"It is a deepening,"
                         she said
and took his hand
to her watery bed,
beaming her light
upon those almost
invisible threads
in particles subtly
                 speaking
in sparkling aquatic tongues
like colored crystals,
felt in shards of icy wine
shells sifted
in far-flung
            seas of time
Shining down as
we dive to the depths
we lead each other on
We are the  
           explorers of the dark
We have
powerful equipment
to attempt to clarify
radiate it all up
              and if it fails,
the light from
our eyes and hands
is enough to illuminate
the murky
        waters below
our salvation,
deep-sea secrets
revealed—
churning in undertow
         In fact, if you dare
to penetrate the dark
and cast aside
fear of predators
               you will see-
the ruins of
an ancient temple
                waiting,
just waiting
for you
       for me
to dance amongst
the algae-coated
alabaster, green
wisps moving
in hypnotic motion
to weave in-between
the fish and corals,
a magic breathing in
of ocean
in sync with our own
                          breaths
This expanse of endlessness
        …..so many layers to discover
to sway and trip the light
in quiet,
            breathless joy
The feel of electric
flow around our feet.
Saltwater,
            turning sweet.
It is time
for the next stage
                     to begin
So tip your
head back,
my love---
and
       drink it
                     in

The books you carry are so expressive
Some pages have those obvious gaps
That show even when the book is closed
They point put the places you've reread
Over and over again
Or the pages you've kept open for too long

Some have plastic covers, while others, leather wraps
Which to me hint favoritism
Or the pricelessness of your literary artifacts
While some don't even have covers anymore
But thats okay, cause with you,
The books don't ever have to feel cold

Some have bookmarks you've bought in the past
Cause you thought they were cute or had a nice quote
While other bookmarks you've made yourself
Out of cut-out folders, and sticky notes
And some have strings, while others don't

Some pages have highlights along the text
Maybe of lines you want to remember
Or of moments you want to feel again
Of places you want to visit in the future
Or of words you have yet to comprehend

Some areas have spills and stains
Perhaps from drinks that refreshed you
As you flipped through page by page
While some look like tear drops
From when characters rode with you
But left to catch some other train
Or maybe you just fell asleep reading
And it could have been just the rain

The books you carry are so expressive
Some titles are familiar, while others new
And I just can't help but wonder
How they all seem to be a reflection of you

The moment I realized
        that love was a choice
And not a feeling
        I became afraid
That you wouldn't continue
         to choose me

A blast of hatred of acid tongues,

A needless phrase to scold the tall,

A forgotten hero they never mention,

Take a look at the one called Robert Smalls.




A swipe by fist of foul means,

A dangerous concoction of sparks,

A cowards language of sorts,

Take a look at the one called Rosa Parks.




A definition of weakness in ruling,

A slap in the face of the now free,

A collapsed cult now gone forever,,

Take a look at the one called Isabella Baumfree.




A word is a word to fight and hurt,

A sentence pinned together from fools,

A paragraph of silence descends upon you,

The N word no longer a relevant tool.

Her feet rose and fell
between fields of paddy

the grass bowed
then looked up on her way.

If only she had wings
and the winds carried her to her sister
she could land right on the yard of her hut
and take her home by the return flight
but her mind soared no less
so before the sun favored the west
she was right by her
laughing and talking like the yore
with only a line of vermilion
that she felt had come between them.

Soon she looked around
and making sure no one was watching
brought out from her skirt a mango.

She gave it to her like
she was giving a piece of her heart
plump yellow green
with the most delicious nectar hidden within
and when she narrowed her lips
to drink from the gift
her tears poured like the summer rain
mingling with the cries of the parched earth.

I used to believe that people had a choice.
For the longest time I believed
that you chose who you love
But I realized how silly that was
when I noticed how I never chose
the people that I love today.

For the longest time I believed
that you could choose what you want to do
but it occurred to me that I never chose
to write stories or poems
but one day the paper and pen called to me

For the longest time I still believe
that people have a choice
that decisions can be made to change
the current situation

The most difficult lesson I learned
is that being sad was never a choice
I did not wake up one day and decide
that being sad sounded like fun
that choice was made for me
But I have control of my actions
I have control of my words
and I'll be in Hell if I don't try
to help myself first

So yes, depression is not a choice
but to a degree, how we react to it
is a choice
I could stay in bed all day
or I can get up
and this morning I felt sad
I still feel sad
But I got up
I got up
and that was a choice I made for myself

Sipping the air slowly
to savor the flavor;
rich with fertility
Leaves bursting into fiery hues
reminiscent of fireworks
trembling in the wind

A death knell
over green sceneries;
splotches of sunlight
seeping seamlessly between
newly naked branches,
easing fully unto checkered golden pools–
nature at its most beautiful,
before its most barren

A glimpse into the mirror
reveals fresh creases crossing
over the corners of my mouth—
lines written in immutable ink;
I try not to linger

crumbling upon a bed
scarcely bearing its title,
strewn with lonely sheets;
I bundle them against my chest
using rougher hands than I had left