The secret of being a senior

There is always one more death to make that long sigh!
We fret over ever little things
We stay awake and cry when we ought to be laughing
Our humanistic way of coping with life: (perhaps)

How Old Is Mrs. Claus?
Mrs. Claus is 1,136 years young!
We will never grieve for the Mr. and Mrs. Claus
They will forever live in our hearts,
Fictional but pleasing to the young

When we were in our youth
Going to the doctors never really apply to us
So we put N/A  on every line..
We define the lack of trust in them

Trust is collapsing in America these days
How many more times can we believe in the governments leaderships?
I did build my wall, not because he says to do it.
It my bank note, it my reminder that evil exist in all of us.

We often tried teaching the youth a little thing or two
Wisdom comes from age, suffering and with its memories of pain.

My daughter friend just turns twenty one, beautiful, yet green
She thinks that she is ready to take on the world
I told her to slow down, and look around: (this new normal is fierce)
Twenty-one is just a number, being wise is another thing
Wisdom emerges not from experience itself.
  by working towards it:

The secret of being a senior, we don’t have to worry
About the female cycled, or getting pregnant
We can cry for no reason: and wrinkle out gracefully…

Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,
Under my blue mask eyes that
hate without a trace of kindness:

I went to sleep in the year 2020
and woke up this morning in 1841
In old England, as is might seems:

Using words like give me a pint,
You old ******, lick me boots,
Lass and me Gentlemen
They had everything
Like everything in common with
America nowadays except, of course, languages.

To flogged a dead horse more like what i was seeing:
Racism there was as white as you could imagine
race against race: British and Ireland

The rich and the poor,
The upper class and the low renters,
Stagecoaches, and pan wagons,
I was somewhat confused,
with such animosity
White on white racism,

so when did the Black race came to that place.

Come to me senses, a poor Irish lad told a lass
A poor lady response by saying
aye better be on yah way!
You silly ******,
The red brick hair, the Irish twang:
Looking restless, moving around in that city,
Where the noise, and the eyes of the people
Seem, a part of labor and a part of pain
A part of sadness and a part of happiness

After seeing this small glimpse of their future
The labor, the pain, the sadness and the happiness
Was so timid,  waiting to be belong
One ****** even said, the sea give,(seafood)
And the sea takes, (shipped sinks)

Was I dreaming, why was really there?
As a poet in order to move on in the future,
we must know our past stories,
there will be times of unwanted pain,
the odd games…………

Where we are force to live in a roulette society:
I felt worn out like a cylinder..
In the year 1841 – 1843 in a comatose state

Thousands and thousand
Of people, will die this year
From the virus, and the
Streets they lived on is sadden
By the masks someone
Refuses to wear, stingless
And reckless those buggers left behind

Another apartment available,
In our city, waiting, the grass
Seem greener, politics outbid
The tik, tok creativities challenges

If we listen quietly at seven P.M.
We can hear the cry of essential workers
Crying for justice victims,
The virus is a terrorist, boomer!
Launching attack on foreign lands,

Overhead we raise our voices
And asked God, not again!
In the meantime the skies seem, clearer,
the ocean seem, cleaner, less pollutions

Every time the flowers are blooming,
it’s reminding us that a new chapter of the day was born.

The races are shading, the people is vanishing,
The birds will read them down with a song,
Why!
Nobody is allowed near the headstones
Nothing last forever: unlike the red states
Winners and loser, statues falls to the ground:

Lord Nelson they are coming for your pillar
In Bridgetown,
You must come down, it is really civil rights
suddenly, not so popular at the dinner tables
he must come down!


.


,

Child watches yours manners,

speak only when you are spoken too
Never be sassy; never look into the eyes of evil:
Else the whip will be on your cocoa backs
Its 2020 the whips snaps louder than ever,

Have any of you ever read the
“The Merchant of Venice

A poet ought not to pick nature's pocket.
Let him borrow, and so borrow as
to repay by the very act of borrowing.

Big banks are more dangerous than standing armies,
and the practice of borrowing and spending money
to be paid back by the next generation is stealing from their future
The U.S. debt to China was $1.07 trillion in April 2020

Someone forget to paid the Pied Pipers,
Was it the poor man, or was it the rich man?
They troubles became our trouble,
Now we all are suffering in the land.

They debt or the worldly infectious disease  
Now we all are suffering in the land.
Child watches your manners, speak when only spoken too

A poet can silence, a poet can be vanish from the world
And Robert Frost said anybody can start a poem,
but it takes a real poet to end one.
And that’s such a beautiful ending, gawking at clouds. Quote

Let us poets tell the real stories,
No let us convey the truth about the merchants!

The last time I think of death and breath
In the same sentence: was on an Easter Sunday
And on that day when I saw videos clip over and over of a
Public assassination, a lynching in the year 2020

As humans beings we all need oxygen to live,
Never take it for granted, we need to breath
Same as for the fishes in the ocean they
Need, oxygen too, to survive,

My poems need a wider audience to get
The essence across, demographically
More than a public assassination
My faithful followers is the essence of my poetry/

If I say that they can heal the world in seven days
In the mind of my reader, they will
Probably asked, who does she think she is (God?)

You see the divine is the vaccine, the healer,
I need more time to write, the poems /
That will heal this world, my poems bring
Emotional connection to one’s inner thoughts:

Seeing someone taking them last breath is peaceful
They chest goes up and then down,
slowly with a goodbye
My father was singing, one of Fat Domino
Favorite song, then he slowly closed his eyes:

According to reliable source my x husband,
also struggle to breathe before he took his last  breathe

My gold fish just float to the top of the tank.
The last time I think of death and breath
In the same sentence: was on an Easter Sunday
And twenty minutes ago, before I compose this piece

He gathers up his belongings and board the train
A little hunger contribute to his weary load/
which can be promising or can be fatal
No matters what the day might bring
He just has to move on because he is
worthy of human  interaction.


even though the world has marched along,
His unsteady gait, his hours of stinks,
Passerby, will complain,
even  through the eyes, of empathy
he stink or life stinks?

He knows the looks upon the faces of deep
He will continued to smile, with grace
See  him, smell him,  he is still alive

Your loves ones are dead, per say.
Your, nurses, your doctors, your actors,
your funeral directors,
and there he stood that happy ******,
stilling repasting and idling/

On the city train/ your flat forms/ alleys and doorways
Dreaming, how it was, when he was activated/  
And was once cherish by a special  love

Now the earth is formless and empty,
darkness is over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God is hovering over the waters.

Your states are drowning
in stench, of death
Fear not want not,  
while he is homeless,
But content this ******,

the vagrant!

A survivor a moth without the mold,
A fire, without smoke, the hungry man
Without food, a man without a home,
And with all the pity that you feel,

Take heel, death is permanent
Homelessness is not a disease,
Corona Corvid 19 is the infectious virus

Wear, the mask, adhere to the rules
he whispered to me
his homely, homelessness is not our war,
You are their underground enemy >>