My beauty isn't all it appears to be,
Look into my eyes, and tell me what you see
A little love, a little mystery, a little of everything
A little love, a little mystery, a little of everything
It's mine and it's ours are not the same thing.

I want coffee, and you want tea
The heart knows what it wants,
And the hearts want a connection,
instead of a stent surgery.

Love, trust, surrender and peace follow in this order
Love is confusing, love is a thief
Look into my eyes, or read my tea leaves
Love, trust, surrender and
Peace, follow in this order.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you
Weep and you weep alone
.
He walked into a crowded room and fires his weapons
While humility is considered strength, humiliation is hurtful
ego stands down. Shame is private, humiliation is public:*
There was only one thing left for him to do, and you know what
For the earth will be a better place, without so many psychopaths

The government is on the warpath, the vets are mentally ill
Left wing, right wing, the mental effects of war continues
day after day , after day.
Their transition from battle to home becomes an internal struggle.
There are no winners, only the good die young

My past is in my attaché case protected by number codes
Under my favorite vanity table,
where the dust build up into shapely forms
I want to lift the veil and open the case. But
this wave  of sadness always comes over me.

It’s always asking of me to forgive and to forgets,
Let bygones, be bygones, and
move on to more important things
At the end of each year,
I smile because my heart gets stronger
by mid-June, I sometimes take a peek,
at the contents, and I move on
I gave a little and I take a little,
but as you know that the story of love

Sometimes, I fantasize about a time travel
Sometimes, I just want to self-correct my mistakes
With one match stick, ka-boom!

To corners the truth isn’t always easy.
You never find yourself until you face the truth.
said Pearl Bailey
My past is in my attaché case protected by a hidden code.

Let’s not forget our childhoods
Like playing in the rain, getting drench, and loving it
The scene I remembered most, was i watching Peggy the small dog,
in the window across the street.
While, the neighbors keep up their lawns, and areas neatly pruned
With the dull chopping sound of the cutlasses, early in the morning:

I generally held a book close to my face, while reading
But somehow, on that day, I kept  staring at the house across the street
I don’t remember if I had done my chores or not,
before the lady in this photo came home that day for lunch.
For her, it was all about keeping up appearances,
Dinner at six, all school shoes must be polished before seven
and our Immaculate uniforms, must be hanging on the ironing board.

And no matter what,
all lights must be out before ten o’clock.
“Don’t forget to say your goodnight Prayers, she would have said”
Lately I've been thinking about childhood a lot

Suddenly, my thoughts turned to my first soap opera, Peyton Place,
Woody Allen, Mia farrow, and all my childhood memories came to a haul with…images of my friend Dolly Benskin and her daughter Paige:
Paige die at an early age: which haunted me for years..
why so young?

I use to love smoking candy cigarettes, but not between my toes
This morning of all mornings,
bonds with the carpet fibers is a piece of candy

Stop meddling in other people's business
They dash their words against the walls
As if to advertises,  hatred of the human race.
The higher they climb,
the more you can see their disgusting parts

They comes off as useless quacksalver,
A waste of energy, a waste of space,
Words, words, mere words no matter from the heart
They form clichés, and spin the bottles
An idle mind is the devil’s playground
They smile in an annoying self-satisfied manner.
As if bitterness would bring them happiness
                
Who Am I?

This is some journey

Oh boy!
this is some journey for me
Eating poetry, looking at you,
I had no other choice but
to bow to the porcelain queen.
Some words take longer to ******* in the mind
To reach your bliss point, so know your happiness.
Certain insects are edible. But some words
are non-edible, for our inner creative force.

Some of my thoughts may be in my fingers,
From the time I woke up in the morning
my spoken words stay within my head
They are not offensive; however they might make someone
Somewhere, someplace broke a glass into diamonds

When a poet has nothing to offer
she lets you have the sound of silence
so be kind to unkind people.
They need it the most.
because she want to guard her words to
protect her life, she gets knowledge from sun
you see, the sun love the moon so much, he dies
Every night to let her breathe,

So, when a poet has nothing to offer
She lets you have the sound of silence,
A little kindness from the unkind

Peace within.

Reading a good poem silences you. ..it make you think.  It also prepares you for death. .

When my poems flirts, it can find a way to get into your heart
As it ****** you my audiences it’s becomes imagery and symbolism
The bouncer of the entry way, but somehow waltzes its way into the mind of the nonbelievers: activating the rhythm and rhymes

The language of emotions felt like a prickly face, against my long neck,
Every emotion has its place: like the smell of the bourbon breath
which make my pulse leap and my body tremble
"To dream of lust is to dream of me it whispered, so ecstatic!
Effortlessly, I tried so not to give in to the poetic teaser,

*I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird,
flying even to the clouds of heaven.
I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me,
even though there is no cause for grief,
and at once on my birth I am dissolved into air. What am I?

Do you trust me to deliver my poems to you?
Without re-inventing the pages or
disparaging my poetic talents

“A man who views the world the same at 50
as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.”

Poetry is ongoing art form, the poet never cross the
River to get the imagery,
for the same reason a ghost can’t cross water

Every artist dips his brush in his own soul,
and paints his own nature into ....
The painter puts brush to canvas, and the poet puts pen to pad

Do you trust me to deliver my poems to you?
Without the *******, let me surrender to my passion.
Let me write with all of you in mind
Let's spread kindness and happiness where it’s most needed
into the hearts of the one who believe in me

Poetry is an going art form
educate yourself about the history of the human spirit, before
Condemning it to the trash with the avatar symbol,
Make your craft, worth repeating
and your poems would stand out
like a breath of fresh air in a crowded room.

Holding on so tight
I can barely breathe
I can see star lights flashing,
flashing different colors of the **** bands'

The hooks dug deeper into my skin
Am I being nailed to this  cross?
Without the intimates that emphasize comfort?
The subtle lift, the agony of the fabric,
Bare necessities of the multiway bra

Everything Is Broken
Everything Is Broken
Broken poems,
Broken words,
Broken lines,
Broken links,
Leonardo Da Vinci Code broken
The critics not censored
Unedited

To give birth to a new poem
Like buds to flowers, forming lovely thoughts into words
I have create something from nature, to be one with the soil

My words of wisdom came off as freedom of expression
I have demand precision; while planting an imagery vision
In the mind of my readers, my pen moves, my lips were sealed
but my heart and my thought were divided in small pieces

So, here I am giving each and every one of you nourishment
 From this placenta of words to form a new poem;
Emotion you must experience, my insight you must follow,
to find value in something like this,
is called artistry of writing poetry.

And what do I get in return?
What words of wisdom I could possibly impart?
Knowing, I made you think, about writing your next poem.
Is my satisfaction: said this poet

I wish there was a way for me to keep my initials out of your mind
I shall continue writing my stories into poetry, and you would be forever
Be haunted by her flashing eyes and beguiling smile until death.

What the devil has joined together, it will stumbled and fall
but every desire has an obstacle in it, and that obstacle was you.
So, do bear in mind that not every pretty face or smile
isn't real, genuine or sincere  

Night haunts and evil lurks in every corner. Like plague it’s...
For a black heart will only find beauty in darkness.

The worst of the initial pain is yet to come, my arch rival and enemy
you seem to have a lot of time to stand and stare at the dark glare;
mysterious abyss of love.

When I was teenager,
it was pens, papers and stamps,
  two week of waiting,
to see  if the  mailman would deliver
  those special letters from your
pen pals from around the world,

Nowadays it's Facebook, Instagram, whatapp
The Likes and dislikes,
disgraced and lambasting
Total strangers on the internet.
Whatever happened to the human race?

A

Send me the pillow
That you dream on
Don't you know
That I still care for you*

Those sad lyrics. .
Those sad Sapp endearment
Now  it's  butch where
Is my alimony. .where is
The child support money.
Nothing last for ever.
Words,  words,  words,
Thank God I divorce you

Despite the surf conditions
I am going in, I am having the
last splash of the summer,
That’s filled with swimming,
the fragrance of the sunscreen,
and the laughter of the playing children
Despite the rolling of the thunder vikings

The dance of those umbrellas,
to the musical sound of the wind
I am going in,

The sea and salty breeze,
Would no longer moisturize my face,
The sand would no longer, tickle my toes
and soon the frigid winter chill will swallow us whole
Leaving the sandy beaches, completely deserted
With the remains of dead Sanderlings birds on the shore
and no more three-toed imprints left behind for us to enjoy.

so, I am going in the water

When I was little,  I used to think that
If I climbed a tall ladder I would reach the sky,
as I grew  up that ladder seems like a steep cliff .

Here I am still dreaming about .
far away places this morning,
but tonight I shall write the best potential poem about
the ladder, the sky, and the steep cliff.
when I was little, I used to think like a pirate.
Now, I am a poet.

Top to bottom
Left to right
No matter how you look ahead
It was a sad, sad day

When I walk through a room and
If the silence is too cunning and too strong
I recall a poem: I once read Bird of Texas
I usually let my eyes zoom in on a target
Most of the time, it’s the exit
With the red lights, or the doors with the double bolts

Poetry writing is like double bolts locks
We lock our thoughts and emotions inside ourselves
and worried about what others might think of us
I seriously doubt that Dr. Seuss worried about his unique way of rhyming

Do not like them,
Sam-I-am.
I do not like
green eggs and ham.

Same here with me, I don’t care if you like my poems or not
My eventuated submission: or my manner of speaking.
Is your way of critiquing gratifying Sam I am?

Do not like them,
Sam-I-am.
I do not like
green eggs and ham.

I try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh so mellow*
I try to remember the kind of September
When I wore my navy blue skirt
with white bottom down top,
with glistening extension cornrows
so tight like dreadlocks.

I try to remember the kind of September
When I was young and carefree and no responsibilities
Now it’s September those after school activities.
Oh shiver me timbers to all the bus drivers
Welcome to another school year with tears

Make love not war America.

Faces in the Street

So many faces, so many people
moving like boxes on an assembly line
I wonder if they ever think of the time

There always that one guy who always
Seem to be fidgeting with his cell phone,
With that killer tone of his voice
“***** aye better have my money today”
With that bad ****** expression attitude,

There is always a lesson to be learned,
a story to be told, from the feeling of a poet.
His eyes became the camera zooming from left to right
trying not to fixated on his subject,

So many faces, so many people, and there I was
Thinking of Robin Williams

The way I read your mind
Is the same as sign language in your poetry?

Poetry is the chiseled marble of language;
It’s a paint-spattered canvas - but the poet uses words instead of paint,
and the canvas is you:

You borrow a phrase, and hanged it like a gibbet,
That meant nothing for us: it was so ribbit ,ribbit
You sat there on the log and watch as the frogs
Jump from Lilly pad to lily pad: in the dusky fog
The frozen frogs’ moves, your words croaked

we decipher your deepest fears,
so why do you filled the pond with the splashing tears?

When  the African lion roar ferociously in the early morning
I have no other choice, but to tamed the beast
The Goddess within respond with a purr! Purr!
A little teases, a little smile, a little laughter,
Suddenly, the greatest natural gift—of ******* joy
  my secret desire fulfilled.

Good grief

You barely made it through the work day
Listening to the sound of the bed and chair alarms  
From the time you start the shift
Until you finish it. They just wouldn’t sit down

A chemical imbalance in their brains,
We kept getting a paycheck and
We kept on giving it to them. Those awful drugs,
Sometimes it works. Sometimes it don’t
They just wouldn’t sit down.

Mr. Steven Wallace,
I am going to end this hopefully with your blessing
When a brain that have been addled by boozes and drugs
fallen from the socket for a period of time

**Sit Beside you...
What is all this?
I know how furiously their hearts is beating

Wallace Stevens

Although you sit in a room that is dark
Except for the outdoor patio light
And texts frantically
on your phone
Or biting your lower lip
Letting yourself bleed
Or gazed at the door
with the rusty hinges locks of love

Or with one finger you fumbled
With the bobby pins in your hair
with the wavy side up

What is all this?
Benjamin Rabbit and the stranger danger

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gray-room

Oh Jesus can you hear me now?
It have been so long since my last confession,
I am drowning in guilt, but fighting to
keep my head above the water

I can’t let them see me cry
Unless you have bad times, you can't appreciate the good times
One potato, two potatoes three potatoes four,
Give me the strength to walk out that door
The look in my eyes: this hate in my heart

All the things that drive me insane are the poetic words that kept me going
Turn my eyes away from worthless things; preserve my life according to your word.
Oh Jesus let not my heart be troubled

I heard the fear in her voice
I said to my husband,
Do you think she made the right choice?
He said to me

“Fear is not the enemy, she is her own worst enemy
That isn’t a great way to make money.
Her scream echoed in the still of the night

While the rats in the warehouse rustled, in every back alley
Making a dash for a safe haven,
She was trading ****** favors, and a bit of tally

The ones before her should’ve warned her about the nightlife
Because, survival is a positive state of mind, and
Blackbirds can only see the dark side of light at night:

But the pretty young girl, with the straight yakked weaves
What did she achieve?
The boots were made for walking,
the midnight stalkers would always stalk
But not for the girl with B1 straight yakked hair
wouldn't live to see another day.

Getting tired or out of breath while making love
But I never get out of breath while
Composing a free verse or
writing poetry in the form of a Villanelle styles
*** is like running a marathon:
So upgrade your *** game

The Caribbean Sea is well-known for its high winds and rough water
which causes the flying fish to glide at ease in rough marine waters
and hurricanes to emerge to the surfaces.

It is the same rough sea that became the burial ground for the  hundreds of fishermen who lost their life at sea.
Life is too rough for these struggling workers.
the same sea that Laden was buried, because no country would accept his remain
so the big fish had their daily feast
It is the same rough sea stories, many of us have talked about
Like during the journey on the sea the disciples were distressed by wind and on a rough sea,
Yet there is no winter in Caribbean, neither in  many parts of Brazil
but we do have our share of problem with  Achatinas tropical land snails
the sea is now a story about the strong wind and heavy sea
But it never stops us from spending time at the beach.

New Clothes, New Beginnings
In my mother’s house nothing went to waste
Our old uniforms were turned inside out and color dye
and here I am talking about back to school shopping already.

With my daughter it’s all brand new supplies and clothing.
And here I am mapping out emotions in the midst of everything
  I remember my gathered leg puffy *******, which matched my uniform.
those puffed legs ******* prevented me from playing a game of double Dutch,
Hopscotch and climbing the monkey bars, as you know the saying goes

The higher the monkey climbs the more him expose. But not in my case
the more I climb those bars, the more I was exposing my ***
or worse totally humiliated, by the hem of my garments
and once again this time it wasn’t for healing, but for the teasing

Used tea- bags drying out on the windowsill, ready to be used a second time.
My mother would say, about ten more uses still left within these bags.
New soles on my younger brother hand- me- down shoes with new shoe laces
This caused him to have eight hundred dollars’ worth of braces
No New clothes, no new beginning but a visit to the orthodontist
In my mother house nothing went to waste.

Master bedroom

It would have been nice
If it could live up to its name
Knowingly, the master couldn’t
Even handle his business in any room
Why called it the master bedroom,
The master haven't mastered any role in any room
until his compassionate flower,  the ladywith a heart of an angel,
Made a deal for the people, , as history was told
Her love for the oppressed citizens of Coventry would never be forgotten:
A Yellow Lily not to be reckon with:
Lady Godiva the people's choice

He said to me  " Come and take my hands
and walked with me under the rented Caribbean moon
for the emerald moon at night has the power to heal wounded spirits

I took a trip to the land of my birth at least once a year,
Where the beating sun scorched my skin into an even tone
and the North America cold snap it back in place
during the winter months.

I love it when the aircraft slowly descent over the small Island
Those nostalgic feelings get to me all the time,
I often wondered if the Islanders knew of my arrival
He waits for me in that sunny room,
where the window curtain blow in and out in a timely manner,
The room scent, a light, fragrant aroma of lavender,
and the fresh saw dust welcome me home.

How many more secret can we store there?
a quiet place to let my worries go,
a place to make me smile, perhaps then
I shall always welcome those sweet tears of joy
And he being there with me makes
my Island trips more pleasurable
Sunny days and memorable Caribbean evening,
I became that romantic poem every poet thought of writing.

When you write in prose, you cook the rice. When you write poetry, you turn rice into rice wine. Cooked rice doesn't change its shape, but rice wine changes both in quality and shape. Cooked rice makes one full so one can live out one's life span . . . wine, on the other hand, makes one drunk, makes the sad happy, and the happy sad. Its effect is sublimely beyond explanation." - Wu Qiao

Come and take me with you to the chamber of love,
and prove your love to me once more
So strongly scented, I smell the Jasmine in the front yard
This made my heart calms by itself

  We sat on the bed and gazed deeply into each other eyes
Suddenly, I saw verse within a song.
and my unwritten poem to be published based on my emotions.

****
scars all
the victims
sweet revenge
attacker castrated: open wound bleeds

August is wonderful month for star gazing.
Camellias, dauphin Oise and renuculars in full bloom this August
How much sun does my August Moon flowers needs;
the more sun, the more golden the texture shine  on through

Here came the brides, marching down the aisles with theirs fathers
While, the theme of Goldenrod, Sunflower yellow, Saffron and Dandelion takes center stage,

August is a month that stands its own merit
an excellent month for bird migration, but not for illegal immigrants
August's birth flower is gladiolus, its comes with, calm, integrity, and infatuation

August is the wayward month no less.
Star gazing at its best

I heard of this poem that’s circling the universe
It’s known to be trending faster than the speed of light
With words of encouragements and positive feedback
each verse represents life, hope , truth and hope.

Its poetic use of words is organic, it unblock
release and rejuvenate your mind, body and spirit
That poem was the last thing you remember
Leaving you with a clutter-free peaceful mind

Who?  Why?  How?  What!



*Sunna Shelley Wong said, “At every moment in a life or in a poem, the formal choice is between answering to that which is alive, or attempting to enslave it.”


Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

From "Eating Poetry

I always know when I’m in love
My heart reacts to the sound of your name
Like pounding waves on a stormy day
Until I received the text you sent yesterday
My love for you fade so fast like excitement.

Stop badgering the witness!

Love is a mysterious thing poker face
Even though we tend to think of soul mates
as a symbiotic union, we have to be open-minded

Marriage is a business transaction
We've all had nights we can't remember...
or wish we could forget
as we all recalled it was the mindset
that triggered strong emotion into an explosion
that separate the thing called love.

It’s have been more than twenty odd years since
the Weeper's victims left over tears, that never faded.
the dead  never felt neither pain nor anger

The jury is still deliberating long and hard with miles
  to go on the public views, so once again
if the gloves don't fit you must acquit
  Stop badgering the remaining witnesses America
Love is a mysterious thing, poker face

How to love the summer rain
that cold tingly feeling, but to
feel your arms around me,
I do remember that

The warmth of your lips against mine
I didn’t expected that
The sound of your skype voice makes my heart race
I turned up the volume just to heard you say my name

Or was it to tune out the tip, tap, tip, tap of the rain
on the window pane
But to feel your arms around me
Oh! how it warm me like the morning sun
and tingles me like the cold summer rain.

So what the different between you and I?
I will always love you more than the
Summer rain:

When I woke up this morning,
And thought of the things that bothered me yesterday
I smiled, because the past was closed behind me
The excess garbage that was piled in my head is no longer there
A new day, a new dawn
Today, you must love me like you seldom do.

I woke up this morning
And thought of the things that bothered me yesterday
I smiled, because the past was closed behind me

A perfect summer day is when I am at the beach,
the sea and sun blend my caramel skin into an even tone
hyped up just watching the seagulls
diving straight into the water searching for food.
and all internet connection is shut down.


*Happiness is a day at the beach

I just got a called from my sister today.
She said, hello. “How are you doing?
I cleared my throat a bit and turned on my happy voice.
For a moment I imagined myself being in the executive seat
  turning my chair around slowly to greet my client.

I kept the conversation flowing, until my daughter’s dog came into the room. so I pretend he was my assistant coming to fix my coffee machine.
I had to let my mind take me to this place called calmness and most of the time this kind of diversion actually works for me

How I am, or who I think I am, my perfectly poised frame of mind at that given moment,
my wants , my island family needs, makes me want to write an unfriendly family poem

Without leaving any stone unturned.

a sharp razor
an outstretched arm
a sudden darkness



When she dumped you
It should have been on top of a bed of cow itch
Unfortunately, for us the seven-year itch continues



A Steep Hill
Your silver motorbike
Why not take it for a test run

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