She buried him in his wedding attire
They capture a smile upon his face
a smile that reflects the artistic of a mortician’s skills:
Somehow, I saw the kings of
Sudan Dinka, Nuer, and Anouk
Smoothest, darkest, flawless pigmentation
in Africa

I stood there; I touch his face,
And I whispered why, why now,
I think I heard him said from a distance
Ma lady, every little thing is going to be alright”
I never meant to causes you pain, I never meant
To make you feel ashamed,

Try to remember, why we met,
And why I must leave now..
As they rewind the lid down,
I said it okay, its okay for now>
The father knows best..

I just woke up and it dawn upon me, "I am single.!
however my energy is filled with loving thoughts from my past.
or is it misrepresented of truth?

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

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

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

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

Beauty walks this world. It ages everything**
I love them according to the seasons
Let’s start with the winter scene  
It reminds me of June bridal dresses
Woven into the likeness of winter themes
Capturing Impureness without stresses’

The colors of springs, the beginning of testing,
  The attitude of one’s happiness that lies ahead for bracing sea breeze
The mindset of the summer beauty :shine through summer madness:

as we slowly move into the fall months
We tend to have spiritual thoughts about the madness of summer
The spring will dwindle, as the windy days come
Embrace the beauty of remaining days of summer

The beauty will be bottle in our hearts and mind for ever
Beauty walks this world, it ages like any another thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes when we touch
The honesty too much, Dan Hill
Honest and sympathetic approach
to this ongoing question
Do I or do you still love them?

I remember when I said
I love Him, for me, the words came out so easily
that glowing blush, that healthy  warm feeling,

Now our love stand still like
The curtain on my window sill
So decorative, those simple details

Come hell or high waters
It's my love for him, it’s changing,
My words seem so cold, so bold,
Oh! my dear, Oh my love

Sometimes when we touch
The honesty too much;*
Thank you so much Dan Hill
Now everything is so clear in my heart

Do people still blanket their walls with pictures

Of family members, framed and hanging like draperies

When I walk in my living room,  

I see a lonely couch, a 55-inch television

And memories of people who once lived there:

Sometimes I smile, sometimes I pondered,  

Sometimes I just want to say,

Where are my children,  

Why am I alone, then I smiled and speak?

It's good to be alone, with my poems, my thoughts

And my broken table, the one which she broke

After sitting on top of it. While chatting on the phone



I wondered if the years would change like Tik Tok video clips

Like a new outfit, with a clap of the hands


To grow old is to lose everything?

Yes, or no? But the worse part ..

Is when you work your whole life

And nothing to show, that **** per say

Just old memories, and piled of bills

What have the years thought us,

Never take nothing for granted:

Never put all your eggs in one basket

Never, allowed the bank to control, your

Pennies and dimes, never lend money to your friends

Keep your personal business, bottled:

Is it the rows of cold rooms
On the stench of the unit, or the
Thirty eight doors to be open
in addition to the thirtyish mouth to be fed,
Where the exit signs taunts: (leave)?
Untold stories behind each sound of the peg tubes:

Do I really belong in a place like that?
Is that where my poetry ideas come from?
Do my poems arise from there?
Flushing the sour milk, clearing their airway
Start from their stomach and ends with the ****:
On a stinky unit, where thirtyish mouth to fed
And fortyish beds to be made in a sense of three hours top

The cure for a hardened heart is to keep,
a total commitment to keep your MIND state on the Lord!
Lord, why me? I shall never smile with the living
Or weep for the dead: why me?
why the poet from Proute Street..?

He bluntly crucified my friend
I’ve known liars, I‘ve known thieves
I’ve seen crooked lawyers in action
I was shocked by the jurors reaction
  I have study the body languages of the fibbers
Read between the lines of the tell-tales

But to concocted a preposterous but believable story
Just to feed it to the judge: That is so cold, yet so bold
I always believe in the old saying,
Only fools represent themselves in the courts of law
My heart bleeds for my dearest friend
His soul have grown weaker than elastic knicker

Akiane Kramarik  said
"No matter what happens around us, or to us, through love,
our soul reaches immortality, conquering all dimensions and all destinies

He had bathed in the forbidden sea, where the mermaid had warn him
Not to entered:, Where the daughters of Lucifer lured  kindhearted men from good homes

He builds their house near the sand, and it slowly sank
He looks out to the Atlantic Ocean,
for guidance and saw the raging waves

Then he remembers nights of unsettling dream:
He have known liars, he have known pain,
Somehow, it was hard for him to stay afloat in
the murky water  I’ve known liars

  I have listened to both sides:
but earlier this week the judge was so quick to chooses sides
Is this the end for my friend?

I want to write a poem that creates a chilling atmosphere
While orchestrating sound,
with the feeling of rhythm and blues
I want to write a poem about the unknown poets,
the ones who never lived long enough
to see their work published,
I always look to the unknown poets for inspiration
Especially the poet who wrote
“Live only for today, for tomorrow may never come”
I suppose his tomorrows weren't in the cards
I supposed he had to be a pig farmer
Deep within he knew his pigs was to be tomorrow's bacon

There’s always hope for all kind, of poems to come to light
I want to write a poem about natural beauty, and let the world
Know that it’s alright to go natural, without all the heavy makeup
I just want to write a poem, no one ever thought of writing
And that poem is all about me.

I was in love with a Poem:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I tell you I saw a rose blooming in the heart of winter, you might not believe me, especially if you're among those who struggle to stay afloat. But that rose serves as a powerful reminder of something we’ve forgotten. For me, it represents resilience and hope.

During summer, I often ponder whether we ever really stop to smell the roses—such a cliché, but it’s true. I didn’t give much thought to the rose until two days ago when I discussed it with a friend. I used to receive a single rose on the 6th of every month.

That tradition came to an end when our love started to wither, just like that rose.

Despite that, the memories linger. Did I appreciate those gestures of love during those months? Absolutely. I felt love and warmth, and now I find myself facing another period of solitude. But let’s be clear—I can buy myself flowers.

I refuse to forgive that single rose or the person who took our love for granted. I’ll savor my eggnog and Bailey's Irish Cream, but I won’t be baking my goose.

Laughter brings invaluable positivity to our lives and relationships. I’ve come to recognize why a laugh, a smile, or a simple gesture can uplift someone's spirit. When the roses smile at me, it’s a reminder that I’ve opened my heart once again, and I won’t shy away from embracing that.

Assume, just for a moment,
That yesterday wasn't really yesterday
You were in a vegetative state: you saw the light
just to be awoken, from your worst nightmare
The sky wasn’t blue, anymore it look gray:

The man in the white house was missing, off the radar
Leaving the people with nothing more than all his hopes
Then you remember, somewhere where you read
That the poet also resigns himself to his mood.
Perhaps, that why some verses should always end with an Amen,

I remembered sitting in my little chair in preschool
Waiting for the role called, j
just to hear her called my name correctly
But, my teacher never did, waverly, wabney,
Assume, just for a moment in time, I got up
And yelled it not warily, or Dabney it Demerara *** holes:
I always got a sick feeling, when they called my bestie name
And she wasn’t there, I always assumes the worse..

I was always an emotional state of sensing another‘s emotions.
At an early age I was that child who spoke with colors: I held on so tight, to my crayons box and silly putty that I made an image of my fist:
As an adult we hold on to grudges and bitterness
I too am guilty of that: when would it end.

I will not love you

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

I wow not to leave this earth a lonely *****,
Taunted by past lovers who label me as a witch?
Here I am today, keeping my eyes on the price,
I wow never again to be fed by more optimistic lies

From the Caribbean to the Central American shore
Every woman need to be love and to be adored
And not be willfully be subjected
to the life of a married man's *****

I have found solace in my poetry,
Therefore, I cannot commit adultery?

Living with shame, guilt and
asking God to forgive a sinner
Here I am today keeping my eyes on the price,
I just became an instant lucky winner:

Because of that little girl from across the Caribbean Sea
Who travels led her to the Central American shore
Once she said no more, she meant no more

A woman like me is often misunderstood.
Because of the path I have taken through the woods
I have listened numerous times to the blabbing brook
Who comments were rude, about the rich folks

But instead I observe from my homeless tent, the high achievers
I took it all in stride, while the mosquitoes chew on my legs
Women like me aren’t afraid to dream,
Neither are we bashful to wear
the wide rim hat at Easter time
Because all eyes would be on the winners (us)

I went to sleep in the year 2020
and woke up this morning in 1841
In old England, as is might seems:

Using words like give me a pint,
You old ******, lick me boots,
Lass and me Gentlemen
They had everything
Like everything in common with
America nowadays except, of course, languages.

To flogged a dead horse more like what i was seeing:
Racism there was as white as you could imagine
race against race: British and Ireland

The rich and the poor,
The upper class and the low renters,
Stagecoaches, and pan wagons,
I was somewhat confused,
with such animosity
White on white racism,

so when did the Black race came to that place.

Come to me senses, a poor Irish lad told a lass
A poor lady response by saying
aye better be on yah way!
You silly ******,
The red brick hair, the Irish twang:
Looking restless, moving around in that city,
Where the noise, and the eyes of the people
Seem, a part of labor and a part of pain
A part of sadness and a part of happiness

After seeing this small glimpse of their future
The labor, the pain, the sadness and the happiness
Was so timid,  waiting to be belong
One ****** even said, the sea give,(seafood)
And the sea takes, (shipped sinks)

Was I dreaming, why was really there?
As a poet in order to move on in the future,
we must know our past stories,
there will be times of unwanted pain,
the odd games…………

Where we are force to live in a roulette society:
I felt worn out like a cylinder..
In the year 1841 – 1843 in a comatose state

I wonder
How it would have been like if you had stayed
Would your parking spot would have been the same
Would your rustic tool box would have been in the shed
Or would an old copy of your favorite Tom Jones tunes,
would have played over and over
Every Sunday morning

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

Again, you welcome us with tragedy
With Cold, windy stormy winter blues
The unpredictability of lakes and pond ice,
Becomes every fisherman’s worst nightmare

A dead robin outside my bedroom window
Highlight the day. As the high wind
  Slammed against the lids of the city dumpsters
it was so loud it was deafening

Here I am the last cookie poet to enter eagerly into the new-year
With a different perspective, eagerly rehearsing my thoughts
  Before my poem trail off to believers or non-believers alike

You will not ******* away like the north wind
Every line you shall follow by scanning each undusted I’s
I am the poet to unknown regions stray
carrying words of wisdom,
but do bear in mind

*It's easy to cheer when victory's near

Jealousy is a weak link<
it is far most dangerous than the stages of cancer:

Mothers are not supposed to bury their children
Should she seek revenge for her child?
Should she forgive?

Keep the sweet memory of your child alive
Within your heart, let the world
Remember her killer as the monster
Let the unknown deal with his spirit
Let the angel, guide your child spirit
To a better place,

The struggle with revenge is centuries old. Shakespeare said, "If you ***** us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?" Shakespeare clearly thought revenge was as normal and predictable as the sun rising. Quote:

However, it is not: it just a pacifier solution,
To calm the madness of the mind
Is to be in control:
Because, jealousy is a weak emotion:

His favored ones, whose backs bend o’er the soil,
He blessed the hands of the ones who look after
His animals, with loving care, with sweet voices,
So gentle so caring, then, he blessed his children
In everything they do. And that is you, my Johnny
Tears, praise, love, joy, enwoven in your chest
As I watch you make adjustments, like the river of life
However, Johnny where there are no Roses
There is no hope of predicting, the love of a side chick(😊
With lots of bedroom tricks, more than professional decorator:
My wonderful brave robustly man of the soil,
I love your smile, your pouty lips,
And the way in which you announce my name,
Your gift from God is supreme,
as well as my futuristic dreams
Brave one of the Caribbean soils,
It was a wonderful thing you done
That night as you stay up late and spoke
Hello to me!

“If you wish to succeed in life, make perseverance your ***** friend, experience your wise counselor, caution your elder brother, and hope your guardian genius.”


― Joseph Addison

I am not ready  to face this man
Who broke my heart into squares?
I am not ready as yet to look him full in his lying eyes
And asked him why did he made my eyes overflow
I am not ready to asked him if he remembers
  the birth of our child, the signal from the moon,
the last Friday night of fish and chips,
I Wailing and speaking in tongues,
being strip down to my waist
I was encourage by him to be strong
But instead I held on to his left hand for strength and support..

That trauma was only for a very short period,
My broken hearts will never heal,
My soul long for answers,
However, to reshape my heart again take courage, but to

* Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting…*

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.

My favorite bloomer knows my curves,
As well as my favorite poems, knows its audiences,
But it wasn’t written by me:

The verses inspire, encourage and feed my mind
Like an infant loving the theme songs of the A B C
Like an isolated soul that forces to be reckoned with
Come take a leap of faith with me,

Let’s climb the highest mountains
Or take that plunge to the ocean floor to see what lurks down there
Our mood shall always change with the clocks,
tick, tock, tick tock,
while our hearts  beat out of rhythm

our minds, however shall feel the changes with each modern poem,
to public narratives – the stories we read each day
Come what may, we shall prevail



*Joy...
    “ Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with. ”
― Mark Twain

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

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


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

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

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

I saw a pretty street this morning I forgot the name**

I remember dressing my daughters in pink

I never had the opportunity to dress someone in blue

I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.

(would it have made a different?



Yesterday, it took me almost fifteen minutes to convince

A polish patient to take a shower,  

so I did is what the new norm does

I pulled up Google, and I asked to translate  

Take a shower tomorrow .. and he did it for me. ( jutro prysznic)

Life, what we had to do to earn a buck!!

Would it had made a huge different if

Police officer Derek Chauvin

hadn’t knelt into George Floyd neck last year?

I think Derek C was trying to prove a point

Like a sharpen no 2 pencil it broke...



I will leave this answer to the jury to decide

Poetry writing is like a *** position  

That we afraid to try,

My way of writing poetry is unique

I allow my mind to take me there

And my fingers to type  in calibri style

Never be afraid to express oneself

Be true to yourself..

Earth, is receiving an unwanted guest:
A total disgrace, a worldly test
It surface in the dead of winter, as the
Silence invaded our towns, watchful
Stares from every human eyes:

In hopes that this is all lies, because of it
It teaches everyone how to pray
In the heart of this crisis.. We are self-quarantine:
Living in fear or living by fear is very different to feeling our fears.

Poetry Nevers makes nothing happens,
It make us think of the words, it make us become vigilant
Is this the end of civilization?
Is the corona virus, the anti-Christ?
Earth is receiving an unwanted guest
Stares from every human eyes,

Fear, in the heart of every man and child
Teach us how to believe and pray.
Is this the rapture???

King Solomon and I will fly a kite

On this historical Good Friday,
we seek justice for the young lady
Her father made her act as if she were his niece.
To deceive his new wife, so that she could live with them
His wife found out about the plot and hell would break loose.
On social media, who is in fault,
The father or the new wife,
for sure not the innocent child
A lie can bring down an empire, a lie can be engraved in history
Chioma, Chioma, anger are secondary emotions
Would love and devotion once again intertwined?
As the wise King stood beside my fingertips today

Just prayer, for kindness and forgiveness
Love conquerors all, love can lead to forgiveness,
Acid corrodes a tongue that speaks falsely
Will one day become un-Godly?
We will hold on to this kite before we release it
Time will tell in ten years,
While the innocent will endure the most suffering. (Amen)
All children should reside under their father’s roof
According to the biblical time:
Blood is thicker than water,
Acid corrodes a tongue that speaks falsely
Will one day become un-godly.

I look for words in the dark,
My thoughts were trigger by you
My Island soul knows no malice, until
negative thinking roams around in my head
It defines who I am, so I became the poem
And the poem became my affinity
to the nature of poetry
Fire bun, fire bun
Blaze dem Jah, purge dem ya hayed!

They came to my Island to feel
the warmth of the sunshine
as for me I visited a very difficult country
to become its shadow
I look for words in the dark:
My Island soul knows no malice
Only kinship with all life

Pain, regret—your sobbing;
And again, quiet—her gravely somber,
How could you. How could you!
Willingly, agreed to the ashes,
a very old ancient ritual:

I remember a mortal man: without the bold red
Now it’s jar of some kind.
Did he really exist, did he really?
Walk this earth, walk the block
Made those provocative laughter
During the moments, throughout the movies,
I remember this mortal man
Not a jar of ashes  pure marlarkey
We cannot kneel at his grave
Or read his tomb stones.
Wasn’t he his children hero?
A friend of a friend of a friend;

The man with the car who had the broken muffler?
The man who chosen the white ******
While she took a warm shower, and patiently
Waits for her to come back to his bed:

That face we love is truly missing
The voice we know will slowly fade:
Back half is this really true…,  is it the end?

Lady Folly
He did not kiss me when he said good-bye;
I let him go, not asking why,
Self-reflection
But I knew why, today I am taking a break
To reflect on myself, on this blessed Palm Sunday
What do I really want, what do I really need?
Somedays I think I know,
especially then I fall back into my mode
I see things others don’t,
my ****** muscle contracts each time
he rolled over, and touched, another,
even as he spoke kindly, I always knew
It's not cheating for him. Somehow for me
It's an invasion of one's privacy
As I feud within: I shattered mirror,
Of myself, this can’t be love it's not real:
Even though,
I’ve learned it is far better to lay in an empty bed
Then to lay next to someone who makes me feel empty(quote)
In my case, I am experiencing a folly of a woman
When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly


WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his *****--is to die.

Oliver Goldsmith
URL: https://able2know.org/topic/6894-1
Poetry can be therapy, poetry can be therapeutic,
These past memories, months of longing feelings,
I need the touch of his hand, his voice I can easily retrieve
The path of my writing is a path of truth,
I am the one that contributed to this madness,
I am the one with the poet's keyboard and pen
I am the one that should have just stayed friends,
I am the one that hate all men,
I am the one that loves, hates, and then love again,
Emotions, emotions, keep taking me in the wrong direction,
I want to go back, to my safe place, called loneliness
My heartbreak hotel

I was never truly loved by anyone
Only by me and I
and I am not even sure about either one

I love my therapy session with poetry
I can assess myself with self-evaluating
I am at the point in life when I don’t
Give a rat ***, about what others think of me
Retirement has taught me to be a free agent
I am now the captain of my soul
Free from other people's demands and clutches

I have not heard that demanding salutation in the
Morning of Mrs. Lander can you come to the front desk
Or waiting for the clock to strike 3 to make my exit
Time is of the essence, and it means nothing to me these days
I will be there when I get there.
Unless it is boarding time in row 3
To love me is to know me,
as for me to love you it will take
A strong will and endurance in my poetry sessions
I have been there and done that
And will not allow it into my life anymore,
Haven to be humble and being humiliated
I had to endure, haven to question myself
About my love for me, I lamented:



I was never truly loved by anyone, only by myself, and even that I question. Poetry is my therapy, a mirror for self-evaluation. I've reached a point where I don't care what others think. Retirement has made me a free agent, the captain of my soul, free from others' demands. No more morning calls to the front desk, no more waiting for the clock to strike three. Time is now my own, and it means nothing to me.
I'll be there when I get there
unless it's boarding time in row three.
To love me is to know me,
and for me to love you, it takes strength and endurance. I've been there, and done that, and won't allow it into my life anymore.
I've endured humility and humiliation, questioning my love for myself. I lamented:

Large heads

The Modern Slavery Crisis Must Be Addressed.
Calling on all poets for an urgent meet-up
The Pied Piper has surfaced again in this world.
On this occasion, he is dressed in a Jojo Armani suit.
He never drinks bottled water from the guest tables
He questions the labels, he questions the cell phones
He reacts to the earplug in their ears
It brought on a wave of sadness,
What is this madness? He said under his breath!
He looked across at the audience,
And whisper how convenient!
Stand up, stand up, stand up for your rights
Did this new generation go down without a fight?
No pointed hats, but why so many large heads?
Here ye hear ye, hear ye, have the men and women
This generation sold their souls for honey.
Misery is a life sentence in which love company,
That is why he called the meetup today, per se,
Cats and dogs will never be friends, he said in an unknown language
Timekeepers cannot stop time, time will run out,
Large heads will Strunk because it filled with air,
Great leaders of the world, I welcome you all.
But I am not Bob the builder, I can't shape your future
I am the Pied Piper:

From the look of you:
I became the arrow and you were my bow
That aim right at my heart:

I grasp my chest
Looking for the blood of redemption

You were my rock,
Never my divider,
And I fell right into your trap.
Launch into nothing…

Let a fool be a fool

**Matthew 7:6
Do not give dogs what is holy; do not throw your pearls before swine. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and then turn and tear you to pieces

Having a fight with you  
Is like punching myself,
Trying not to get bruise,
Our soul is connected,
My heart sway each time we speak
inflecting pain without intentions
Yelling at each other for no reason.
Trying my best to see things your way
Knowingly, it's so wrong to stray from the love
Can this kind of pain make me feel better?
Or scar us for life?
Having to fight with him
It’s like taking a swim on a cold winter day
Without thinking of myself as a polar bear,
We always said I love you, daily
Can love conqueror all.
My heart knows how to attracts emotional pain,
Our souls are waiting to make that ****** connection
So, I don’t want to fight with him.

Tonight I pray for my enemies
Not the dead for sure!
The dead and I always settle our feud

I look at my monthly bills on the kitchen table
And decided if I should eliminate those first
Not going anywhere for sure!

I received the blessing, from him
He is my source of love and guidance,
An enemy can be mortal
Or can be in this moment China:
An enemy who got away with genocide:
Tonight I pray for my enemies,
Because, I am the voice for the dead..

The Candidates:
If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves

What have they said to us
That we haven’t already heard before
Can they bring America Back?
From the brink of disasters’

It’s best they stop trying so hard
To make see Russia from their house
The majority of American only sees colors

Green eggs and ham, green lawns, green acres,
Green, green, green, and more greener the dollars

Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness.
And they live by what they hear.
Such people become crazy... or they become legend. Jim Harrison

As for me I usually clear my throat, and swallow deep,
While I listen to their speech rehearsal:

I had plenty to say. But you just wouldn't listen. ..  so I farted  and that got your attention..anything to clear the air. ..
Between us..

I did not mean to write about death on a Sunday morn
He said that he didn’t mean to dial my number at 6 am
this awoke me from my dream
I was dreaming of being in California
Waiting to board a bus that was leaving at 2 pm
It was headed to New York City:

Poems can be amazing topic to ease the pressure of the day
Recalling an odd glimpse of a dream can be so puzzling
The dearly departed is never going to come back to us: unless
They are a part of a soap opera story line:
Somehow this mortal man ought to go and joined them

I wish that ***** would have called someone from the grave
And woke them up instead of me:

I just saw a not so love president in a recent photo
Standing alongside his daughter on graduation day
He too, look like he wish someone, hadn’t interrupted
His busy schedule, to pose for that photo session

I read a poem a day for inspiration,
How do you get your inspiration?

I lift my aching body from the bed
Liked an elder from the wheelchair: rigid

Looking at the mirror, I saw an unfamiliar face
a bad taste in my mouth, brought tears to my eyes

Oh God!
this old familiar hidden pain throughout my body
The light in my eyes dims, throughout this ordeal,
One foot move slowly, the other dragged along
Should I close my eyes, and listen' to it?

Could move on and fight this battle,
Or visual the pain with patience, a caption poem

The pain is rising up, the words began to unscrambles
Letter by letters, words by words
a needed password is required  to block or reset
Every sinew of my anatomy

I lift my aching body from my bed: I got to win
This downhill battle called chronic pain

I never look at a blank page for too long,

Same goes for facing a blank wall,

it seems to be always missing something.

A photo, a picture, and most of all memories.



When I was a child the same goes with my readers

without those colorful photos, I wasn't

contented with reading the book.

I must have read The House that was up sided down"

More than a dozen times, love how the illustrators  

Mind-expanding illustrations, vocabulary or concepts

had capture my growing mind at a early age.

Today my mind, doesn’t go for the illustrations,

But it can capture poetic details about life,  

And the subject matters: as they come to surface,


When it comes at me in the mirror,

It's not me staring back, but a poet,

A modern free verse kind of poet,

Or would we say a Amazon online shopper,

Instead of a walk-in stores browser

Who see from the rearview of her eyeglasses,


The brothers, I have known them that for the past

Twenty-three years, not on a personal level,

But by observing those two as individual characters,



One was a war vet, the other a computer tech,

One with some post-traumatic stress disorder,  

The other like no other, had a Smoking Marijuana Fixation:

Most likely contribute to his cancer, which lead up to his death,



The other brother, is still here with us,

Hanging around in the lobby, making weird sound

And ****** expression, of a deranging war vet,

We must never assume, who is healthier and who is not.

Because death is a divider, a time stopper,

And unapologetic, defiant Donald Trump of times


At times, I also can be unapologetic

I owes you nothing, I owes you nothing,

I see nothing, I hear nothing, and I am the free verse

Of my daily writing, without rules,  without your approval,

or even riding my bike without a helmet.

Or walking the street of Brooklyn without protection.