One day a poem stood at my doorstep
and I let it come in to get warm and dry
we sat by the fireplace and had a chat

We laughed and shared stories between us,  
about yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and  
yes, it was delightful to get a chuckle or two.  

I picked up my old guitar,  
the poem dusted off the ancient fiddle,  
and we played sonatas and variations of Bach    

Then, we sat down at the kitchen table,  
nibbling on sweet delicious corn cobs and  
sinking our teeth into succulent roast pheasant.  

At last, we filled our wine goblets to the brim  
with vintage brandy, and we drank to our hearts content.  

A poem does not want to be left alone,  
so the next time you see a poem outside your door,  
please do me a favor, and let it in.

Yes, words are the magic elixir
embracing the soul,
and words turn objects into gold.

Do words beat like the wings of
a restless hummingbird,
while men plot
with sharp daggers
to capture it?

Words teach us valuable lessons because words know how to give and receive.

Words live through every hurt,
through every pain,
because of they
have no self-conscious fear
of flight

Do words know how to give and receive?

The answer is always yes

Dear Lord, how do I make  
a covenant with this poem?  
  
Does it want a fresh pair  
of wings to master the sky,  
to soar like an eagle, in
the heavens above?
  
If a poem speaks, should
it sings in the halls of
cathedrals, joining spirit
with flesh to make this
covenant?  
  
If a poem is planted as a
seed in my heart, should it
take root, growing strong and
vibrant, or, should it be ripe
and ready for harvest?  
  
So, let these spiritual words  
flow through a beating heart,  
a gentle hand and sacred pen.
Scribe to bare witness on paper,  
thus to make a covenant with thee.

Mama says no matter what you do or
Be in life; just be the best, at what you do
Mama says, even if, you decide to be a *** or
Hang in the streets, just be the best one
Now, go get mama her slippers, boy
and be the best

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was landscape full on trees with empty nooses

My father was a runaway slave, who was captured by them bounty hunters. Daddy wanted  to
be free, and provide for his family

Why do we **** and enslave other man for their differences or color of skin. The answer my
friend is blowing in the wind. The answer derives from the sweet taste of sin, created by
the love, the power and the color of money

The empty nooses keep on  blowing in the wind

I remember, they kicked, beat and then dragged my daddy, unconsciously to that old oak tree
Lord, back in the day, Colored People was restricted from sitting or resting underneath
them trees with nooses

After they captured my pappy; they wrapped a dry noose round his neck so tight, that I
could smell the rope burns on his neck

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was landscape full on trees with empty nooses

They hung my daddy from that tree. Well, I was six years old, and I dropped to my knees. I
ask the Lord to spare my father’s life and to forgive these evil people, for they do not
know what they do

God put His hand in the story. Then, He clapped His Hands, and His spiritual power
released the nooses from all the dead slaves

God said, “Walk with me, and you shall receive eternal life in the kingdom of heaven. Walk
with me down this road of light."

Then, He hurled a bolt of lightening at the landscape of empty nooses and said, from this
day forth, I promise thee, that empty nooses shall never be the fruit among these trees.

Never again, shall empty nooses blow in the wind.

The social curiosity on display
A pound of flesh becomes the pray
I rather swing from the gallows,
Then be sold like a pound of beef
Fat and plump from all this wealth
Thy corpse displayed in this filth
Flies and maggots wait for thee
Justice is hungry for people of greed
Supply and demand shall decide my fate
Yes, a wealthy man, without a need
Burn thy flesh and cleanse thy soul,
Indeed, I was consumed by greed

Men, lock arms and dig in
Hoist the colors and hoist the flags
Today, we march across the bridge
Across the gorge, along the ridge
These men are brave and their faces glow
One by one, the soldiers know
Beat the kettles and blow the horns
Our clothes are ripped and the flags are torn
Today, we march across the bridge
Across the gorge, along the ridge
To the other side, we fight to win
Rations low and six hundred men
The bridge is high, and you feel the wind
No laughter here, but lonely grins
The span of the bridge and you feel its height
The long steel beams displays its might
The soldiers know, these men are right
We cross the bridge all day, all night