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

Secrets

Having left my thought in years they
Continues to **** with my body the canvas
Staring down the saddest moments of my life
Is my imagination getting ahead of me?

When, I was a child, I free a bird from tangle cords
Does its offspring, remember me?
Has the bird taught them anything about mortal pain?
especially ,not to build their nest in low pear trees

Secrets, continue to haunt my body the canvas
Every fortnight, when my soul seem to be at rest
Interrupting my dreams, with updates off past event

Not so hidden memories anymore, optimizing my life like an app
Like tiny dots of nested blackheads
Tiptoe to the surface, from deep within
Fighting to survive, just to be seen before sudden death

I shall pluck you secrets, from your darkest place
Without leaving a trail of blood on my body of canvas

Days of Rain
Day of tears, brings rain
Days of scented gardenia filled the open air
With perfume: Day of rejoicing for two lovers
Prince Harry and Megan making weddings plans

Happy news, smiling faces, but with broken tradition
We all love a fairy tales with a happy ending.
We love to see that love still exist,

We love when love merge and become intimate:
Still Close to our hearts, this thing call love
Jupiter merges with the moon to add luck
and understanding to love relationships play

let end this year with a little happiness. xoxo

Dead Horse on the race track

If this is happiness, then sadness is on layaway
     Then my futuristic plans is chalking out my future
Better to know, before stepping into the horse’s droppings
     Than this upside of uncertainty of man’s failure:
To me it’s stressful, but not always bad:

When the dark clouds clear, the sun will appears:
Those long months, those lonely hours,
Always rolls back to and stay low on flat surfaces:
January, February, March, May
and June always, goes by so fast;

I have past the one hundred and eighty one mark for this year
I add more to my bucket lists: I am single and free
I haven gotten a deep French kiss throughout those months
Not even a little hello **** or a grab by
the ***** approach from the perverts
but I am moving on: and loving it…

The whispering night, the silence ring tones,
It’s better off without the whimpering whimper:

**Better to flee from death than feel its grip.
HOMER, The Iliad

Death came too soon:
To be precise on a Saturday afternoon
it ended or did it not?

To all who knew her felt the pain?
But what lead up to that hour: was a crying shame
Her eyes were full of life
Her heart bled for her offspring
Right up to her last dying breath
It ***** to keep a secret,
Jealousy is a disease, fear is mind killer
a killer was on the loose.

Two deaths, two stories
Double sins, double tragedy
But, oh, the feeling she left behind,
The questions, no answers, so little time to reflect
Humanity is sickened by one horrific headline after another
I wondered who is going to be next:
I trust my life to an earthquake more than to any lover
Raged like rough sea, against the salty rocks,
Holding on like sea ***** never letting go,

1 Corinthians 15:54, 55:
“Death is swallowed up in victory.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”

To the one they left behind,
To the one who weep at the open graves,
To the one who silently stood by?
And never give a helping hand,

To the ones who knew these kind of persons
And stay silent: isolation is also a killer;
To the ones who grieves and respond to loss
A mother who loss her daughter:
Two death, two untold stories..

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

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.

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 to all venues
As we all can recalled from failed romance,
that it was always the mindset
that trigger some strong emotion into the explosion
that separate the thing called love.

It’s have been more than thirty odd years since
He walked away and left me with deep tattoo tears,
Those tears never fades, but the pain remain the same
Love shouldn’t be a pawn in anyone’s game

Like a needle under my thin layer of skin,
I can see it crawling; it can see it poking,
teasing that draw me closer, and the teasing
that pushed me further away with the wind

Would I ever learn?  Would I ever stop looking for love?
When would my heart say to me, enough is enough?
Stop falling for their lies, get angry and take off something
Or violently break something into pieces, like a thief in the night

  Stop badgering my mind, stop targeting my heart
Because love doesn’t live here anymore… stop!!!!

Self-respect, self-endurance and self-confidence
Now it is my turn to walk away undefeated..


*Feed me the truth not your lies
don't tell me it's chocolate cookies
when it's almond cookies..
don't tell me it's over,
when it now in full bloom
don't tell me you love me
knowing that you belongs to another

words can be so simple just
feed me the truth not your lies.

May the roof above us never fall in?
and may we friends gathered below never fall out.
May the good saints protect us
And bless us today
And may troubles ignore you
Each step of the way:  quote from an Irish blessing**


~~~~~~~~~~
When the living pretend to don’t care
About Obamacare, or this new healthcare
in this year of two thousand and seventeen  

His legacy is Washington new vanishing act
They daunting faces, as they smirked in triumph
The poor man burden, once again is left out in the dark
Washington DC is becoming the number one soap opera
An uncaring state of mind for the men in black

Who hold the magic key, who hired the pied piper?
Will pay the price:  the cry that will get us the most
is the cry of the children, in the final hours?

The wine bottle glugging sound effect as they praise
Cork popping, family bawling, and once again
We march for justice, when the living pretend to don’t care

Delay and Repeal:

I have not the power to stop them in the tracks,
All I can do is to write lousy poetry
reconsidered this bill: You have won
Now think of last man in the race:

A Balance Of Who's Right And Who's Wrong
Somewhere, there is a poem in our heads
About, Love, life, politics, natural disasters,
Religion and conflicts controversial issues

Suddenly, here come the uprising wars in politics
Isis and The Donald Trumps of the world crusaders

Here, we are as citizens, once again, starting to feel down,
Trying to find beauty in life, throughout the fixation,
A balance of who’s right and who's wrong,
These Obsessions with tic, TAC, toe politicians.
Somewhere, there is poem, a poem in waiting,
waiting, waiting, waiting, and waiting,

  Too many words, not enough ink for printing,
not enough folks who cares about such matters.
especially black lives:

  The up and down to natural disaster due to the
the tricks of trade in the political world of politics
the missing e-mail, the hidden birth certificates
the beauty Queen who gain weight,
what about the real issues, what about economy
War and famine, child molestation, bigotry and fakery..
so many issues, so many she said, he said,  and fake news

Suddenly, here come the uprising wars in politics
Isis and The Donald Trumps of the world crusaders
Here we are as citizens, once again, starting to feel down.

because of the tongues.. a man who speak in tongues.

is a man  who hides his word: his spirit is speaking mysteries

Written by
Dark n Beautiful  New York

Next to her silks petticoats
my mother’s  brown stocking lay there
on the bed: on the iron board was her
Crispy iron Sunday dress,
on the dresser was her favorite perfume
and talcum powder. And this meant only thing
it was Sunday morning service:

This morning I remember her routine,
I never got into the habit of the military habits
My free will soul would never allow it:

I remember passing the Police exams
As I was about to go for my training
My mother discourage me from going
She based it all on my small petite figure

Her exact words: you think you can fight
Off those big men: Those criminals out there
In the big streets.. I never got to prove her wrong
So, I turn down the police academy recruit training:

And trade in a trip to South America in nineteen eighty three:
I remember that last night before I got on America Airline

My last old year’s night party at the Hilton Hotel,
The loud music, the co-workers, and there I was with
Mixed emotions of being Happy and Sad:

I wish they had a word for being happy and sad
at the same time because that's what I feel every time I was with him:
my other true love< E.B
I still have that **** gold and black spaghetti straps dress
I wore that night, each time I fallen back
To my old habits.. I would take it out and take
One more look at it…and whisper my past
And ask myself why I am holding on to this
Dress for so long: we didn’t had the internet or the Bajan tube
To look back on:  but by seeing that dress. I saw the younger me
With vivid  moments of happiness, and bad decisions:

Today I lay here in my bed with my memories
As I divided them in happiness and sadness sections
Have I proceed with my plans in law enforcement
Would I be alive today to write this poem
Have I not attended the office party
Would the scars of that night still frets me
At each place, in time some of us stop
To picked a rose, or even smell a rose
That why I love this quote:

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: ‘It is the time you have wasted for
your rose that makes your rose so important.’, Anne B...

because, it have seem like I have made some loser that was in my life seem important:
Did I do it for him or for me? Now that is the question..

A Poet tell the best stories,
It’s a daily struggle for me, when I am on
Schedule, to show up there….at 3035
I usually take one foot slowly off the bed
I have to transform my body into someone else

Her name is Waverly, the most frequent alters,
a pretender, but not like the mouthy poet (A.L)
Seven hours of lies, trying to make ends meet
Twenty eight years of deceits, show in the receipts
Of hard, hard labor, and the back breaking toil of the day

The pointy nose, hold on to fake clipboard
Should I hate them, the system or me?
They is so many of us low renter in that place
But in the days of the corvid corona 19
These, days there are So many of them
Uprising, coming and leaving, the drilling
Should I hate them, the system or me?

The ones who tell the best story
Is the most observant one, to the craft?
A river is a body of water
With lot of stories to tell
Sadness and happiness,

My experiences there comes with pain,
Shame and mostly the sadness of
Staying at one place so lengthy!!
My restless spirit is now catching on to me
Is it too late for me, for us?
Me or my alters or just I
Oh, how I remembered them so well

Within each new poet there is a new idea
Each new idea brings a zest to future poems
The new poet fades too soon: so has the pointy nose
They never, stays, but memories of them, stain like glass
Taking the memories of their appearances
like shadows over the sun:

Did I really had years of experience
or years of daily repeats.
then I must indeed say my confidence has suffered..

Come warm your hands around me tonight
Let go of the cold restraint that dangle your heart
I have dreamt of this day,
I have long for this hour
Come warm yours hands,
Rebuild your smile, and rebuild the trust

Stand upright at the council meeting my Zula warrior, my king
Unleash the passion within, stop struggling with your feelings
instead, come and fumble with these long, longs chocolate strings

Come warm your hands on my body
And forget the flittering open fire of hatred within her eyes,
It's cold night on the tropical island,
however, it's lavender essential oil on my linens
there's chocolate ******* to be thread.
tasty pasties and edible ******,
it’s warm in my chambers,
its love in my heart,
there is action,
there is passion,
come take a deep look into my eyes
before you address the unsettling crowd
Your Queen would always be by your side.

Stand upright at the council meeting my Zulu warrior, my king
you were meant to rule .................

We must never **** the spiders
While, they wove their words into the likeness of thunder
You only watch the news to find out
Where the con artist stands,
He opens his mouth and nonsense comes out
He twitters like a bird and the sound of a dog bark echo,
Lowlife, unhinged, bigoted, racists, misogynist,
How do one goes from eating at his table:
To coming in through the back entrance,

And whether it matter to us or not;
We got to see what division can do to us
Some might even say, salacious and ridiculous
I think it’s a game change, with the wars of words
Bishop and knight checkmate!!
your move my dear..
and by the way :
You are fired!!

You only watch the news to find out
Where the con artist stands,
He opens his mouth and nonsense comes out

And whether it matter to us or not;
We have to make sure that the Philanthropist
Doesn’t make it to the white house
Mr. Obama said that he has faith in the American people
Do you have faith in yourself?
or the mockingbird on the platform?

I watch him undress,
Chocolate skin, hairy chest,
But where are the six packers?

He read my thoughts,
and whispered softly in my ear
Sixth sense, six packs, six degrees of separation,
My evil third eyes, blinks with no hesitation
when I look at you.

A little nod to
Edgar Guest

When you’re up against a bully
Meet them face to face
Lift your chin and set your shoulders,
Plant your feet and give them a taste

Never panic or hesitated: aim toward the lower waist
If you fall to the ground, don’t be discourage
It’s just a stumble, its just the adrenaline rush
but never let it weaken you

See it through!
Forget all those stars that circle around you

The Bigger the Ego, the Stronger the Anger
Kick his *** until he/she does the tango
If the worst is going to happened
Let it be Lose or win:
See it through! My friend
it’s birthing time again

Lift your chin and set your shoulder
Get up and plant your feet and make a fist
Kick that bully ***, Feel your inner strength.

Think of Joe Frasier, Ali and Foreman impeccable timing and their knock outs drops:
only a wise poet like me can only wish you the best of luck

Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country**
Make your votes count.

The dead embrace the dirt
They will never sprung like
April tulips, on a frigid day,
Or survive as long as Hyperion roots

(The beginning of love is horror
of happiness (quote: Robert Bly)

So, let my poetry filled you up: with the knowing
(The dead are for morticians & butchers
to touch. Only a gloved hand)
before the dust….and ashes

Be more afraid of the living,
with their cold and warm hands
and deceitful minds above all things
they  spit and vinegar tongues

The living embraces the struggle of staying alive
Due to the many heartache and sorrows
~~~
(When those we love betray our trust,
We find the depth of human pain;
Oh, let me rise above these hurts
Until the sun shines, once again!
~Gertrude Tooley Buckingham, "My Prayer" (1940s)
*
So , let my poetry filled you up with knowledge of knowing
The dead cannot harm you any more,
Way down upon the earth floor,

Let the tulips once again bloom
However, let the earth worm do the rest.
Under the tallest tree in the world: coast redwood
Hyperion:

I am not young anymore, nor grey , nor old, for age is just a number:    when the aches and pains begins to set in and I start to wonder, I never travel with my raincoat  although I hate getting wet, because if you think you can run for cover faster than  when it pours; you aim’s seen nothing yet .  But not so anymore: I never leave my coat and cane when I am on a stool .Oh dear what has happened to me?  
It's like I am getting old.  I still dance to my social tunes and a do a little waltz sometimes,   You ought to see me stepping to some back in time reggae:  after all of that: is when the rubs and oils granny left me comes alive again to soothe my pain of aching joints: Oh dear they say age is just a number and life begins at forty. Begins to go where:
Downhill!
Written by Hartley Forde

Another Version

Hartley Forde

You can’t see the wind,
But that old mango tree,
Outside my window,
tell me it’s there..
.
I never travel with a raincoat,
Even though I hate getting wet,
Then here comes the aches and pain
And I started to wonder,
was it because I got a little insane..
I thought that I could
Have run faster than it pours
I haven’t heard of
any aircraft that outrun  a jet plane yet,
But, not so anymore,
I never leave my coat and cane,
When I am on a stool,

Oh dear, what has happened to me?
Am I aging? I am not young anymore,
Nor grey, nor old: for age is just a number,
But when the toil of the day
Merges with the aches and pain
With sighing sounds I start to wonder:

I still dance the night away, with my social tunes,
And waltz across the floor to all-time favorite of Strauss
See how I step back in time with the reggae beat,
Lighter than a feather on my feet,

Smiling, with my pearly teeth from ear to ear:
Life just isn’t fear: because age is just a number
That’s when the rubs and oil granny left me:
Come alive again in the neck of time,
to soothe the pain of my aching joints
I smile once again and said
“Oh dear, what do they say again,

Age is just a number and life begins at forty,
Because, I am just starting to be naughty:
Downhill !

written by:
Hartley Forde

In the beginning
There were Adam and Eve
There was kindness,
and there was peace

The bible said that it was paradise
and there was  Cain and Abel
The people said the serpent came
With the rain, which angry the Gods
There have been numerous deaths
This time there were no bodies
but their souls seem to vanish

I am here pondering does he truly knows
What love is? He thinks being said I love you
On every chat, or the ending of a chat
Simplify anything;
We can have anything we want in life,
But we can’t have everything.

I might say that’s an understatement
Despite our wants;
I never say I love you to another person
Unless I truly meant it within,
To experiment with another ones heart
And mind, is downright cruel
Some humans isn’t human at all




.

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

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

Dreams and Reflections

As dreamers, we awaken to find disappointments. Each of us dreams, but on different planes. Today, I still harbor the dream of owning a place—a safe haven, my wildest fantasy. While many aspire to be boss ladies, I revel in being the captain of my own soul. My situation remains deferred; I require no rescue. Surrounded by a few friends, I am a free-spirited poet lost in words. I copulate with illusions, my natural ritual—alone with my thoughts, fulfilling my soul. Thankfully, none of your spirits infiltrate my inner sanctum.

Goodbyes punctuate my relationships; loneliness, my chosen weakness. Like Lady Moses, I ascend the mountain of self-reflection, glimpsing my tomorrows before aiding others. We, the fake poets, are also


summary:

In essence, the poem encourages us to embrace our dreams, face disappointments with resilience, and seek clarity within ourselves before extending help to others. Life, like poetry, is a journey of exploration and understanding.

I came back to the poem with more ideas,
Trying to wake up the unsuspecting reader
To walk with them though my stories
I didn’t want them to think I was rapping
nor was I singing the blues

Poetry is no longer frightening
Like a sudden force of lightening;
Awakening your senses to the art
From the start: to the fuzzy end

I dared you not to walked away from this piece
However, I beg of you to read this piece with ease
Today, I wish that the little birds on my window
Will sing to me, but instead the cold morning breeze
kept them away:
An exciting dimension of their songs makes my day
Comes alive:

In my lucid dream last night, I saw beach goers
Watching the tides go in and out:
way down the harbor road
Their soak their feet in a stream
of warm running water

So I took a seat and I joined the relaxing crowd
Dreams are scarier, more than poetry.

Sadness flies on the wings of the morning and out
of the heart of darkness comes the light. ~Jean Giraudoux

I came back to this poem with a sense of knowing, that a

*Poet can survive everything but a misprint Oscar -Wilder

Dreams of My African King

In the quiet hours of night, my African king visits me. His presence, both vivid and elusive, dances across the tapestry of my dreams. We spar—our voices colliding over the phone, tangled in passion and discord. His white t-shirt clings to memory, a canvas for whispered secrets and unspoken truths.

Laundry day becomes sacred—an intimate ritual. He separates his clothing, each fold a promise etched into fabric. I, too, remember the days when I stumbled over his name, syllables tripping like hesitant birds. A thousand rehearsals, yet he corrected me gently, unraveling my mispronunciations with patience.

How much more can I love him? Love, unquantifiable, spills beyond boundaries. It echoes in the cooing of doves—their soft wings carrying messages between realms. To love is to risk—the precipice where self dissolves, and soulmates emerge.

He visits me, not only in dreams but also in waking life. I glimpse him on bustling streets, in the hum of subway cars, and within the ink of my poems. Our souls, celestial magnets, draw close. We need each other—an equation of hearts seeking equilibrium.

I am a believer in God’s design. He weaves our paths, stitches constellations into existence. My king, once stronger, faced battles that scarred his spirit. Yet God’s promises remain—our shared destiny etched in stardust.

Me ma wo akye—may your eyes witness miracles. In the quietude of night, may your African king’s silhouette linger, a beacon across the vast expanse of longing.

Granville Wesley Clarke

May 14, 1921 ====July 19 2011

The late ******* or Perry

A golden heart stop beating at sunset July 19 2011



Today my memory is a large duck egg

Yes, that large duck egg, you got from the  

Chicken coop, so that I could have it for breakfast”

If you haven’t tried ducks, eggs
it's time to became a tester.


There will be no funeral today,

Only memories of the people we love

I remember the tall trees, in which you

Climbed in order to cut the branches that block the view

And the wind that cool our roof top  



I remember our morning strolled in big gully

In which we would go and pick green lemons

I with my small paint bucket, you with your big brown onion bag

with our findings you would fill it to the top,

My small paint bucket I  also filled it up to the top:

With my doo rag tied so tight around my head I sweat bullets

my brother old pants protected my skinny legs from the bugs

There we were strolling through the woods  



Almonds,  I ****** the juices, and hammer the nuts with a rock

As you cut down trees, to finish your pig pen,

There will no funeral today, or weeping

Just good old memories, about the dead

Rest in peace, with the angels,

Until we meet again,

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

Echoes of Innocence
Who weeps for the child,
who carried her father’s gun to school?
Was she truly alone in this premeditated tragedy?
Did Sesame Street’s lessons reach her tender heart?
Nothing remains discreet—
love and sorrow intertwine.
A child, advised to be kind,
but who taught her to pull the trigger?
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
reveal the true danger:
Is it the gun, its owner, or the would-be thief?
Insanity, madness, and lunacy dance,
yet the gun itself remains innocent.
People, not guns, wield fatal power.
Who will cry for this child?
The court system?
Perhaps only divine intervention can heal her wounds.

Echoes of Solitude

An old man, unpopular and weathered,
Sketches cartoon characters of his childhood tormentors.
Their names, like bitter echoes, resound in his memories.
“Those *******!” he mutters, lips trembling.

He refrains from tears, fearing their taste—
A blend of loose cells from his mother and father.
Weeks pass, and Eugene, his friend, remains absent.
Hospitalized, perhaps, for an unknown pain.

The dayroom chats, oh, how he misses them!
Eugene’s face would light up when they spoke
Of Aunt Harriet’s cookies and Uncle Jack’s fishing trips.
Just the two of them, sharing moments by the lake.

But his parents? Ah, they were different.
His father’s advice: “******* to ease the pressure.”
His mother’s counsel: “Run from the bullies.”
And the therapist? “You’ll amount to nothing,” they said.

He harbored resentment, wishing he’d never been born.
Shunned, scorned—a life marked by isolation.
Yet poetry became his refuge, a soft spot in his heart.
I gifted him my favorite pen, urging him to write.

Empathy, my duty, compels me to tell stories—
To amplify voices silenced by circumstance.
For in the ink-stained verses, we find solace.
Dark n Beautiful, your words resonate.

Written by Dark n Beautiful. 🖋️

Echoes of the Heart”

Within a man’s heart, myriad plans unfold, While in a woman’s, greatness seeks to hold. The world, like seas, stretches wide and vast, And water’s weight varies with hands’ size cast.

When love blooms deeper than mere mortal ties, A woman’s heart remains forever pure, skies Of divinity glimpsed by the pure in heart, Blessed souls who seek God in every part.

Yet love, a tempest, leads us astray, Toward unattainable shores, where we sway. Filtered photos veil longing smiles and grace, As poets weave emotion into every trace.

Misunderstood tones echo through our verse, A symphony of feelings, for better or worse. Trust wavers—can we surrender once more? Falling, yet fearing we’ll never rise ashore.

So, guard your heart, my friend, with care, For love’s slippery slopes await us there. 🌟

You only watch the news to find out
Where the con artist stands,
He opens his mouth and nonsense comes out
This is going to be my last poem,
this is going to be my last rant before casting my vote
and where this poem goes,
Probably, no other man has gone before,
Deep into the hearts of the American people

A politician needs the ability to foretell,
what is going to happen tomorrow,
next week, next month, and next year.
And to have the ability afterwards to explain why it didn’t happen
- Winston Churchill

With these two candidates all I am hearing leading up to the election
Is about missing e-mails conspiracy
Aggravated indecent assault,
Lawsuits and the fondling of other women’s *****

I can see Russia from my house, said Sarah Palin some time ago
I can foresee the paint peeling off the white house wall, in solidarity..
And where the grass is not greener on the other side
Is where the American would feel the full weight of democracy
in the  America political games,

I can see immigrant migrating and some departing daily
I can see Delta, JetBlue and other airlines keep making money
Last but not least do bear in mind…that

There are two things that are important in politics. The first is money, and I can’t remember the second
- Mark Hanna

What election has left us over the years, (divisions?)
Two and two doesn’t equal four any more in voting booths
Pulling the leveler, to cast ones votes doesn’t registered
Our candidates have already been chosen.
Our way of life is but a passing stain..(Permanent)
However, the flag of justice will wave either in mast
Or half-staff:

Elegy of the River and the Sea

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

In grief, our tears taste different,

our ways of mourning unique.

You weep; I compose elegies.

My brother, high on marijuana,

the island battered by hurricane Beryl.

As the sea crashes upon the land,

seaweed lashes out like demons.

Are we prepared for this?

To whom it may concern,

do not call me early in the morning.

I am not yet awake for words.

Give me time to sip my coffee,

to savor the warmth of intimacy.

Let me read “Good Morning, Sunshine.”

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

My daily poem whispers:

"Leave me alone in the morning

with my thoughts."

My mother outlived my father.

I aspire to outlive the sparrows.

In God, I entrust my life.

You shut me into your heart’s great void of silence. . .**

The nagging pain, the fiery blood:
My flame heart………….embalmed
Resentence, revenge to the one that hurt you:
What had love done for you?
What did you learn by saying?
“I love you, I love you
to those who were incapable of loving
Now, I dagger you, over and over,
Erasing the love, I once share with you
Love is a hurting thing,
Hate is a natural emotion,
My heart is no longer silence,
But it fears the unknown………..
What causes hatred.. Love
Where hatred does comes from poison of love

“Embrace and Release”

In the quiet of night, I pondered—
the art of severing ties, like pruning a tree.
The weakest links, once tightly bound,
now set free, like a maiden’s unclasped bra.

2024 dawns, a canvas for transformation.
Covid’s grip loosens, and clarity emerges.
Meltdowns yield to focus, tears to savings.
My *** life, like New York’s winter, chills.

Raw verses spill forth, unfiltered and true.
Yet my smile softens toward strangers,
and I find myself liking humanity anew.
Trust remains distant, a horizon to reach.

Biblical tales echo vulnerability—
the weaker devoured by the strong.
Have I surrendered my worth for fleeting moments?
No tears stain my words; they remain silent.

As I gaze upward, pondering thoughts,
my brain’s triad—forebrain, midbrain, hindbrain—
collaborates, yet sometimes drifts apart.
Do I know myself anymore? Today, I listen.

Goodbye, old lover; hello, new friends.
Life’s tides carry me forward,
and I embrace the journey, raw and unafraid.
May vulnerability be my strength, not my undoing.

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

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

Enough:

Enough of this of this up and down weather
It’s a gift, its giver backer: Its' Indian giver
it's April in December:

warm enough to walk without a jacket last Tuesday
The feel of the warmth against ones cheek
And today it the scarf tightly around ones neck

Enough to quiet the mind, enough to fret the spirit
When you find yourself staying indoors,
eating waffles, and playing checkers
then you know it’s that kind of injustices

watch the words that comes out
of your mouth,
when the rooms aren’t heated
then you thought about going mental ON........
the nippy wind whistle through the cracks,
and you wonder about the arthritis in your back

Immediately your thought turns to envelope
the rental receipts : so avoid that!
Desperate for the heat of the sun,
Feeling the effects, of a long dreary winter days
Where the songs on the radio keep

repeating, bundle up and go outside,
It prom dresses shopping 2017
Help me dear Lord!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What of these final evening thoughts
That really wants me to forgive myself
For what conspired throughout the day

Where, I just couldn’t do it anymore
Become a ball breaker,
I always dreamt of an early retirement .
my unfilled bucket lists

The Harley bike I never rode out into the country
Images of it parked near a tree by the lakeside
Like so, I became one with my thoughts
Loud: clapping sound only startle us

Once again, there are those mirrors that surround us.
Watching: and that one obstacle
The monthly mortgaged bill