a peaceful morning
the poets harmonizing
poetry on demand

poetry archives-
watching from behind the screen
the critics torment

I am afraid, in this
Times of uncertainty
Leading up to November election,

Love without feeling,
Sunlight without the warmth
At time when our city is a cage,

filled with rage:

The talks of death, without hope
It can be brutal my friends,
The flowers blooms
where no man can see it beauty

Upon the graves of the daily departed
Old men and women sit alone (waiting and waiting)

What is it that we lack in these troublesome times?
Happier days, without the cage,
Without risking the rage,
Without, keeping our eyes
On the numbers of dead bodies,
In our inner cities or around the countries bend:

Our trembling lips under the masks,
I thirst not for the wine but
for my freedom to breathe freely
Without, limited restriction, without fines!
Our lips tremble under the colorful protective masks,
Can we really breathe?

A little while ago I had a lengthy conversation
With my dearest friend in Angers western France,
about 300 km southwest of Paris
We cherish our memories of the past:
With little hope and a dream,

We might meet again on the Island of Barbados..
Our memories of the past with keep us intact
Our future for right now seems uncertain.
We have to cry, we have to cry,
We must cry, we must…

I love a woman,
who's not afraid to speak her mind
who ain't afraid of the up-shots
In 1960 women burnt their bras
protesting and debated for equal rights

I have no time for women with weak links
they could loosen the chain
before they could really think
If you choose to be strong
stay strong, be confident:
Do not let your fears choose your destiny
Never let anyone senses your fear
or even drove you to the verge of tears..

I have no tolerance for a strange brew
idealism and self-interest
it defies me, and somehow
it make me uncivil,
but I am a woman of dignity
However, if you want to rolled with me
You have to be strong,
no wee, wee ,wee little crotch -less *****
Heartless.. for heaven sake I am not
I am just a ******* notch from the block

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

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

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

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

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

Heart of darkness
transcend some light
you confused the body and soul.

Heart of darkness
your youthful years
were gracious and gleaming
you loved with gregariousness.

Heart of darkness
blindsided by *******
it saturated the body and soul

Heart of darkness
forgive and forget
ratify a truce with love,
Let love in.

Heart of darkness
bruises heal in time
in love there is fear
however, perfect love
casts aside doubt.

Heart of darkness
sadness interferes with hope
we were saved in this hope
hope that is seen is not hope
leaving only trust.

Heart of darkess
the essence of hope
the secret to victorious living
lies in seeing good
in every situation that comes into our lives

Heart of darkness
Let love in....

In a world of filled of hate
Love is not the enough
We need a clean slate

We have given up on believing
The superior, then there is the inferior
The rich and then there is the poor
The celebrities and there is the followers
Then comes action, follow by reactions:
Politics and politicians:
Beam us up Scotty:  beam then down Lucifer

I read this morning that Kanye W
Is thanking the lord for his S68 million refund
Here I am thanking the lord this morning
Not to be gun down, by the drifters
Or to be sidetrack by co-workers,
Only if peace would come sooner,
And haters would vanish…..
Like the children of Hamlet town

*** within marriage is pleasurable,
even, if he had six wives,
so why was Henry VIII displeased?

Madness!!

It’s the little things we pondered the most
When hitting the ceiling
But we tried it in silence
Allowing the good times to simmer

Three months ago, I never had any thoughts

About, love, loving someone, or being in love,

They say a good love is one that sits you down, gives you a drink of water, and pats you on top of the head. But I say a good love is one that casts you into the wind, sets you ablaze, makes you burn through the skies and ignite the night like a phoenix; the kind that cuts you loose like a wildfire and you can't stop running simply because you keep on burning everything that you touch! I say that's a good love; one that burns and flies, and you run with it!”
― C. JoyBell C.

If I was to tell you that I saw a rose blooming in the heart of winter

No one would believe me, that love struggling to stay afloat.

Perhaps, the rose is here to remind us, of something, we’ve have forgotten

During the summer's months, (like did we stop and smell the roses)? Such cliché indeed)

I never thought of the rose, until two days ago, when I told my friend about

That single rose I uses to get ever 6th of the month:

That too had stopped when our love for each other was dying like the rose:

However, the memory is still here, did I appreciated the rose gestures on the months

Yes, I did, I felt love, I felt the warmth inside.

It seems like I am going to be alone once again for Christmas

But I will think of that single rose,

I will drink my eggnog, and baileys Irish Cream

But will not bake my goose, but I will relive

Past memories, my mistletoe kiss will have to wait,

And disguise my disappointment like a true trooper:

(Laughter brings many positive qualities into the world and into human relationships.) quote

I am now seeing, why a laugh, a smile, a body gesture

Can make a person feel so good inside,

When he smiles at me:  

And it's because, I open my heart, once again:

He said I always write sad poems
who I am with you,
is really who I am with my writing
I tell it like it is. I always say what I mean
It might be the poignant anxiety of my mind

I observed people, observing them make me
Wondered about their lethargic self-control over their own life
If it’s not about health, it’s about their love life  
Believe it or not, watching them helps me
Get through a rough morning:
When I compose their pitiful stories,

It gives me an adrenaline rush, so I unwind
With a paragraph or two, dropping my ideas here and there
While I pondered about their state of mind
I learn from their mistakes, I bottle them in an old Mason jar

And I move on to my next subject, and that would be
The images and faces of Political madness
in two thousand and seventeen

My followers, my friends!
The Liberal minded is dragging us down minute by minute
Yes, I love to write about sad things
That fetter me. The dead can’t write about them
The fearful are too afraid to speak up,
A good rehab center is so hard to find,  
No wonder they had to make marijuana legal
So I had to touch on certain subject before I die
Their isn’t love in the world today
The little that is left, someone wants to buy it

Self-respects and self-esteem, we must try to distinguish between the two my friends

Staying silent is like a slow growing cancer to the soul and a trait of a true coward.


,

He is an unpopular character this old man
Who sits and draw cartoon character
in memories of the dearly departed.

He said that he felt like crying,
but he wasn’t going to cry
Because if he did,
he might not like the taste of his tears
Those loose cells in the tears
is mostly of his mother and father.

He resented  them for not aborting him
He wishes that he was never was born.
Due to the facts that all his life he was scorned

He was in and out of intuition
Always in a state of confusion
Month too months he never saw the sun
He never felt the rain upon his face,
Only long session with the nurses and the
Physiatrist who thought of him as a disgrace

He recalled taking the train for the first time at age fifteen
And that didn’t turn out as expected,
He wets his pant, so he sat in his seat and slaps his head furiously
He was spanked by the nuns, ridiculed by Sister Margaret the head hunter,
Got a huge ****** thermometer roughly up his **** by a ******* dude
Suffered daily due to his severe autism behaviors

He is an unpopular character this old man
Who sits and draw cartoon character
of all his childhood abusers:

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.

A treacherous heart set its mark

My beautiful lips you long to kiss
became the daffodils in springtime
As it slowly, unfolded by the sound of his Tenor voice.
I remember him, but I never remember his ****** touch

All poets are not romantic, but our poems can
creates a romantic setting, allowing us to see and feel
the words in each line.

A famous writer once wrote.
Have a heart that never hardens,
and a temper that never tires,
and a touch that never hurts.”—Charles Dickens

The mind, body and soul havoc the hearts
into believing that our love is worth fighting for
my caramel exposed **** reveal my darkest secret
my ****** quest was answered.

"while nibbling my ear he whisper my name
the sound of his voice, command my heart to accept love
or was it was the feedback from those dilated eyes?

the thoughts of his hand caressing my inner thigh
his hot balsam breath, working the curve of my neck
breathing life into the foreplay: my imagination of his
tranquilizing earthy cologne made me sigh with relief;
that set me drunk with desire, with the deep power of joy

We cannot quench the thirst without our vision, our heart, our life,
Or our passion, restoring our relationship wouldn’t be answered

Master bedroom

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

When men say these words
Not tonight honey. I have a headache
A common phrase for women: men curse.
But what’s wrong when men emit it so often

Come, all you young men with your wicked, wicked ways,
Sow your wild oats in your younger days,
So that you may be happier when you grow old
For your days is shorter and your nights will be long

The mind of an old poet,
Can be poetic in translation,
His reputation about delivering his verbs, meter, sonnets and limerick
Runs smooth

However rhythm is the essence of poetry
In reality to entertain his loves in bed:  
Distill and not powerful enough his love making ****!
Hold down your head Tom Dooley.
No tranquility he wept in silent

I leant upon the cold iron prop
On the subway flat form: suddenly,
my thought turn to this movie from the 80s
About a little boy name Alfie
Whose tongue got caught on the frozen lamp pole
During a daring rush trend:
Winter months can be so brutal

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Winter Depression, / a seasonal S.A.D
In the mist of all this: I saw a small bird
Rumbling through the garbage looking for food
His dotted feathers caught my attention
Perhaps not all birds fly south for the winter after all:
Homeless birds seek shelter with homeless humans
Without the small outdoor wood fires:

The beautiful landscape we once admired is blanket with snow
The roar of the winds and the surging of water;
It wasn’t a pretty sight to see with my watery eyes

We cried out to our God for a little relief
But most of all we keep praying for safety
I fell on my **** trying to step over a bank of snow
Luckily I didn’t land on my face
The humiliation and the botherations of dealing,
this kind of weather year after year:

we just have to bear in mind that
Winter begins on the winter solstice and ends on the spring equinox.
The roses will bloom again, the tulips with rise again in April
And we will determine which one is the morning dew
And which one is not the icicle dripping:

......................................................­...................................
Prayer for autumn and winter days
I’ve just rediscovered this beautiful prayer from belief.net. I know it’s now winter and the title is Prayer For Autumn Days, AND I’m not crazier than usual, it is still appropria…
sparklesandangels.wordpress.com

Mr. hourglass
Why didn’t you stand by me?
I realize now that I was hardly alone in my naivety
during my youthful days

I remember
my curvy shape
my long slender legs,
The stride of my step as I sway along
the sandy beach of clover bay

I felt
the misty spray bounce off the sea and bathe me
within in that frame of time
my mind was free
from all negativity

  I reflect back on the years of my youth
I am so smitten by the truth
Oh! How I long for those wonder years
Without the regrets, the tears
I dread all futuristic journeys
That led me so far away from you.
Mirror of my past
this girl before you
Have lost her way

Boast, not thyself of tomorrow
For thou knows not a day may bring forth.
I am looking for a second love
Because my first love he

Never fulfilled my wildest fantasies
Where no wood is, there the fire goes out.
So where there is no talebearer, the strife ceases

So can you blame me, for looking for my second love?
Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart
A warm hand can smooth a broken wing.
So where was my first love hands

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

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

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

Without leaving any stone unturned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If We Speak of the Hurricane



We think of past storms, the aftermath

The deep wailing of the crowd

The interview of the bystanders

And here comes that sad looks

of the homeowner faces

And there it stood that uprooted fallen tree,

Inches away from their house

And that when we know,  

It was the rightful thing to do

Listening to the voice of God:



In the wind of the solemn sound

I remember the falling Palins,

The rusty galvanizes that blanket the streets

Where the birds of prey nested:

And once again, we listen to the voice of God

In the wind of the solemn sound

If we speak of the past storms,  

and chat about hurricanes disasters

I remember how the winds pressed on the

Apartment window, forcing it way in.

But I listen to the voice of God

As I heard an uprooted tree, clash down

On the rows of park car, before the alarms sound

Scattering debris, block the drains

Water filled the lonely streets,

And once again, we cry out to God

The volcanoes, now hurricane Elsa  

Why We??

I am a poet. From me, you will get only the best
It’s called persistent, not defeat
a roller of criticism moves me,

However, to watch my surfer friend Andy out on the wave
driven with the wind, those moments of the great madness
  makes wonderful poetic lines, I sense the rush, his madness,
and his sense of honor.

I shall therefore joyfully boast in my sufferings my friends
However, when you disrespect the poet, you disrespect the art.
you cut your roots at the source, and your thoughts will grow silent,
I am so blessed with the spirit; I am never stumped by fears

Yet, if you hold my poems against the mirror
the mirror would never read the contents backwards,
My messages to the world have no secret.

I am your poet, not your puppet on a string
My words are louder than clappers,
Like a heavily smoke-filled room,
My words might gag you,
because my words speak wisdom

This poet is not ashamed to write from her heart
My poems is like most nightmare transcending
our fears for the best.
I am breathing, I am writing.
  this is the new age of poetry

Humid August Morning

Packed in my mind lies, all betrayals of my past
It shows on my face like a ****** mask
Over the passing years nothing seems to change
Not even my wore out tattoos nicknames,
I seek answer; I search for peace,
  I am caged, I am seized
 With my innermost thoughts and convictions

What’s my purpose, which one of my petals is going to fall now?
Who’ going to step in and staged an intervention?
I am caged, I am seized, I am so loving ******.
Surrounded by happiness, laughter and some forgiveness
Once again, here I am taking another summer test.

  Open bars, aged faces, cold frosty Banks beers
An islander tradition nothing changes,
not even my tattoo nicknames, Bajan Yankee
Caribbean Queen and Meany heartbreaker,

However, when the laughter fades,
and the music stop in the most romantic setting
A black heart, a broken soul, makes old memories resurfaces;
I see so much, I heard so much and
I overthink so much about worldly things

How can I not go back to the land of the flying fish?
Or where the Bank beers are four for ten
Or where the rooster wakes us up at the crack of dawn,
where humble people just smiling
and saying hello makes a different.

The annoying mosquito buzzes under the protected nets
Till I reach for a can of repellant with anger and yelled who’s next!

I‘ve heard the annoying barks of the neighbor dogs
The unsettling morning news, but nothing as soothing
As watching a black bird singing in the apple trees.
Speaking to the heart of the humans souls:
Once again I am an Island Girl

*See how the nature trees, flowers, grass grow in silence
See the stars, the moon and the sun; we need to be able to touch souls

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

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

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

so, I am going in the water

journal entry Poetry..
I am not ready to face this man
Who broke my heart into squares?
I am not ready to look him full in his lying eyes
And asked him why did he made my eyes overflow
I am not ready as yet to asked him if he remembers
  the birth of his child, the signal from the moon,
the last Friday night of fish and chips
Wailing and speaking in tongues,
being strip down to my waist as
you held my hand and encourage me to be strong!!!!!
That trauma was only for a very short period,
My broken hearts will never heal,
because of whom I invited into my soul
However, to reshape my heart again will take courage, but to
Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting… Quote
Just before he said “How are you Are you okay?
To slam the door in the viper face once again is a step to healing.

Who know me best,  

Who know me, (me)

When I fall in love

I fall hard, or am I mistaken his love

For candy on my eyes, for now,

Or is this the real thing,

I know the truth,  

Am I in total denial of wanting.

Denial has a dark side:

I have a past, of repeating,

The same mistakes,  

Why can’t I see passed those brown eyes,

The saddest part, he hasn't taken me to cloud nine

Or touch my G spots, or glorify me,

What is it about him, that make me thirsty,

I cry so much last night, I cried  

Cry of loneliness, ****** deprivation,

I even cry after ***, they called it the

drowning in a sea of feel-good chemicals like oxytocin and dopamine,  

But it never happened, the done deal so why am I crying?

I will blame this one on my booster shot,

What the hell they injected into my body?

I am seeing things in a different form of light.

Or is my lack of trust?  

I cry even more, seeing his ringtone

And refused to take the called,

Just wanted him to reach for me instead,

I wonder if he has any idea, of what he is

Doing to me: I am a woman,

I need to be touch.  

How can I overlook this jealousy?

And focus, on me, and not on you.

Your needs are being meet,

I feel like I am pregnant, again, waiting  

For that little life inside of me to

Come out and love me. Wholeheartedly

I buried my father:

In the St. Augustine Cemetery
I visit at the old gravesite of the deceased annually
I saw the quiet grave keeper still standing there looking dazed and confused
By the looks of things:
My father resting place
still soaks up all the tears

My mother and other siblings said to me
That to visit any one grave site wasn’t their kind of thing

I buried my father underground: It have been so long
Since then, the birds would come to the house of my father
Looking for breadcrumbs from days old bread
The dead will not be forgotten, his name will lives on

When I was a toddler, he fed me white rice with butter
Sprinkled with black pepper and grated cheese:
With my weak voice I was say “thank you: he was so please

I buried my father in the St. Augustine cemetery
It’s one of the saddest places to visit,
Unlike seasonal passes tickets
So adjacent, those graves: so annoying those wild crickets

He might be far away from his home,
but not from our hearts
Everything on his grave seem so square and flat,
But the most outstanding piece was the letters that read
R.I.P:  what I saw was (Rescue Innocent Perry)

Sometimes, I wondered about the dead
About their done deals: their final feast
I buried my father there, but not his memories

I saw the old mahogany tree still standing tall
the pieces of kindling wood, he made for grilling,

I will  always remember him, and I know he might be
Thinking of me, his poetic daughter especially on that day
when I accompany him to cut the branches from the
old Mahogany tree, just to make backyard wood fire
For the family breakfast, lunch and supper
I buried my father: the naïve share cropper:

“The fact that I can plant a seed and it becomes a flower, share a bit of knowledge and it becomes another's, smile at someone and receive a smile in return, are to me continual spiritual exercises.”*


― Leo Buscaglia

It only seems like yesterday,
When I look at the camera and took this selfie
The waves rush up against our feet,
everything seem to be complete and carefree,
Tonight I ponder, I hold onto the memories

This is not a goodbye poem, this is a memorable piece
Accepting loneliness without judging;
Accepting failure without, feeling humiliated
I can smell the sea air;
I can taste the salt in my tears tonight

Everyone smiles in the same language
Not everyone hurts the same way

I cast a backward look—how the times changed

To the beautiful face in the stroller
She Smile, I smiled, the guardian frown
A child is not born to hate
Hate is taught:
Hate is the new formula in their supplements
home is where it multiply so easily:
Let not occupy kinship bias
Defused the bigots:
Save our innocent children:
No child is born to hate;
~~~~
*World's Wit and Wisdom
Children have never been good at
listening to their elders, but they
have never failed to imitate them.
James Baldwin, 1924 - 1987

I kept seeing Derek Chauvin posture,
so casual, so photogenic

Nine Minutes Of agony, as he squeeze the light out of George Floyd
On May 25, 2020, George Floyd, a 46-year-old black man,
was killed in Minneapolis, Minnesota
during an arrest for allegedly using a counterfeit bill
.
I just cannot get the image of George Floyd
Out of my mind, while others might see the knees of death

I saw a history of abuse, I saw a revolution,  
Apartheid, Doctor King, speeches’
I saw a poet pen, fumbles for words,
I saw emotions of my words turning to why?
A another movie in the making,
I saw an unknown man and his family
About to make history in the making;

I saw a rainbow, with the rain,
I saw blood in the streets of America,
I saw the scar on my ancestors backs fading
Somehow at this moment
I can see the Promised Land emerging as
I Stand in my showers or is it tears?

Ideas

What daily thoughts does a poet carry?
from his life, from day to day
are they his own visions, or passing images?
Of the people he passes on the street?

No matter how hard he tries to forgets
The faces of desperation behind the fears
Seem so helpless and hopeless,

He can be high today, and low tomorrow,
On those passing day, who own it?

Those moment were his, he nailed them:
A poet thought is never his own
It always  best to relinquish them into verses,
And allow his ideas to be the best of the best
He seized the moment, he frame his ideas
Eventually someone will be Inspires by his free-flowing,

I don't have any emotions anymore
Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m having a feeling
Or I am dreaming, while I am awake?

Some might think that my mind
is exploring my emotions
while looking for happiness,

So I decided to bake a melodrama cake
Nope! I meant mel-o-cream butter pound cake
The ingredient is my path to getting my feelings back
Egg, butter, flour, sugar, raisins,
baking powder and a little milk
I just want to transfer my feeling,
with some logical thinking..


  Somewhere, deep within a non stanzaic,
and syllabic poem forms by the minute
It’s going to trend like this cake,
which is going to be bake with love

Poetry is everywhere,
creaming my butter and sugar is poetic
because butter and sugar never stick together. It also
reminds me of Nana’s golden brown patties, tasty and spicy
Adding the eggs, nutmeg, baking powder, brings out the
natural female traits in this Island girl,
without my empowering dreads

The raisins and the baking powder remind me of
The Rise of Radical African American Activism,
And all that rises, rise in due degree
so poetry is everywhere
it's  in everything we say and do.

I doubt,
I woke up this morning with doubt
I doubt I would ever find happiness
In a spike smoothie
I am being driven more toward;
the sea madness

I doubt I will ever take that trip to California
Or print my name on the wall of Jericho
because of the Israelites;

I doubt I would ever buy that $3000 Gucci bag
Just to empty out my account
I doubt I will ever swim in the ocean, again
my courage always rises with
every attempt to intimidate me.

I doubt I will ever walk the lonely street late at night again
If a pervert **** his mother,
No doubt what he would do to me
For him I am a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.
I doubt I would ever be able to write a sonnet, because
The feeling of frustration comes as a result
of my mixed emotional states
My parents doubted that I would have never made it this far
Because most micro preemie baby never survived

I doubt, doubt would never leave my side
Through the pain, through the doubt, here I am
today the doubtful unknown poet

I remember the exact moment
when I locked my heart,
I heard the sweet melody
once again in my favorite songs
I felt my skin tightening against
the harshness of the world
And it felt so great, so delightful
no more pain, no more tears,

I never want to conquered love;
I never wanted to feel trapped
I just want to live; I just wanted to be free
I took my life back, and I slowly regain my sanity
I cast out those demons, and then I wrote a poem,
About the demons, love, and lost and my wildest dream

I am now sleeping in a dream of summer weather
As I awake to a wonderful good morning phrases
A phrase, I had lost so long ago,

The caroling birds outside my window
What a beautiful sight?
What a beautiful morning

Mine Salutations in the morning are now like vitamins
Good morning, good morning, good morning strangers
Take these vitamins with you folks, remember this poem
And do remember me.

If this is no poem then:

Then it must be a good **** during a rainy night
Because it a rush, a rush to get to the finish line
Legs stretching higher than a frog most heroic leap;
That’s when you have to admire how terrific the organs
Can be during moment of ecstasy:
If this is no poem then

Donald Trump is not taking residency in the white house
Where Politics is still a multifaceted word: according the wikipedant
And hate intolerance, greed, revenge, violence, famine, disease,
Continues to be the number one problem in the world today:
If this is no poem then

There are no use for poetic devices, and my feeling shouldn’t
Get in the way of the truth, of setting me straight or free.
Poetry comes from the island, where the native spoke
Dialect like they don’t give a ****. .about the language called English
Breaking up words into sugar cane…and making raw brown sugar lyrics

If this is no poem then

It ought to be: or take the road to Bombay:
And see if the folks there really love poetry…
or give a rat *** about they missing teeth.

Cow itch circle the hills
Picking up speed, what a nuisance:
My body became numb: the torturous seeds
The native never seem move: by the “muckleheads”.
The itch and the sand flies: a duel team

I was the victim: The vice was on my back
Under house arrest, a meltdown I was so trap
It was time to leave all of the seedpods behind
Fever, malaise, drenching sweats and chills:

I remember once I told a fan, about my kind of therapy
My morning’s session, of cleansing the mind
A blast of my past: the uneven dots on my temple walls
Am I making a break through, nope I never had closure,

The groom wore red, on his special day.
I was the one that wore velvety black,
but I celebrated their reunion with a tall glass of
Ca’ del Bosco Cuvée Prestige Brut, Franciacorta DOCG.
Wine:

I’m far too clever to be taken likely:
So, I  let  my poetry writing do its own disciplined

**"If you can’t be a poet, be the poem. – David Carradine"