-In the style of Solange Loe-Sack-Sioe, aka Shell

The purest love is often silent.
It speaks volumes without words.
In silent words throughout the day,
It prays.

April 2,
It snowed in Minnesota
The poor who were cold
Are caught in the trap
Their help is long gone
The programs cut
Why?  To help the rich,
Of course.

Stand
On the shoulders of the giants
So that you might see
The places we are going,
The places we have been.
Stand to be seen.

Stand,
So that you can see
The future you,
The future me
Looking into the past
Standing in the future.

Standing
You realize that giants stood
Upon the shoulders of giants
And all walked with purpose
So that we all could climb up.

Don't let that be for nothing.

Poem of hate,
Poems of hope.
Poem of love,
Poems of none.
Poets understand.

Some poems grab you,
Some by the throat
Others by "the hope."
Which one do you write?
Both?

Poem of hate,
Poems of hope.
Poem of love,
Poems of none.
Poets get 'cha.

In the style of Marc Morais

Become a boulder for
Those who need a place to lean
Between solitude and stress
A tide for the jagged shore
For those who feel unmoored
And no longer want to be moored

Mighty strength to meager strength
Wrap your strength around mine
Become all things to all things
Then in this act, you will find
Two become mightier than one
And many hands make lighter lives

My strength in you, yours in mine

Buttoned into wrinkles
Of time and mind

Like a melody
On a tin whistle

A lingering sense
Of otherworldliness

Hardwired for folktales
Oral traditions filled

With mythical traditions
And practical wisdom

Time, like a whistled tune
Blown and gone, remains

Amidst haunting,
Faint memories

And your green isle

Pretty lips on a pretty boy
But those pretty lips will
Never bring me any joy

Because his lips belong
To his pretty boy-toy
And it rankles me ‘cause

He used to be mine

(This poem is not autobiographical.  It is about someone I used to know.)