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Egging not to be published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

Thorn amongst the weeds
As for what was sown among thorns.
It wasn’t the pumpkin vines: Little did I know:
I watched him daily watering the young plants;
Pulling the dried weeds, and
adding more manure soil to the garden
It took several weeks for me to see a garden full of beautiful
pumpkin leaves and flowers

Little did I know:  it was more than vines,
It came with those neuro-protective qualities,
and can also influence pleasure, memory, and thinking:
However, what’s is good for the goose
not necessary good for the gander.

So there I was a little Miss Goosey goosey gander,
Whither shall I wander? Upstairs and downstairs
Or hide behind the old shed, and indulging in high-caloric treats,
Not everyone who uses marijuana becomes addicted.
Nor everyone who writes a piece is a poet, but a good story teller.

A man left work one Friday afternoon. Being payday, instead of going home, he stayed out the entire weekend hunting with the boys and spent his entire paycheck. When he finally appeared at home, Sunday night, he was confronted by a very angry wife and was barraged for nearly two hours with a tirade befitting his actions.

Finally, his wife stopped the nagging and simply said to him, "How would you like it if you didn't see me for two or three days?"


To which he replied, "That would be fine with me."

Monday went by and he didn't see his wife. Tuesday and Wednesday came and went with the same results.

Thursday, the swelling went down just enough where he could see her a little out of the corner of his left eye.   (by Joke.Com)

I remember the constant tightness in my left side,
weakness in my fragile small frame,
those part of my life seem so dark and gloomy back then

He would every so often say to me: all you have left of you is
those black eyes peas’ eyes: are you going to make it to seven?
I recalled sitting on the big rock near the front porch in tears,
and watch as my friends in their starchy white shirts
and cut seams skirt headed to Clifton hill primary school
He saw the sad look on my face that morning
“we shall be leaving soon”, he said with a faint smile
I hated our long trips; my little feet would hang over the cross bar

Sometimes, I took turns walking the long stretch of road
exercising my weak legs, before I reach our destination.
My favorite breakfast before our trip was two soft boil eggs,
a slice of bread soak in bay leaves tea with chocolate powder:

I would be literally frozen with fear each time
I visit the doctor’s office: tears would flow;
I hate the weekly section, I held on to my father’s hand for dear life

I can still hear my cousin voice saying to me
You are so lucky not having to go to school
I envied her at that moment in time, I rather to be there in my
little corner of the room, playing with my silly putty or revising my time tables, instead there I was being poke with pine needles

I guess my childhood illness scared my mother to death
because she never tried to hide her feeling toward me
on the other hand, my father saw that distant looks in my eyes
Somehow, he knew I would made the transition to adulthood
Despite what others thought of my situation?

My morning therapy section consist
of building up strength very gradually to my left side:
a simple task like squeezing half of a tennis ball was so difficult for me
I tried as hard as I could each time: just to see that smile on my father’s face
While the doctor would say, one more time, one more time:
Concentration and skill was his aim, mine was to hurry up and go home
Going  back in time to observe ...the past helps

People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master…”  ―Elizabeth Gilbert

They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
Whatever!
Poets get their ideas from stories but my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon(
A poet is someone who looks for adventure and there I was
On the back porch enjoying the Island breeze
The surging wind made it way through the tall propaganda trees
The trees act as obstacles to wind, somehow those propaganda trees made the
portable air conditioners seem useless in comparison
A family of monkey kept up their appearances daily: jumping from branch to branches
Breaking off bunches of oval-shaped young’s apples, like a morning ritual
while keeping a close eye on me: I capture the moment as it presents itself
Meditating and thinking about making right choices in my life:
My Nana once told me that propaganda leaflets were good for brewing tea to lower one’s blood pressure.
How many times can someone test the cold, cold icy water to realize that it wasn’t suitable for bathing?
That was my was way of dealing with difficult seasonal romance
I am now getting to understand Amy Winehouse struggle with love, relationship and commitment
Going to rehab may mean having to deal with difficult people, however, my addition is far more complicated
Making right choices is my life mission.

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal. ~ Author Unknown
~~~~~~~~~~~
It rain heavily on the river in Kerala the next morning
I think it was a sign of things to come,
I remember our walks by the water

The warmth of the sun as it dampen your hair
this brought out your winsome boyish smile
as you playfully tossed a small pebble into the water
It became an instant Kodak moment for years to come:
We were so in love with nature that summer

I remember every moment how we held each other hands
Your loving touch, your kiss, your blue eyes
So trustworthy was I: Your lies were accumulating.
and my foolish heart was pumping harder and harder

Like a gallon of water in the desert heat: you made me fell in love with you
your love for me was like a battlefield and I were the unexpected enemy

I am still very fond of my captor, I smile from ear to ear- each time it rain heavily in Kerala
If you know your enemies and know yourself then you are on top of things:

Until death leaves a headache no one can heal: Quote:
And love no matter what: leaves lasting memories.

Flowers

A sinister flower among flowers

The best of the best

Up and down like frilly French knickers

She drop her petals

The bleeding heart vines,

So lovely o’ so divine

Silence is the night
so is counting sheep
Into the wean hours of the morning
my heart beats down the loneliness
When I am missing you?

The sparrows nestled under the branches
as the rain goes pita, pata, pita, pata
The cricket compose its last four-note tune to me
sorry my baby, that you can't sleep
The jackal, the wolf and the herdsman
Slept soundly

Nevertheless, here I am counting headless sheep
That’s life you always say,
My life my lonely life,

Without my poetry to keep me sane
My jukebox music to keep me cheerful and lively:
a glass of red wine  blended with the silence
So why am I missing you:
Because this is my way of tricking my heart into loving you more
~~~~~~~~~
“Missing you is flashes of our past and fantasies of our future
with the hard irony of the absence of our present as present occur.”
Quote:― Zhi

When you kiss me yesterday
You said to make it last until we meet again
That was seven years ago
  I watched as we exchange that kiss on VHS

Today it made me squirm
Your kiss was an act.
Without the green lighting of  a sequel




“Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.”

― Thomas A. Edison

Long distance relationships do not rely on physical love, long distance relationships are driven by the love that inspires your heart, mind and soul.”
― Anonymous

The last time I saw you
You brought Toffee
Purple daisy, red lilies
Stinky Missy and daffodils’
You put them in the vase,

I panic and said “who die?

We were stunned
and asked each other: Why now?
After all these years

Truce!
Love has not any pride
Ten years together
We never spoke
For goodness sake!
Can’t you see I am trying my best:
woman!
Stop you *******,
you had *** with my sister!

It varies from woman to woman, however
this girl will always hate giving birth

Maybe she wouldn’t even get married nor have ****** *******
More than forty years ago those childish thoughts kept circling in my mind
It didn’t take long for her to realize that *** and babies had something in common
Nana so often said to us girls with her Island slang
“What sweeten a goat mouth, would burn his tail end”
So girls you're worth it, don’t do it
The after effects, the after effects so complex and powerful

Nana woke us up in the wee hours of the morning
either with her singing, or the rattling of the *** and pans
I knew at some point I would come to hate being a nurse
I probably wouldn’t be able to show Compassion
If you aren’t compassionate enough: being a Nurse isn’t for you
I hated those homebirth early morning deliveries
Not enough light, no running water in the homes,
And the list goes on in late sixties on the Island

When I finally woke up that morning
I noticed Nana’s black bag on the table:
  Her lily white apron on the back of the chair
How she got her uniform to stay so white was a miracle to me
Granddad was outside fixing something under the old Wolseley bumper
Using an old flittering kerosene paraffin lamp to get the job done

Our country farm house sat the bottom of the hill
So Grandad needed the old Wolseley car to be in good condition
To pulled Porte hill and there I was about to be Nana’s Nursing Assistant

Was I up for the yelling, screaming, crying? At my age, I wasn’t,
  However, being defiant wasn’t appealing, Nana played on our emotions
  another one of her favorite island slangs
“Some children are to be ****** to death if they are defiant to their parents said Nana”
I was also too sleepy to sulk so I sat and quietly listen to her rambling on and on:

So I turned all my thoughts and energy to Genesis 3:16
To the woman he said, "I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you."

And that was my last words to Nana: No man shall have control over my body

  and that was my last trip with Nana on her delivering baby route.

Mother's Prayer" by Mary A. Loberg.

A Mother's Prayer
Help me dear Lord, as a mother, I pray
And bless these hands folded in prayer today;
May they be ever strong as they guide, as they teach,
Beings never too far for a child to reach.
May they never, with selfishness, try to dissuade,
Nor too quickly punish, nor too slowly aid.
May they point out the pleasures in laughter and song,
And may they show, wisely, the right from the wrong,
So that one day I'll know that I've helped all I can
To make her a woman, to make him a man.

My narrative Reportage
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
However, poets get their ideas from stories,
But my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon (:)
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man got on the train during rush hour
He passed right through the crowd and went on his way to the front car
and leaned against the moving  door

His sudden outburst of laughter made the passengers looked around
He was a sight for sore eyes this character,
but instead he became my instant story to tell
Or behold a Poet laureate mastered piece  
Dark soiled clothes he wore, his dingy T-shirt he use for a hanky:
With empty pocket hanging low, toothless he smile and kept on smiling
Slurred speech and some missing toes he became my focus point
What’s the use of having lot of money and not sharing?
Within those moments, I saw a decade of homelessness within his character
An ex-mariner, a husband, a degraded broken hearted soldier,
America a failing superpower country:
and most of all New York City a FAILING disaster
So I began my journey, either to compose a poetry piece or tell my eyewitness story into sections of poetry and fiction:

A Poet
The modern Poetess writes not because she wants to form words on a page, but because she loves the rhyming and verses that flows around in her head, getting the issue resolved for the next poetic generation to come:

Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

— Carl Sandburg, 'Poetry Considered.'

Multiples nightmares in one night
I tumble out of bed and stumble to the kitchen
and there it was an empty dish
a ***** fork, pie crumbs everywhere:
and flat-out on the couch,
your snoring mouth hanging slack;
my last piece of pie, my last piece of pie

In an Instant does more than just re-tell...
Freddy Krueger, theme sound played around in my head

Learn to appreciate the rainbow after cursing the rain. It’s just like loving again after experiencing the pain. Quote:

Compassion, compassion

  Poets, viewers, poems with injurious remarks
Why we do the things we do?

We were born to suffer together
a poet who asked his viewers to feel his pain
Throughout the lines, while tearing down the barriers
that separate and divide the poet and the readers

I bluntly said to that poet, one heart, and one love
If I was to say to that poet:  death is good for some people
They deserve to die a painful death,
Am I asking too much of the poet to show empathy:

Who gave him the right, to steer me through his attitude and guilt
Who gave him the right, too asked of me to join a sympathetic crusade?
right now I'm in the process of turning empathy off and say buzz off Man!

I was in love with a Poem:

The poet lured her victims into her wild kingdom of
Word, words, words, that
became the forest of ****** illusion
verses and verses that I never encounter;

In this kingdom I never notice the Sunrise before Sunset
The chanting before the protesters
Lightening before the winds
suddenly brought on by the rain,
That triggers the mighty storms:

The poetics effects of Similes, Hyperbole,
Understatement and personification devices got my attention
Pages after pages,
line of words that opened my eyes,
The mighty pen, a trending poem,
and there I was a loyal reader
With an amazing cup of hot coffee

The poem took me through
this much-modernized tale of
Alice’s rabbit hole adventures

Poems are to be read aloud,
loving making is meant to be private
So is mourning for the dead:
Some things are just meant to be...private

My love for the poem and
my admiration on its poetic views
Is more than human emotions,
than my stimuli of brain ***
I read the poem while sipping my coffee,

Birth, death, politics and religion
***, drugs and empty souls : human emotions,
This much-modernized free verse poetry can causes multiplies  *******

I will not love you

Again for another five years
Unless you make a commitment
My needs, your wants,
your passionless approach said only
one thing…you are still living in a fool paradise
What does any man need after the age of 60?
His retirement plan or his servility

The poets became the underwear sale men
They tried to sell their poems to the optimist
Whereas an Queen of African Pop singer exposes her body on stage
While belting out loud outrageous lyrics, because she was a crowd pleaser

Long poems, short poems
Old century poets, modern contemporary poets
We all have the right to sermonize your words into magical dust,
The contemporary poets stood on the balcony reciting,
Some onlookers’ claps and some Jarred

Today’s youth is being waste away faster than their elders
Chanting, raving ranting rapping lyrics from the balcony
making a mockery of the old century poetic poets
The poets became the underwear sale men
as they tried to sell their poems to the optimist

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it  hurdles through cyber space

I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,

Sidney   J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer

While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions

The secret of poetry

Self-discipline, self-hatred
is nothing but negative energy:
He seem hammered standing there on the podium
We all stood there quietly waiting,
shifting from one foot to another,
Suddenly, I recalled the Pied Piper of Hamelin
and there we was about to be
Lured into another poet’s madness
Persuasion and performances
What came next brought the crowd to order
He said *******, *******, and **** all of you.
I think I can still hear the record scratch sound effect
coming to a halt .... then he said
“Can silence actually drive you crazy?

A yellow belly cardinal launches itself at my window
Pecks away at the old window pane,
Should I chase the intruder away?
Or should I make him the subject of my next poem
He became my inspiration, and I his adversary
It slurred whistled phrases calm my inner soul

After a while the pecking annoys my daughter’ cat
So, here I am compromising myself and not caring
Because I am about to compose a piece:
About war and peace: title
Fluffy and the **** bird
I took out my camera and zoom in on its beady eyes,
and realize that it was as blind as a bat

Teeth-chattering, tail going from side to side,
doing the war dance this **** cat,
A blind cardinal with a sweet melody
what more can I asked for, but to watch and learn
from the intruder, the spoil feline and the observer,

A yellow belly cardinal launch at my window
Pecks away at the old window pane,
Should I chase the intruder away?
Or let my daughters’ cat razz it?

Multiples Personalities

I’ll defeat you, I said
I have study your every moves
You clustered my inside,
Gasping for air, I struggled
It snow, I wore a tee shirt
No boots though, I took the train
Trouble follows me
Outrageous! I scream

Split personalities, alters assembled
At court street, Nevins and Applebee
Each taking turns to maneuvers in the cold breeze

I fought with all my might,
then headed to the voodoo priest
Gibberish sounds he offered
However, not for too long
With some great effort
Conquering we fought the beast
Depression you lose; we won.

As you never bothered to return my Calls
  I shall wait outside your door and watch
as you build the gates of wrath higher and higher,

The taller your fences, the longer your lines posts should be
The sea refuses no river;
whereas most men and women turned on each other
your actions, their words, their inner thoughts
Cyberspace is now a battle space

Keep passwords secret and strong my friends
The famous Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote
The poet also resigns himself to his moods
I shall wait outside your door and watch:

I glanced around and watch the faces
Of the tired old souls lining the corridors
from sun up to sundown:

I adhere to the flashing lights,
their abusive behavior: triggered by a crave
a waiting room filled with junkies

Then my thought turned to Salvador Dali
with pondering thoughts
how would he paint such emotions
" Moments of madness"

when my life seem so empty”
and there’s no place to go
I knock on the rooms and curative their pain
Just to hear them say
“Thank you Nurse L.

From the warmth of her womb
to a wooden coffin
the cloth of her **** laid lifeless
Gone to soon, gone too soon

The pain was more than she could bare
after losing her only son
to the rough street of Chicago
where the kingpin rules
and the prosecutes parade
the dark corridors in dark suits

It's a mother worse nightmare,
when the law enforcements,
is train to **** and asked question after.

In fear of their lives,
however, two wrongs,
cannot equal to right.

Our judicial system defenses team toss
them back to the mean street
with only criminals intents on their minds
another careless proceeding gone wrong.

so, here I am
back to the crime scene

A Stranger amongst strangers
when the poet is a stranger
he become a danger to the future
You were here; I was there

Healing the world with prayers and lyrics
Just another nightmare
As the world shun another poet
The poets disappear another forgotten poem

Within each new poet there is a new idea
the poesy, the artistry, blend within hidden words
Fade poems curl like a half moon.
Fading, fading, gone too soon

Even in her late forty it could happen
the joy of her life, the blessing she have been waiting for
She woke up with hope,
the world seem much different
the soft lullabies sweetened her soul:

Dreft is as gentle as a summer breeze,
circle the misty air
even this late her beauty shines,
yesterday tears dry on their own
Keisha breastfeed her baby…

Whenever, February comes around
and if I am still here breathing ,
I must shed a tear
Whenever the coldest month
of the year gets to me
I flashback to 1959 and
the bullock’s heart tree:

My vivid memories might seem a bit strange,
But according to sources, it’s where my Nana
buried my navel string: under the old bullock’s heart tree

The bullock’s heart trees shall forever lived on
So are my memories of that secret place
the sparrows and the blackbirds shall
  forever feast upon the ripened fruits it produces

The broad leaves shall shelter the wild doves,
from the tropical sun and rain,
However, how strange my memories might seems
whenever, February arrives and I am still
breathing, I must shed a tear.
because, I am forever blessed ..Happy birthday to me.

The colors of the seasons reflect your true inner beauty.
Winter:  gleaming and glistening the white winter themes

Summer: The songs of the birds in Nana’s sycamore trees,
a friendly reminders of your tone of voice

Spring and fall: blends harmoniously together
Like our cultures, as we rise above

All the friction and roughness of discrimination
Throughout the years on earth

If my poem arouses you then I know
I am doing something good
I am the poet,
the narrator of this poem
I write what I feel,
I say what I like
Somehow, I captivate my audience
Who I am, and who you think I am
or what you think of me.
Have no bearings  
on this poet's work

Therefore, I am who I am,
without the smearing
I am from this Century
where I am free from *******,
my words spread in a nanosecond,
across the internet,
however, my lip are sealed
my poetic spirit guides me:
until it’s time to orchestra
an forgettable vogon list of  poems
with my unique vernacular

I can take you the mountain top and
Make you believe it’s easy to climb
I can make you reach for the star,
Knowing that it’s unreachable by far

Life has a way of making you fall on your behind
The language I use, it far too complicated
Because I celebrates life with poetry
As well as I loathes it

So what’s your question?
I probably knows the answer

Because I had loved you before I was thirteen
Because I had loved you throughout my teen
You stole my virginity: you deflowered me
Surely, I have composed and quieted my soul;
Now, I am like a baby about to be weaned

Because I have loved you so much
Because love can make us do and say crazy things.
Now it’s  impossible to love another.
Because I am the dark angel with heart shaped wings

Come when my heart is full of grief
Because love is confusing, love is a thief
Look into my eyes, my darling

Let us sail that ocean of love that never divides us
We would never, say never because my
beauty isn't all it appears to be,
Look into my eyes, and tell me what you see
It’s the warmth of the hearts,
That ignites the tender spark
So the fire of passionate love may start

Words of love come so easily to you.
However, for us love do not come at all
Love isn't what love songs tell us it is.
It’s not the magical music video, where
boys meet girl and fall deeply in love:

Where heart-shaped balloon arch, decorated the
fire place, as they make love on the white furry
rug in front of that big flaming fireplace:

The heart knows what it wants, and the heart want
a connection between the two hearts
Yours and mine
Happy
Valentine’s Day

I envision light coming into my body
Making me hotter, and wetter than every before
each time we make love:  I can see you
Somehow, I can’t feel you.
Who know one size does not fit all.

A map of love:

I take metro link to work everyday
To witness the short journey of the white death
You could see it on their faces , the look of the dark
  mask of Magnanimity, the uneven tones,

The beeping sounds of the feeding tubes,
attachments so faulty, so unethical which
does more harm than good
Where doctors in Denim jeans and white labs coats, says
“There is nothing else we can do"

When I visualize for the joy:  its triggers happier moments
My family outings, the smiles, the laughter and the togetherness
And most of all my Vegas slots game machines
Whatever, it takes for me to make it through the days.
These memories I will always cherish them

I truly missed my younger days,
I want my daughters to experience the joy of life
Before settling for this kind of modern map of love,
at one point in your life you were the life of the party.
Death is the end of all men




,

When winter is over
Give praises,
With a goodbye kiss
Kissing the wintry weather goodbye

For years I dreamt that God would
find me the perfect man to grow old with
during the coldest part of winter,
a fling for the summer

An educator for spring and fall
Instead he send  Mr. Winter,
he was so cold and bitter
Mr.Summer, he was too hot to trot

Mr. Spring, the man was so unpredictable and moody,
and for the mysterious Mr. Fall
he keeps falling instead of rising.
So this year, I am once again, another lady who sing the blues
My Billie Holiday kind of sweet bitter blues…
is good-byes

Dark and lovely as the African night sky
with as many gifts as there are stars on high.
I am the light that shines in darkness

The lion and the king, the ostrich and the
Silkworms to me are the spirit of life,
As mere mortal men make love tonight
I am composing the perfect poem
with one wicked indulgent on my mind
to make memories that will last forever,
Please surround me with a sphere of
powerful, brilliant white light

When winter is over I will
Give praises to jah
Before i forget, the moaning winds,
the naked branches on the trees
Long hours, crazy commutes
I beg you to give praises with a poem
for little favors with poetry
Let us forget the negativity and negative critters

Dark and lovely as the African night sky
With many gifts as there are stars on high

Tonight, I shall shine,
I am the dark temptress,
driven by winter madness
.