poetry archives-
watching from behind the screen
the critics torment

My favorite bloomer knows my curves,
As well as my favorite poems, knows its audiences,
But it wasn’t written by me:

The verses inspire, encourage and feed my mind
Like an infant loving the theme songs of the A B C
Like an isolated soul that forces to be reckoned with
Come take a leap of faith with me,

Let’s climb the highest mountains
Or take that plunge to the ocean floor to see what lurks down there
Our mood shall always change with the clocks,
tick, tock, tick tock,
while our hearts  beat out of rhythm

our minds, however shall feel the changes with each modern poem,
to public narratives – the stories we read each day
Come what may, we shall prevail



*Joy...
    “ Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with. ”
― Mark Twain

a peaceful morning
the poets harmonizing
poetry on demand

sweet and sour plums the
fruits all covered  in black ants
  an intense fragrance

When a poem isn’t a poem?
When the contents remain in my journals
Next to my lastest book 50 Shades of Grey
Unread, untouched, in need of a good editor my anthology

Each page form an ear, each smudge!
Weaken a page, chilling and aging
Egging not to be published

One small scented four leaf clover
Developed a teak of grease between a page

These are my stories
Of confession and addictions

Dead birds smothered in gravy
Dead men who never said I am sorry
Ladies who worried about their inner strength”
With each title; with each unbridled/biblical tones
My penmanship, your hidden poems

Through strength I brought forth in my journals
Hidden!  Suffocated! an anthology

The Looks at the many faces of people
We meet throughout our life time,
They always tell a story, some good, and some bad
I have radar eyes, and my instinct is always correct
If a stranger gave me the elevator eyes,  I will surely give
him the Amazon women warriors’ response

We have the pervert looks, along with the many faces of depression,
and lately the zombie-like robots plastic world looks,
While the lion and the tiger’s heads and eyes fixed on its target,
the critics silently stalks our poems looking for noun and pronouns and verb agreement

Because, their ego can never be satisfied,
However, do the lion have a story to tell?
Do his eyes see clearly?
It is a simple yes or no