When they make colored pencils,
No matter what color they want to make,
It always starts out as green.

I found you this rose
it's the color one has to see to win a fight in jail
as far as fighting goes
I don't think I'll ever prevail
fighting tooth and nail
against brutish males
of which you are one
holding my rose like a gun
which was set to stun
and now to ****
you get your fill
removing my will
by sitting me still.

I gave you a red flower
with thorns
it gave you power
and horns
adorned
above your scorn
looking down on me
a coyote howling
amongst the evergreens
that are never seen
and an ember means
the death of trees
so the creatures leave
at the sight of steam.

I'll respect you
I'll treat you right
so I expect you
to leave tonight
while keeping my rose
to keep me feeling low
to keep me on my toes
to keep me on the go
in fact the only thing not worth keeping
is the man who just got done speaking.

it’s a daiquiri colored morn, countlessly
as I, gazing never tiring, of a vista I’ve seen,
awoken to, endlessly changing, voyagers of
birds and boats, the redecorating minimalists,
moving pieces on a latticed shadow lawn

the Sun eastern, asking the trees to turn and bow,
hence the shadows their branches cast are a waffling,
hopscotch pattern irregular, so jumping from/to
yellow-green sunspots, the children are delighted by a
new game, moving to and from and between an ever
changing crazy chessboard of light-patches unsquared

described, written of, yet here I am, once again, a servant
despairing, looking for new combinations of superlatives,
though I never spoke before of it as a vista,
until today, wondering why, perhaps because
it’s here, one lives, one doesn’t conceive of  being
part and parcel of a vista, humans, just visitors,
pawn observers, gallery visitors, art appreciators,
transient hobos after forty years, truthfully claiming
that they’re merely still, passing thru, passing by

9:40 am, respectable hour to meander over
to the throne room, the four Adirondacks, them,
the year round poetry nook authorities, are equal
sunned, shaded, simultaneous, stately shadowing,
observing, advertising as perfect for composing,
willing to make verbal suggestions, rhyming notions,
especially when the poem pays proper obeisance

and so it does, and so it is, as you can clearly read


9:53am Sunday Jun 14
Year of the Pandemic

Sparks fly, and people die;
A cycle that tends to repeat
Endlessly.

Bullets fly, across the sky;
People mourn and cry for love lost;
Grieving for their future days
That would never come,
That has paid the cost.

The cost of what may you ask?
The cost of being black.

Sparks are shot into the sky;
Blood is shot into the sky;
Sweat is shot into the sky,
Tears are shot into the sky,

For being of color,
An eye for an eye?

No? / Then I wonder why?

Why nothing is done until
A fatal outcome?
Why peaceful protests urge uproar,
While unarmed men lay pinned
In the street...
Beneath someone’s knee,
Unable to breathe?

Tell me.
Tell me what the answer is,
To stop the violence,
But most importantly,
To feel safe in my skin
With my melanin.

I love humanity, but this is a message
That needs to be known;
In hopes for all to be seen equally;
Not to feel estranged,
Or be a victim of prejudice,
Or alone.