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i love poetry
unto
death or till
the watch
stops ticking

which ever comes

last.
  Jun 2020 Still Crazy
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the thin line between poet and:


******* artist
is so thin,
it is almost,

almost,

invisible.
  Jun 2020 Still Crazy
Carl Fynn
The struggles I had to face is something she wont go through!
No! Never! Not while I live , and definitely not under my watch.
THE CRY OF AN AFRICAN MOTHER

My daughter is a lawyer in the making.
She's intelligent, a doctor figure.
THE HOPE OF AN AFRICAN FATHER

Study hard baby
You'll take care of your sibling someday
and build us a better home.
THE PRAYER OF AN AFRICAN PARENT
................................................................­.................................................................­.....................................
Your good intent overshadowed by your failures and inabilities.
Genuine goodwill expressed in a confusing web of past decisions
Your way out shackles me to a prison wall painted in your dreams and wishes

I open my eyes to two options,
the wall of desolation and
the gateway of disrespect and ungratefulness .

I'd love to stay in these chains
enjoy the discomfort of your comfort.
but i cant!
I have a life to live
a destiny to realize

I cant live your dream
all the night you had to cry at nature's unfair gift of failure
could have turned to smiles and pride.
With the weapon of childbirth
You were assured a sweet revenge on nature

but the truth is...
all you have is an opportunity to be you
I'd love to be the doctor you long for.
**** to be a lawyer just to satisfy your thirst

but....
What difference would it make
I get to be the doctor.... not you
I wear the wig ...... not you
You'd still be a slave to nature
and me, a prisoner to the horror of your past.

I cant live your dream
tho i dream of living the future you've planned for me,
all i wake up to is a pillow, a ***** sheet and REALITY!

I choose the gateway of disrespect
carrying along the tag of an ungrateful son
battling nature to the realization of my dreams
while staring at the Right to a wig and a stethoscope on the wall.

Hanging between those crafty wooden frame
is your key to vengeance
to me,
the crown of a wasted years chasing after your dream.

Sorry mom --- Sorry dad
I cant live your dream.
Still Crazy Oct 2019
“High in an ingredient called allicin, garlic can help stimulate circulation and blood flow to ****** organs in both men and women. However, because of garlic's mood-killing smell, eat it in moderation.”

while researching mold, stumbled on this factoid,
the one that’s asking
what is moderation in love?
and where in the oddest places, we find answers...

oft thought that pure love is extremist,
and any extreme needs to thrive on its antimatter,
so goodness, needs speckles of unkind,
and ****** promotions, aides that aid,
present an invoice needy for stamping “paid!”

such is the casino we play life in,
you cannot leave till you’re paid up,
paid in full in heartbreak joyous,
so the odor of love, keener, fruited,
when absent and the green grocer
no longer smiles when his ex-best garlic
customer walks by(e)

I toiled in seduction fields, gathering fruits and flowers,
now, reduced to a window-sill gardener whose
crop will grow from citified rain, small stunted,
leaden and ripe for discardation

troll me not, your stuff is your stuff,
mine is mine, when we meet, you will be slow to recognize,
but you will smell my garlic, and know it’s

that poet
exactly

au revoir, no!

it’s not your eyes that will acknowledge
my existence, but the dirt beneath my fingernails,
and the perfume of what might have been therein contained
if you, sadly unlike me,
are!
s t i l l
crazy after all these (tears) years
  Jun 2019 Still Crazy
no truth login
lesson #1: in the beginning, all poems on Earth were formless

on blended knee, the approaching, humility, raging, barely  
tempered by a gale force need, the forthcoming yoga pose of compose

you have urgings, mostly in a blink of an eye,
then going, gone notions, the writing is so a losing effort,
you turn the paper’s aperture sideways hoping to get an
inside straight insight,
but the poem refuses to come, the creation ******
delayed is torturous and the poem birthing, even worse

so you revert to basics to give the formless a shape,
recalling  a child’s learning that in the beginning:

“the earth was formless and void,
darkness was over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God was hovering
over the surface of the waters.…”

so you insert a single sheet of 20Lb bond paper,
sliding the typewriters carriage smooth swift  
over to the starting gate hell’s bell, typewriter machine smell erotically exciting creative fluids boiling,
typing, laughing out loud, forming entree to the hinted hallway
of a womb opening to a crafting with three words:

                               in the beginning
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