces of sadness