While, I pondered my age in calculator.
It seem likes I have block out my actual age after I reach 40
I have forgotten that I was over fifty,
My brother asked me “how old I was in calculator
I have never given it any thoughts
until that moment about my birthday
I pondered for a moment,
and said I think I am 55

He boldly said, that a lie, you are older than I am..
I have never given it any thoughts
until that moment about my birthdays
Unless it was too filled out my physical forms
or my Income Tax Returns submits

I so often hear them say, age is just a number;
However, my favorite number is 1;
It’s the beginning of everything

Poetry writing
Who really appreciated this art?
A rich man or a poor’s man theme
Is poetry writing for everyone?
Poetry is a world itself
To appreciate this art,
One’s mind must be at ease,
To see, to feel, and not to rely on spoken words
That might seem nonsensical to some
However, perfect to others

Unlike a poetic poor man graffiti and a rich man artifacts
Its labels as a rich man war and a poor man’s fight
Unlike the beauty in a Michael Angelo
Masterpiece of Art Pieta
Or Vincent van Gogh Paintings Water lily
The poor man display his graffiti
No admission, no fee
Priceless art crimes or
The best of a simple criminal mind

High art or low art
Eyes of a rich man
Or the eyes of a fool
In the world we knew

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.

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

Today they lowered old Mary down,
Her voice once loud was deadly silenced
Her mocking tongue made no sound.
Silence is a noun, silence is a noun

She have never shown love old mother Mary
Only pain and jeer and lots of misery
I don’t remember any candies any pastries
I pray for Mary, I pray for Mary

I saw a dozen blue birds flying south
After they lowered old Mary down
Be yond the shadow of a doubt
The talk around town, they lowered her down

The horse-drawn carriages trot past my Ferrari
I stood there like a frighten mouse
Leaning against my house
My eyes were teary, my eyes were teary


..








..

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

To be teased, to be pleasing, to be smiling, or yet to cry
To take notice, after an ecstasy of rage
It understands you, it understands me: Our hearts
Breakfast for two in the ****

Muscles tighten without the pain,
hearing the wishes of our inner self
Pitter, patter on the window pane
to be teased, to be pleasing, to be smiling, or yet to cry
fulfillment, enjoyment, pleasurable moments
Breakfast for two in the ****,
What I wouldn’t give for such a dream

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

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

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




,

Narrative Reportage for 8/2/2018

Home is the word we love to hear:
The dreams are never over,
They are always a break through: after the tears:
An x is lodge in our heads was it the,
rock, a tree, or the hidden board,
Time welt serve: time to cash in
Time uproot the rocks
that tree and those loose boards
would this be a happy ending?

You had choose the life of crime
The crime didn’t nail itself
Every day a black man
Under the age of twenty
Pulls the trigger, they turned off the light
He longs to return to his mother womb:
I see the love of their mothers
While she holds their hands at age three
at age twenty three I see the replacement :
the chrome bracelets: the resentment
Neflex the new society wants us to believe that orange is the new black:
“Our ancestors have invented, we can at least innovate.”
― Amit Kalantri

**“Oh Child
Look within
Find your ForeMothers
Find them
Find them”
― Malebo Sephodi

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.

My pocket poems
Isn’t worth much dowry
However, it’s all mine
Like nickel and dimes
Silver, or gold.
Tell out, my soul, to the world

Death only uses violence,

An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

Standing naked in front of a mirror of truth
Did you gasp for a moment?
Or did you grasp the robe tightly by the string?
Our mirror the body shaming objects
Our brain Positive or negative to the truth:

As we stand in the front of the mirror of truth:
Our eyes become terrible liars
Fat stigma is spreading around the world: everyone is our mirrors
body shaming us into believing that skinnier is healthier:

The three rolls at the side of your body a reminder that those
Thanksgiving mini apple pies was a **** lie too,
Everything in Moderation is only  sweet poetic words

**Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.”
― Anne Sexton

Someone is writing a poem in the dark
Just to escape from the light of things
Nothing can escape from a black hole,
Creating fewer images in one’s mind,
I wonder if they can see a streak of light
Fighting its way through darkness

I can see them falling deeper and deeper
Falling, falling, but not enough to fill the void
A gun, a razor blade, a handful of narcotic, now it’s
the video cameras, an unusual collectible to assist with the pain
Keys, bolts and iron bars, hopelessly romantic
and deeply subversive: Madness takes center stage.



P>S
So when you find yourself locked onto an unpleasant train of thought, heading for the places in your past where the screaming is unbearable, remember there's always madness. Madness is the emergency exit.”
― Alan Moore, Batman: The Killing Joke

My soul has been ****** dry,
due to the rising body temperature,
This drove me to speak in tongues

I close my eyes and I drift deep into a bed of jelly
as my heart called out your name,
My body became lifeless
and we become one with our feelings.

A visible spirit
She came to me and
Asked for my name
I asked her why:

Does she need my name for?
She said that I yelled at her
And if I do it once again

I would see the visible spirit of her
I have come across so many spirits,
On my job, and none could match
My mines: I stood my cool,

And I vouch never to encounter her
I would walk through the valley
Of the shadow, of death, and I would
Fear no threats, not for the likes of her,
I know her, I once was her, but
Not as stupid as her, wraith

I will not let it rest, I whisper
Under my breath, another one
On my radar, another close called
My way of doing things:

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:

She had just finish smoking the ****,
Then she decided to write a poem about smoking the joint
Or was it before she wrote the poem, or after she smoke the ****
Was the poem triggered by the ****, or did the **** triggered a write?
Does it matter now, after she rolled the **** into written words and smoke her ideas.
  

Al Cash once wrote that
*My soul absorbs you, my mind inhales your essence, and you confirm my life.” *
She usually took an aspirin after a terrible headache
But thinking out loud now she should have taken the aspirin before the headache
Or before she smoke the ****, that lead to the write
That eventually brought about the poem, which causes a migraine
Now her body reacts to the Drunken Sailor Syndrome
So once again never swallow a spider to **** a fly: just purge.

Never write a poem while smoking the ****,
Poetry is life natural high, an untimely wave that never
Cease to amaze us.

Even in our dreams, but nowhere else,
imagine that my love

We seem to have landed on cloud nine:
Somehow we awoke in goose down feathers
Our sweaty bodies were drape
with 1000 thread Egyptian cotton sheet
Our ******* wasn’t unique,
our passion came off like a dangerous religion
Sneaky, sneaky, but always ostentatious to the facts like
Ripley's Believe It or Not

A New beginning, a new chapter a new natural high
What is love? We must never mistake it for ****** favors
*** we see it, we hear about it we discuss it behind closed doors
Give us your blessing, blessed our puppy love
Moreover please forgive or transgression.
A New beginning, a new chapter...a natural high
~~~

God gave them over to degrading passions; for their women
exchanged for the natural function for that which is unnatural, and
in the same way also the men abandoned the natural function
of the woman and burned in their desire toward one another
men with  men committing indecent acts and receiving in their own
persons the due penalty of their  error. (Roman 1:26  


Our summer evening settle down
many of us logged on to the internet
Critiquers or terrifying ticking time bombs
They surf and browses around.

Clicking sounds;  fingers moving slowly
Anything is possible in today's world
Overly educated fools smudges the earth
Men with men; women with women
it's  sad world  for most of us
so we chat with total strangers

Controlled by gentle touch
Alone in the comfort of our homes
So many old and lonely cantankerous poets
Or mental deranged strangers connects

such old souls stretches across the globe
to be disrespectful toward each other
is this the new  circle of social creatures?
could it be they emotion, compassion
or simply a humanity deal?

They are living secret lifes, with make believe wives
The miraculous things we say to each other
Gutless lonely souls, nervous in plain view
can never function in the real world
A Fish Tank without  water


Do we really know them?
I know them but only on the internet(:)

I had to let go the sweetest love, and let it rotates again
Because the journey to love is a journey to one’s self,
Your highest, most sacred and loving self(quote)

While my broad rim hat were shielding the sun from my face
Who was shielding the hearts of sin?
Your smile, my laughter, your presence and your calm demeanor
Somehow the calmness worries me,

But, I must do bear in mind that some roses bloom independently
and some struggles through the concrete to survive
this morning I am struggling with the thoughts of emptying my suitcase
Too many memories, too many smiles and most of them
Came from, you, I never wanted my vacation to end
But once again the journey to love is a journey to one’s self

Where do we stand, after the darkest hour’s commute
and the fall season arrives in my part of the world
without warning?

The black birds will stop singing by midsummer,
and our love will fade from view, low blow , low blow
to our  lonely hearts,
I am not too big to sit here and cry....
another step back  from happiness once more.

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
.

I looked in the mirror and saw my mother face, I remember her stories, her poems, that was so long ago, my mother kind of loyalty was only for her ancestral spirits, I am so tired of trying, so tired of the rules, the injustice that I face daily in the work-place:  my job titles has become the one size fits all division, no organization, no time frame, knowingly there’s no such thing as a one-size-fits-all approach.  Everybody wants to be the boss; a role that isn’t right for everyone, it’s a huge responsible especially if they can’t lead the team to victory: child play on display, I referred to the situation, one big obstinate headache, day after day after day. If I could overlook the injustice, and freeze my thoughts; if I could only,
If I could only fly

The memory of you comes in different shades of gray
Like the Caribbean Sea breeze that stylized your hair
Saturated stain on my pink satin sheets
That was the moment when we knew that
Those two souls could never be discreet

Uncertainties heavily laden on my heart,
It’s a strange and confusing time to depart
In you her DNA float like acid rain:
fogging your brain
years of turmoil and silent torment:

Here I am lamenting with you:
You recalled that day when your light turned blue
You said that it felt like love and hate moving toward the kiss of death
The moment of truth landed like a erupt volcano on your desk

A God-fearing man, a gentle soul
Years of searching for motherly love, so it was told
Only to find Low self-esteem and low-grade fatigue
Trust equal lust: led to a fraud for a wife.

You hide your sorrow in your smile,
******* is nothing but a slow dying disease

Mother of your child, a son whom you once adore
They both put locks on the front door.
Then there is that woman from his past,
Oh, how she saves him from the edge of madness:  

Court full of lawyers, a judge on the bench
Fire and brimstones, infinite punishment for finite sins
The sun might shine but the camera will not flash
Because of a daunted woman,
Whose feuds are too hot to defuse?

Oh, the mad woman of sea view
She made her bed, now she must lie on it
Brick stones are stronger that old boards
From now on the shower heads will turn cold, before the sun goes down
The mist off the ocean should stink like acid rain
Abomination on the lips of lying wife:

One day shall easily crack: when the
Truth shall reveal itself

The night was made for loving
But the days are said to be
The death of a poet’s eye before,
He says what has to be said.

There’s no heat in the city,
Only depression and misery
All around town, no garbage collection,
Only rental units with
high vacancy rates seems counterintuitive,

The colours of the disposable bags
Said, sacks and waste, bed bugs, and roaches,
So take your landlord to court and come out on top
Said the poet, before death trap us

As I drove around the city, my heart is oppressed with
anguish to the very point of death that surround us.
That awful display on every city block.

Homeless men and women urinate, defecate,
Behind, the doors and alleys,
we need a wind of change today
the night not so much matter

However, it’s the day after everything comes to light,
Another lost soul, another day to push forward
Is it illegal to be homeless, when trying to try to stay alive?
The Devil will try to stop anything good!

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

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.

The littlest things we dream about, that was so dear
Can be detrimental, because of modern technology
The lack of touch, the loss of sound, gone forever:

If we must die this year let it not be of neglected


Puffing and gagging for air,

While the virus ripped through our bodies

Because someone didn't adhere by the rules


If we must die, let it be of natural causes,

So that our names wouldn’t be another

count on the wall of the unfortunate  

Oh skullduggery, take the vaccine:



If I had loved them sooner, I would have missed them

They never love me truly, so I don’t remember they kisses

The touch I would have treasure, they smile I would have remembered,

It cost too much to remember,  

and too little to trigger the love in my heart



To think of them free, because of death

You think that my coldness, was my only way of loving them

But my warm hands were a reminder, that I am alive,

You never saw my face, when you were dying,

I know that they wish them did,

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
My version of life ... how I see it.
To everything there is a season,
And a time to dance a time to sing
A time to go the carnival, a time to wave your flag
a time to go to church, a time to kneel down and pray
A time to walked, a time to go jogging through the woods
a time to buy airline ticket, a time to fly away
a time to cast your vote, a time to revoked your vote
a time to make love, a time to relax and take it easy
a time to dream big, a time to follow up on those plans
A time to trend, in a time of uncertainty
a time to buckle down and a time free up yourself
A time for demonstrating, a time to showed leadership
a time to be happy, a time to be sad,
A time to pull the trigger, a time to seize fire
A time for karma, a time for a relaxing and calm night

We might have made love
In the bed of roses: A bed of fragrant flowers 
As we consummate the joy of true love: at age sixty

where the pursuit of pleasure: is a taboo subject
where the Bailey Irish Cream warms our soft lips:

We might have reversed the aging process, because
our bodies become fascinating and seductive: coherent kingdom

We might have rattled the monkey cage: like epic lovers growing old
With one thing on our minds: we follow our hearts