We don't fight
With fists or guns
But with words;
Ideas, ideals and puns.

Throughout sixteen seasons
I merely looked out of
the five bay windows of my
brick walled birdcage at
shadows of Elm trees
dancing along either
side of the street.

I was only
a lonely observer.

But late one night deep
in the heart of the fifth
summer I sensed an
odd strength surging
through
my weakened wings.

I quietly opened the
door of my cage, glided
down the driveway and
onto the street below,
enticed by warm blustery
and liberating midnight
winds under the strange
glow of moonlight through

translucent
sunbaked
and
cracked
clay
clouds.

I no longer just longingly
admired the view of the
dancing shadows on the
street through a window;
I actually felt the shadows
of those living branches
and leaves dance with
my shadow and felt them
caress my

hair
face
arms
legs
mind
and
spirit

as I did a
low test flight with
them for
only about twenty feet
over and along the
back street below.

I longed to continue
my solo night flight
like a bird through
the midnight air in
currents of streets
and hundreds of miles
of highway where my
baby and I like two
newly
freed birds could fly
across the

Sea
of
Change
and
of
Destiny

where we could at last
be truly free in our
hearts in our minds
and also physically.

But like a well-trained
domesticated bird
I reluctantly returned
to the large cage of my
mind where I continue
to dream of being free --

my
gentle
companion
and
me.

I am
naked
in my thought

Safe
within my room
nestled and cocooned
I touch no one and no one
touches me

I am poet
Words barred and leveraged
for all soiled souls
who are possessed

For who finds faith
in word
without light
while searching
in the dark

Once upon a time
a father with his belt –
(with black shiny paint
and a steel which is melt)

And a son, a pen in his hand
A book by his side
A lamp blowing light
Tears in his eyes
The fear in his veins
With his wimped tiny mole

(A cry in his neck and
a gulp in his bones)

Whimp whimp strikes the ground
Wipes the tears,picks up his pen
Shakes up his head,
Gives him a cloth,
to blow up his nose

(A smile on the boy's face
The fallen tear on the page's lace
It dried his shake on hand and
moved him a pace)

Whimp, whimp, whimp – strikes again
(A posed fear on son's face)
Whimp, and he strikes again
(The clueless child, shakes with his pain )

The blats on the floor
and its black remains
The years of slaps
which slashed up cement

(He comes back..
drops his belt   )

A relief in boy's breath

The steel fallen,
relief is felt

The father with his red hands
(Blood flows out at a spot's end )
Smiles at the son

Dark is his eyes like year's repent

(A strung in his mind
He shakes only once,
As he picks up his belt)

He sits on his couch and
acts as he had a father –
with a belt-
(with its black shiny paint and
a steel which is melt.)

Is there anything more permanent ?
Is there anything more vain ?
For surely the word we call last
Will outlast all our attempts to change

Those that people believe all religions as equally true

The philosophers that believe all religions are equally false

The politicians that believe all religions are equally useful

Some days, I smile and I don’t know why,
Other days, I sit and just let time slide by.
Coffee gets cold, texts go unread,
Thoughts spinning circles inside my head.

Some days, I win little fights with my doubt,
Other days, I barely crawl out.
But I breathe, I try, I take one more stride
And that, for today, is enough on my side.

You’re probably right
That we’re not “right”
I’m not exactly the faithful type
I’ve been not good to a good man  
Now he’s a beloved friend
I’ve done *****
To every one of them
But they’d probably choose
To love me like that again
Maybe change a few
Moments
But I’d probably choose
To love them again
Too
I believe that’s a promise I can make to you
Mutual respect
Whether or not we see it through
It could last a week
What I see
And what I learn
It would be worth
The burn
If it ever got hot
And a true love ain’t what we got
What it be is still worthy
Even if it be not

I've been to the
bitter, dark place
where dreams are
decorations in
dilapidated houses,
a building haunted by
the ghosts of spring.
I tasted the wine of
****** and convicts
there.

I've prayed with the
broken and wasted.
I spent
days and months,
almost forever with
the feral men and
women of America in
homes not fit for fleas.

Then one cosmic day,
while the wounded slept,
I chased a beautiful
moth that escaped the flame.
And that has made all
the difference.

I'm mature at times and immature at lengths
I need to keep my tongue to go off a roll
I regret a breath later, I'll regret it till the end
So hard is to make do, my assessment calls
I need to think through it, the pitfalls
Blink and compute, what comes from the mouth
Is it true, kind and necessary?
Am I calm, steady and ready?