The morning is cold, the sun is shining
my curtains stuck to the window frame
A blind man walks alone in the cold on a New York street
It seems as uneasy,
as the scattered flurries become breezy.

The cars honk for no reason:
A little Morning fog, then blustery winds whistles
Like the Sea Island hurricane, outside my window pane
  blind men walk alone in the cold on a New York street

I saw a squirrel jumped on top of the neighbor’s fence:
Running along the top, in search of its hidden den
What a lovely view from my second floor window
Its morning the sun is shining, cold breeze came
down from the mountains so cold
While the earth is constantly slowing down

Participating businesses pulled out all
the stops to attract passersby  around this town
A blind man walks alone in the cold on a New York street.
running errands

The Voice of reason

Forty years ago, and just a six years ago
When I gave the appreciation hug
I never knew,
The hug meant so much more
Affection beyond words

In the light of things
Without thinking of it, it was my
Impetuous behavior that stunned others

My friend wife never forgave him
for reaching out to me:
The more he yelled out my name
The tighter she held on to his leash
I smiled and wave at humiliation
At its worst:
He should have change course long ago,
and said Amen:

Blind in one eye, plenty of scar on his hand,
Rising veins of frustration for this dying man
Signs of a Battery spouse-syndrome
My heart bleeds for my weak friend
: To be continued...................

The same ones who's afraid of
Of the black man is also afraid of poetry
And why are they afraid of poetry?

One might say because of the sound.
They are afraid of the black race,
Who God has blessed let no man curse
One might wonder why: Oh my God, Why?
I definitely think it because of the sounds.
The whispering sound of the wind,
the sound of tortures soul being dragged off into the night
chain, being dragged, video cameras flashing and recording ,

The unsettled soul of their ancestors wicked deals haunts them daily.
The loud bewitching sound of the African drums that echo in their mind,
The tainted blood of the guilty flows in their veins,

However, when would it stop?
When would their accepted that
Guilt, shame and embarrassment are universal emotions
that are among the most painful of human experiences one could ever endure

That guilt travel thought-out history, the black race will rise again
Another man down!
Another input for the history books.
Another march on Washington DC
Certain sounds scares us............

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


..








..

Beyond the bustling cities I’ve witnessed, From New York to Chicago, Boston, and Washington, Lies a stark reality of homelessness, Where hope seems elusive.
Yesterday, I engaged in conversation with a relative, As she walked through a parking lot, intent on reaching her car. A homeless man halted her progress, His plea for a dollar met with her momentary inability to provide.
Undeterred, he accepted her response with grace, His eyes lingering on her features, admiration in his words: “Lady, you look so fine. If I weren’t homeless, I’d take you out to dinner.”
Curious, she inquired, “Where would you take me?” His proud reply echoed through the air: “Red Lobster!”
Her smile persisted as she continued toward her car, Reflecting on his unexpected compliment. Rummaging through her car’s compartments, she found a dollar, Returning to the spot where the homeless man stood.
She handed him the bill, a small gesture of kindness. And what did we learn from this sweet exchange? Flattery, delivered with kindness, can soften even the hardest hearts. As citizens, we strive to help one another, Offering what we can, even if it’s just a few dollars.
My poems, my solace, my counsel to the world: Oh, my God, where are You? In times of need, I trust that eventually, You will take the wheel.

Things I never knew I’d come to love
Sinking into this old leather chair, I never imagined I’d cherish it so much. Retirement’s first year has gifted me with time—time to sit, to think, to watch. Mediocre movies, once dismissed, now captivate me. Nigerian films, with their unique culture, have taught me so much. Though, I still can’t grasp the slaps and the “Are you mad?” lines. Some writers could do better, and the disrespect towards women is unbiblical.
I never knew I’d love my own company. Dining out no longer appeals like it used to. Making videos of my daily life, once a private affair, now feels like sharing a piece of my soul. What is privacy, if not isolation? I was meant to share my inner thoughts, my poems, my art with the world.
Life has no balance, they say, but to stay sane, we must find it. Helping others brings a joy I never knew. It’s a hope that they, too, might help someone someday. Some days, I feel complete, then fall back into uncertainty. I try to remember the color of silence—silence I never knew was a color.

Make love not war America.

Another Sabbath day, another sinful neighbor and her husband
Trying to keep it holy: over there at number 1 Sea view Road
For so many years those two folks kept on trying:
faith works with patience

He kept on asking this the same old question
wasn't it time for me to make some changes in my life
When are you going to church"?

Mandela frequently deflected accolades by saying,
“I’m no saint—that is, unless you think a saint is a sinner who keeps on trying. “Quote

While the sounds of the siren, startles the restless babies
A full Breakfast consists of fried eggs and crackers
A pitcher filled with coffee……and this poem
Anxiously waits to submit…

The sounds of the sirens, breakfast consist of eggs and dry *******
Dangerous heat wave is reported in this part of the country
The loud music of the selfish neighbor, boom box
It’s time for carnival. It’s time for the carnival.
And added plus to the sound of the loud siren
Wakes us up in the morning to NYPD  helicopter circling

Its Brooklyn, it’s the ghetto,
Its Ludacris, it is selfish, it's the Sabbath

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:

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

I had been on my way to work as usual
I am the seven to three shift
A shift where you see the modern slaves masters
The visionary of the Donald J Trump’s disasters

I saw a title of a poem today,
"The Bullet Was a Girl".
Now my title might be
"The Bullets Are The Russian
that led to  Obamacare assassin
That led to the suspects Russian interferences of
Human rights abuses:
The Russian might build the wall
Now that would be a vision no one saw coming,

This ***** ******:

They say that beauty is in the eyes of the
Beholder, so does this ***** have eyes?
the power of evil and bad,

Today we see what it can do
Many a nation have gone to war,
Because of this ugly beauty,
many family units has been tread apart
Because of its evil doings,

The seven hundred wives of
King Solomon and his three
Hundred concubines was
a great example of what
the ugly beauty can do:

Infidelity is on the rise,
so many lies: so many shortcoming,
Lucy ****** is an embarrassing subject
why men lie and killed for it?

this remarkable commodity: with
****** is like a Van Gogh painting,
It gets lot of attention: the baseline dimensions
is still a mystery: A weapon so powerful

It can break a man down to his lowest
It has a language of its own.
silly words like sup, sup, sup.
the same sound effects of a cold beer going down
the gullets: the smoother, the  esophagus: pleasers

The ****** and a beer have so much in common
they both get their men all the time,
a smooth transportation, in addition, the lamentation,

****** you are surely blissful:
Men incredible dreams
who wouldn’t want to own the team?
No matter how destructive or fulfilling:

* Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent,
more perfect than all that a man can invent.”
― Roman Payne* Quote

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

I used to wake up with a particular feeling
On Sunday mornings, when I was just a lassie
Nothing could have been more appeasing to the nose
Then a leg of roast pork baking in the oven
Or even a bake chicken or lamb stew
On the top burner, while my mother would sang out of tune
in the kitchen, as she prepared the breakfast, and Sunday dinner
While putting together a Sunday feasts

As for my father, nothing seems of important
Than fixing the old engine or washing down his old Woosley car,
As for me, it was removing those tight braids, or laundry with my wash pan
and scrub board, my mother would be busy in the kitchen,
But somehow, she can tell when we weren’t doing the laundry correct
Even down to our pair of white socks,
And to think latterly of its ****!  back then.
I meant to big up some old dudes from my village
The ones who had left a lasting impression on me throughout
the years, those characters, those lively old men
My father, the sharecropper, ******* or gun smoke)

Dan Dan aka (Daniel Mrs. Sealy husband) I referred to him as
Norbert the man who encourage his wife to gain weigh MS Evelyn  
His way of thinking, he loves women who had meat on the bones?
Old man Sealy the village butcher,  the slaider
nobody could have slain a pig like he uses too,
Odaly Roach, the biggest eyes in a man eyes  
But he would always, give me a penny or two to buy my candies
I remember, his friendly words, of future endeavors (R.I.P) my mentor
Pap_pee, my friend father, he would give me one of his ripe avocados the most tastiest fruit of them all
With a smile, I would thank him, (may he also rest in peace)
It's time to put the aside the old resentments; lies,
Some of them were good old grumpy old men
And some of them were bad *** characters,
While looking back, most of them were BLP Political men
However, no one could have never left a lasting  
Impression that Buddy Sealy the man with the black felt hat
The old man with a bicycle who enjoy his life to the end.

Sit and be silent to be heard no more,
Perhaps you heard those words somewhere
Sometimes in one's life growing up,
Why people think it their duty to silence
another person not to speak openly and freely,

A spoken word or sound is meant to be heard
Like the loud ring tone of a cell phone  
And indication, someone is calling,
Somebody need to be heard:

My grandparents, and parent believe  
In silencing this poetess when I was a child
At a point where my voice stays inside,
Then step two where, everybody that knew me  
Kept asking why I was so shy:
Why was I afraid to speak to my elders?
Me being shy became social anxiety for some
As for my friends I spoke with confident, like a true trooper,
Grown folks intimidate the hell out of me,
Why? Because of commanding words
Sit and be silent to be heard no more.

As an adult, I have a hard time taking orders
From others, or being talk down too,
Maybe that's why I enjoy writing so much
Only I can hear my voice when I compose
Until I allowed my reading to take a peep
At my work, my Island tongue,
My American frustration on worldly views
I sat for too long, I frown for too long,
I bite down on my tongue for too long,
But I concocted a plan, on how to
Get back my silencers, and revenge them
With my spoken words of silence, without being seen

"Great is language, it is the mightiest of sciences
It is the fulness and color and form and diversity of the earth and of men and women and of all qualities and processes.
It is greater than wealth, it is greater than buildings, or ships or religious or painting or music. -----Walt Whitman.. "

There is tropical warmth and listless life

In the city this morning of July 9th 2020
The poet finding her hidden voice
While searching for the correct words,
Just to coincide with the invisible
birds with the sweetest tunes,
on church street and  Tennis road

The stillest trees with the airborne disease
Presses on despite its odds choice
Yet, they say my poems isn’t up to parody

A poet must stay in her lane,
A painter must control each and every stroke,
An essential worker must embrace the moments
Of respect, because it’s not going to last

As well as the stillest trees,
with the airborne disease
must presses on despite its odd choice?

I think the citizens of this country
should stop focusing
On what Mr. Trump says or do.
They should reminisce on why
They elected him in the first place

My mixing bowl did not get on top the tallest shelves
By itself:**
Someone place it there, and somebody have to take it down

There is tropical warmth and listless life
Around most country today,
And yes, there is going to be more missing children,
As we move forward dealing, with crisis like this
Pandemic, politic and riots:

Because when we don’t paid the Pied Pipers
Our livelihood and our children will vanish:

The thousands of grey hair circle my hairline
matching the wrinkle lines on my aging face
They came with pain and hardships,
and not enough love to go around;

Suddenly, an expressive emoji of my younger face
came to surface, happy yet sad, yet no crack
but this all came about when time had relapse :
so many heart-break, so many mistakes,

Like humpty the wall breaker, or was it the dream crasher?
Time has treated me like a step child.

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

To all my followers
This year let my words nurse you
Back to life,
Come hold the end of my pen
Let’s us take this poetic journey together
Words without end: Amen



*Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass it's about
learning to dance in the rain

Today, I felt like if I was were searching for myself
I felt like I was on a crowded boat floating
And this one passenger who kept getting
Up and making the boat leans to one side

I could hear the voices of terrified passengers yelling at him
To sit down, before he makes the boat collapse or even
Him falling overboard: the logic behind this is that some

People want money, but do not want to work hard
For it….they want water, but do not want to fetch it
They want fire, but do not want to chop the kindle
Their wish is to go to heaven, but afraid to die

Why am I surrounded by so many pea-brains?
Why do I feel like I can do better by myself?
I think that it is time for me to jump overboard
And swim back to the mainland

Today I feel a furious intensity

About two years, ago

Family members would always love to share

The news about the passing of someone

Either from the village, or someone, I once knew

I remember during our conversations; I would tense up

And asked of them not to called and give me bad news



Death is a daily reminder,

right up there on our calendars



When I was away, my neighbor  

Call and told me, that someone was

Outside my door, all dress in black banging on my door



Right away my thoughts were

The Angel of Death, looking for me...

During these pandemics' day, he is all over the place

Like an Amazon Prime van, outnumbered by UPS trucks,

While the world is being shut down,

Some of the people, refused to give a rat ***

They still refusing the vaccines

Protecting themselves, or worried about this thing call death



Death  will take us all, poets always write about it

As they convey things that other forms of expression can’t. Quote:

A man with outward courage dares to die; a man with inner courage dares to live. Lao Tzu

My motto for today is live each day as if it's your last.

I will never forget our date
Under the cool evening sun that led
to a wonderful enchanting night
Nerve pain and sweaty palms
We smile throughout the whole ordeal like champs

The camera capture a moment of truth near the fountain
while the sound of the water whispered our names
not Romeo or Juliet but Rommel and Annie

  Tense moments, unanswered questions throughout the meal
somehow our smiles, determine the rhythm
Of our heart beats, but our strong faith saves us
From naughty thoughts, enough to create a memorable kiss
We never set out to want each other like wild cats
Little did we realize we had the key to each other heart?

True love is so rare; I am still searching for it.
Even though lovely things like us had to
endure years of unhappiness
we must bear in mind that Jesus he too also
Endure one side to get to the other

All signs were there, yet we failed to see them

Today we are playing it safe and crossing only one signal,
Love hurts when we settle for less than the best.
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity:
I am always searching for ways to add to the love without the hurt.

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

To him who is in love with me
You speak a language that I don’t speak
A language; for the fool who believe

You have a voice of gladness and the smile of insults
In my past, I wasn’t good enough then
And I am not good enough now,
with that being said a hidden beauty would blossom at
the right time:

Coming from your wildest fantasy: you came off
Like one of my most famous nursery rhymes
The pied piper of Hamelin, the joker the sweet talker
Sad images, broken promises, those days have been gone,
Of our fondest memories there were none,

Many a night in the breathless darkness,
in that small wooden house on top of the hill
I still remember that still voice, which had numbed me
I had lost all faith in the human race:
To link my past with the future, would be a **** up illusion:

Like cycling backward up a mole hill with a loaded gun
Forgotten languages need no symbol: any refills

nope!

About him who think he love me,
You speak a language what I am not so familiar with:

Earth to earth, Oh ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
How strange, how familiar, human connection is untrusted
when we awake, each passing day, knowingly that by sunset
Those words would be read out loud
Over an innocent, black brother’s grave site tonight
Too many tears, too many mishaps
who scattered those bullet caps,

Too, many innocent lives have been taken
By the hand of the nervous police,
Even The birds keep gliding in the air shows solidarity
In respect of the dead:
Some human wish they were like them they said.
A charge is one thing. A conviction is another
Black lives does matter.
Who pulled the trigger, which got the last laugh?
The innocent or the victims

More weeks of demonstration,
the fight for the white house continues with words not arms
Blood in the Inner City Streets, subways
and shopping malls, bias and frustration, sound the alarms

Who pulled the trigger, which got the last laugh?
The guns, or the victims,

My poetics tone this morning.
voice your opinion

These days I am loving TikTok more
Then writing my poems, ouch!
My body is not like meat,
Ready to be eaten, without the fear
Of contamination, harsh words indeed
My body my temple, my Floribbean honeydew
But tonight, my room seems crowded
The side chicks, the **'s and there you are.....
John crow I should indeed say:
My poems are messages from me to myself,
I am calmer tonight more than any ocean
The Pacific Ocean have nothing on me,
Even though it’s the most dangerous than any other ocean:
Writing about one's pain can bring out the best in my work
Pain forces you to go on a journey of self-discovery (quote)
I forget my true self when I am in love: whom am I really?
I am a ***** with a switch,
A past that was never attractive, only my illusions.
I thought that you were my king of my castle
Tomorrow I shall be sober, from the wine
I didn’t drink, then I will make some adult decision.

To take him at his words
or to walk out of his life
after all, I promise to love honor and obey
he, promised to love, honor and cherish
to watch him lying there on the worn out couch
left hand on the remote, and right hand down his crotch
When, I flash to wedding day rewind
I knew, I had lost my ******* mind.
My God, two-hundred-dollars bottle of wine

Resilience Unveiled”

To the woman who weeps upon betrayal’s blade, Her heart’s fragile wings, in tempests swayed. Yet within pain’s chisels, a metamorphosis blooms, Mating intelligence refined, wisdom consumes.

She deciphers subtle cues in future mates’ eyes, No longer blinded by love’s sweet disguise. Her heart, a compass, guides through the storm, Detecting low mate value, keeping her warm.

But what of the other woman, entwined? Dancing with deception, love’s twisted bind. Her prize: a man who betrayed with ease, A heart ill at ease, history’s infidelity keys.

Days pass, the all-woman stands tall, Dress discarded, memories small. Her worth, her happiness—her own throne, No charity case, no borrowed zone.

Malice whispers, venomous hiss, She invokes Hanlon’s razor, dismissing the abyss: “Never attribute to malice,” she imparts, “That which is explained by stupidity’s arts.”

Human behavior, folly and wisdom entwine, And silently, one weeps upon life’s knife.

Behind the mask of darkness
Always lies the madness of one inner self
It is important to respect one fear
Around this time of Halloween

The autumn leaves had blanket the cold October ground
Covering the Jack' o lantern on the front porch,
And I wasn’t about to let nothing petrify me that cold night

I remember that morning had come a minute too soon
Before my R E M cycle kicked in
I wasn’t mentally prepare to face another day
But there I was once again: undone

In my country we were never allowed to,
Celebrate Halloween or dress up in
Anything, that resembles evil, ghost, globin,
Headless horsemen, or vampires,
It was known to be the works of the devil doings

My candid thoughts were on Halloween spooky night
The loud screams of trick or treats,
was heard all around this gloomy town of Collins port
Small tots all dress up in hideous costumes

I had allowed fear to control my thoughts and inner space
Black spiders, howling wolves and black coffins,
The creepiest sound and display on route 69
Grown folks hide behind the masks of darkness
While parading the street of Sotho in Manhattan

Another long night of evil spirits, witches and ghosts terrify the night;
Toddlers with Tiaras was on the verge of tears
what a lose-lose situation: From beginning to end
Close to ten there I was cruising down route 69

I check the glove compartment, took out a peppermint patty,
The rusty Beretta Nano pistol was still there,
snugly into my glove compartment
My pepper spray was close by my trigger fingers

Suddenly, I felt a ****, scraping, and clunking, squeaking sound
My tire blowout in the middle of nowhere,
Behind the mask of darkness
Always lies the madness of one inner self
"Trick or treat!"

We all love a good story.
With a good ending,
What is going on today is not a story
It is the reality, of mad virology scientist

Its headlines that read like this
“As Biden nears victory, worlds hopes
For end to American isolationism

It’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to pieces
It’s easier to live a lie, rather than to surrender?

When the American truth needs no translation
The poet became an unhappy Ambassador,
he believe in worldly- views:  He pen is waiting
to announce the winner, (who would it be)

Nothing is final to a poet eyes and ears
But to a mad scientist: it says progressivism
To him man or language wasn’t created equally
Every poet should be responsible for his poetic language
while every scientists should be held responsible for his action.

As well as his emotion and excretion
either from the mouths, or from the other end
the smell, textures even the tones
as long as  the world  acknowledges
them as the Lever of things to come

it’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to piece
where there is action they will be a reaction
Leadership money and power: is that what we voted for?
is this what we are dying for? Is that most people dreams?

Trumps , Biden supporters face off in Detroit
Headlines like these make a poet pen trembles..

"Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue
keeps his soul from troubles"
We are still waiting for the winner..

At the cheffette’s restaurant table down the harbor road.
Your nervous eyes said you love me,
Napkin holders and the salt and pepper jars,
Stood between us: Two people on a date.
St. Thomas and Christchurch.

Nervous sweat and sweaty palms—
So young, so unknowing, so innocent,
Blue happily but nervously times
Grueling stomachs, Emotional changes,
always lead to peer pressure

What a hell of an evening, under the other‘s gaze,
You remember the important events in my life,
I come to accept the sensitive side of yours

Your slender build: my blue bellbottom fitted jean
Curious as George in an animated scene
Your eyes was wider than any taskbar

You couldn’t make it through a first dinner date
I gobbled down my food with a glass of fruit drink
Easing my hunger and nervousness tension:

Of times so memorable, yet gone with the wind
Like platform shoes, and the disco satin jeans
All remove from our closets, like the baggage in our lives
Leaving tainted memories and nasty scars:
Here we are today, still eating at different tables.

Happiness
Is not
A sin

But a little sin can gain temporary happiness
Oh lord helps us, help me..
I just couldn’t go on sinning

Stupidity is not a handicap>
All trace of it headed straight to him
Ugliness doesn’t sit well on my eyes

All part of him was ugly; it was so hard to focus
Poetry can be ugly or beautiful at times
However a painter and poet have some things in common
Ones paints what he see, the other feel what the other can’t feels
I wish the painter would paint the ugliness
And allows this poet to search for the goodness

"When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.
John F. Kennedy"

Psalm 90:6
in the morning it springs up new, but by evening it fades and withers.


When my heart returns in the seclusion,

I uttered these words to myself,

Give it time, be wise, embrace self-compassion

I must put myself first, I must, I must,  

This time around, I don't want to walk away,

Taste only me, make love to only me
Reflected only in my space.
enchantment leads to my dearest delight
enter my soul before the break of dawn

A dream within a dream according to Edgar Allan Poe

For our morning blessing/
Happy or sad, our morning salutations/
There is nothing more appealing  
Than seeing white undershirts and white teeth
as it captures the youth of innocent,  
falling in love, with a cub, half my age,  

A trickery of unfocused emotions bearing down.  


I can see no flaws,  
I see only what my heart allows,

Trembling lips, both top and bottom
gazing into those eyes of witchery illusions

Just this once, just feed me, just enter my soul  

This frigid northern cold, the Africa heat rises:
Who will bless this union?
When it all fades like leaf

All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.

Let me love you for now,

Let me smile, while you smile,

aloud me, to accept you,

as you enter my soul

Her eyes were wide open: she spoke with confident
The sun shines brightly from the west
That came directly from the boardwalk:

I tried not to stare directly at her lower parts
But once I look at the negativity :the body shaming
Keep on rising, my lips were sealed:

Hello, my name is Anna, and how are you?
I heard about them, I saw their videos
But to be up close: defaming the obesity epidemic
I saw Lucy the human sow pig,
The Triumphant Elephant struggles,
Years of food that could have save thousands
Of hungry children lives:
she lay there dictating, deteriorating

I stood there as a poet with a pen.
not a Nurse of a friend,
Gasping, sighing
She fights for air;
I fumbled for words of expression:

To report back to Jack Kevorkian:
Was on displayed: there that day
Her hands reach for the oxygen wire,
I knew and she knew how I felt about her
She looked right at me, when she said the words

“Anna do you speak the Language
I said “oh no, “God forbid
And from that moment,
I know she was waiting, waiting,
To leave this world behind her:


Sadly, I got to know her better,

she was sweet and sour at the same

she brought a bottle of champagne for the staff for
the New years, and in February she passed away..
R.I.P Dora

I want to write poems about the poems
That I have already written to release my stress
I remember my first one about the internet night stalker
Whom in his words wrote that I was like dessert rose?
Low maintenance succulent that makes a man like him
Lose sleep over me, in return they became holy
ending all of the sentences with an Amen!
My poems had to make someone think
About love, lust and disgust, to mankind
Especially by the ****** arousal of men
*** is bad for women, those who are
Disgusted by the touch of a man:
Those who were used by A WOMANIZERS
Sometimes these women feel disgusted by ***
Once bitten twice shy
Politics and politicians are about power and glory
Their intention is never about making others happy.
Another ****** moment of being undone!
Nothing but A medium rare steak—
similarity to fake ******:
UNDONE!
One of my best would be to free *****
But allowed my poem to run freely thought-out
The internet, so that my words could reach foreign land
And it works, thousands of viewers read my thoughts,
Some even made comments,
love yourself, then my poems, appreciated them for what they are,
because what this world needs now, is love, sweet love,
not hate, free ***** but let my poem travel.

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

When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you all

Come in closer, closer, I remember walking down 54 street on a cold December in Manhattan

I had just finish with a job interview

a little frustrated but nevertheless

I have given praises to the almighty for allowing me to see another day

Never mind I was jobless, after two years of sending out my resume and making

Numerous phone calls to business throughout the city.



It was a cold day in December, I hit the pavement and was looking and praying to find myself a job  

As I was walking down the busy street, I saw a queue from here to Halifax

So, I decided to join the line,  

not even knowing what it was all about (nosey me as usual)  

I never even asked any of the people on the line, what was going on



So, this white lady with a clipboard in her hands, came out of the building and was escorting A few people at a time, to come in.

I stood trying to be looking smart as I am, and waited

When it became my turn, this lady looks at me from head to toe

And said to followed her, I did as I was told

She led us into the room, and started to hand out a test sheet:

She said we half only twenty minutes to complete it

I stare at my test sheet he had like 40 questions,

And some math, and vocabulary sentences to complete

I finish the test in less than 20 minutes,

Wondering what is next to come with the lady

I got up she stare me down once again,

Took the test sheet and asked me to wait in this waiting room:

Once again, I did as I was told.



After another 20 minutes she came and got me,

He exacts words.

“We are looking for people to work in Macy department stores,  

Throughout the city in all departments store

what hours can you work miss lander?

I sigh for a moment and say, the morning shifts

She said I ace the test; she took ANOTHER look at me again:

And spoke. You will BE BETTER OFF in the shoe department

Not the clothing, not the beauty counter, but the shoe department

I put my fake smile ON and thank her so much,



How dear she, after praising me on my test results

Because my *** was black,  

she wants to put me in the shoe department:

I filled out the necessary paperwork for pay roll

And I shook my head in miss believe,

I came home, and I tossed the paper in the garbage

And never took the job.

My beauty is meant to be seen,

To love beauty is to see light

I might not have been beautiful to her, but

Beauty is happiness,  

Racism is really a curse,

The advantages and the disadvantages of trying to keep a person down

They just can’t see beyond the color of our skin.



Rather than just saying we’d like to live in a more fair and equal society, we need to do our part to achieve it. (Quote)

My love looks like a choir boy tonight
His angelic voice lighten up the air waves
But he is in his sixty, a pensioner
His weaknesses make me strong

To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable;
to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength.” ~Criss Jami

He looks like a teenager engage with his first crush
His low haircut and a soft whispering voice,
His only mission is to make me happy
My advice for him: comes from a quote

##To see the world, things dangerous to come to,
to see behind walls, to draw closer, to find each other and to feel.
That is the purpose of life.
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty**

I have a lot of admiration for my love
A wonderful man with potentials

My mother believed in prayers, more than my father did

My father believed in tackling his problem with a flask of  

White ***, I believed in the moment of things:

They are hidden compartments inside of us,

“Being in the moment” can be a helpful reminder if we understand it in a more expansive way

Perhaps it was true, when someone said to deal with some situation at moment times

I refused to grieve for my dearly departed husband,

Past experience, wouldn’t allowed me to weep at his grave

My lack of dispassion and willful stubbornness;

Did I really love him, did I really forgive him?

Maybe it was the disrespect, I couldn’t forgive,

The truth is quite different. Forgiving an offense empowers the offended. It is to a man’s glory to overlook an offense (Proverbs 19:11)



I would look at his picture on my refrigerator, and I love him and I hate him

In that same moment, we are surely bedmates

My distance craving, my longing to be held tightly throughout the night.



If a person can fulfill needs for companionship, love, *** or mating, there is a greater chance that the other person will fall in love with him or her.

I have done all of this, and came out the loser, all the time

Love is not for me.  loneliness is my captive

I know, I know, I know, loneliness need not to have the final words

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

Make love to me with thine eyes,

I will respond with my body

Never leave me feeling unfinished

Like the house of a carpenter

I will never ask for more;

my ****** drive increase,

Shifting, like a rebel without a cause

I will not Forfeit, until you are ready

Or until my heated pillow catches on fire.

Make love to me with thine eyes,

never let your hands touches my body.

I will send you kisses by GIF tenor

But I will cartoon your Pilli **** with pleasure

The lord is my shepherd  

I shall not want. Psalm 23

However, Make love to me with thine eyes,

I will not forfeit, until you are ready

If not for me, let it be of goodwill

She Steal Like a Thief
Her husband married his mistress
She closed her eyes and once again
    she lost him to that
She thinks of him as omnipotent

At last! she wears his ring
Now it’s time to bridle her tongue
and show the world that
she belongs to Master Singh

What goes around comes around
Karma is a . Now its casual ***
with Tess the * switch

He smiles, she laughs
He slows down, she picks up the pace
He sneezes, she said bless you”.
she began her new life without hesitation, without delay

To her the man is omnipotent God
worshipping the ground, he walks
yes, master, no master

somehow, she manages
to love, honor and obey.
she steals like a thief

Whatever is good is God.
Whomever chooses to be bad is just evil
So let the foul pollute himself.
Whomever continues to lie let them lie
bad liars must have good memories:
Today, my avocation is what help me
Its help deal with the madness, that surround me:
It only takes the one, two, three to set off my anxiety
“The thoughts you resist persist.” quote:
The positive energy I retain, I immediately give off
a hearty welcome, with a smile is just letting you all know
That I appreciated every one of you.
Whatever is good is God:
Whomever, chooses to be bad is just evil
My life is an open book, as I reveal it my poetry writing
Some folks do plastic surgery to better themselves
I improve my minds with my writing,
Words are my friends, so I surrounded myself with words
As my broken heart hurt me my writing improve like
A crying baby who was given a lollipop:
At times brain sax calm me,
Lying awake wouldn’t help the situation,
But the tick Tok tick sound of rain, might:
I choose my words carefully,
Because the manufacturers lie at times
All sizes don’t fit all.