Many people see
stars on the night sky.
But I see only a
graveyard whose candles
are still lit on the graves,
even though they are
long exstinguished by the angels

When I was eight
At the park

Playing football
Getting dark

Older kids
Stole our ball

I can't stand bullies
Not at all

Then out of the blue
Three more kids appear

Did I mention they're black
So now I felt fear

But to my surprise, they said
Give the ball back!

What's going on?
I thought they were black

This confused my young mind
From all I was told

Stay away from the blacks
Or you'll never grow old

That one little act
Fifty years ago now

Changed the way I see color
Changed my vision and how

Today I was out
With my eight year old son

God, how I love him
We're having such fun

Then I see someone starring
No, it's more like a glare

I can't be that ugly
It must be my hair

Then an old thought creeps in
From way, way, way, back

She's glaring at us cause
I'm white, and he's black

So my prayer for this world
And I hope you don't mind

Is the day we can say
We're all color blind!

Amen

What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart

The Sun played with her hair as if It were her lover,
Stroking scarlet strands with Its finger-like rays.
How beautiful she must have seemed to the Sun!
Its warmth cupped her chin and guided her smile closer to the light.
Only the Sun could make her cheeks blush the way they did,
Flushing full of color to match her mass of locks.

She danced with the Sun, toes pointed and back poised.
Her arms caressed the warm beams, and her fingers trailed across the streams of light,
The ends of her hair twirling along her hips,
The same hips that the Sun wrapped around.

The two celestial bodies were so intimate,
Embracing and intertwining.
And I was just a boy longing for a love
Such as the love between
Her and the Sun.

alone tonight
to think  
about society
and religion
I took great pains
to be  
by myself
only myself
tonight
but I
had this weight
like I had others
thoughts invade my mystical space
and I had a thought
if I can't even be alone when I try
to be
what the hell does that mean?
Is their some common
conscious a flow from person to person
we don't fully understand yet?
Or is my Karma ****** up
and I am hallucinating again?
Then the tea kettle sang
for me to take her off her hot plate
the small table was  set
with small cups on saucers and two
silver spoons
and I set down
to tea and crumpets
and a hatter made me laugh
and hobbits danced around the room
and a  girl disappeared down a rabbit hole
and resurrected an idol who promised
to return:
so common in fairy tale stories
which this is not , by gosh, just a telling of  a
tale of an evening trying
to discover truth and meanings.

Your kind of loving, your kind of feelings
Your way of living, your way of thinking
Your thoughts are everywhere,
Your mind wanderers, your eyes lie

You held on to my every word
hundreds of words we uses daily
Without the physical action,
you say you love me
That doesn’t mean you love me
Because, you think it weaken me

We both use it, we both **** it
Your kind of loving, your kind of feelings
Your way of living, my way of thinking
Is what we reap is what we sow,

You **** your words, I bargain with myself
my words are counterproductive :

My kind of night, my kind of day
Productive, inquisitive and worthy
Your kind of night, unfilled and frustrated

Deep down you love her, she hates the aging you
somehow you still manage to love her
with all her imperfections,

you woke up at dawn, and make her oatmeal
and you serve her  breakfast in bed with a dying rose
How idiotic, how clever, how fatuous



*A good marriage is something you have to work at. It doesn’t drop from heaven