Nothing can stay,
Not me or you at the moment's
Last glance.

I wish to stay
To watch the lake's dancing waves
   Foaming at the shores
With a plethora of bubbling
Like a warm cup of cocoa
    Meeting my cool lips.

Grass as vast as belief
With a sparrows nest just above
In an oak which shivers in a cool
Wind dressing the world with sounds.

    The harvesting is a lifetime
Embedded with a faint glow
Which is a man at the end wishing
On the dying light,
Nothing can stay.

I hide behind the little things
So the world won't find me,
If you search hard enough
You'll know what really matters
And there I will see you.

The November air brushed
Against your scarlet dress
(I get lost in it's waves just
Reminiscing about it)
   It contorts to the shape
Of your body hidden beneath
And drowns the world in stillness-
  All the world's watching you.

  The littlest thing to me
Is the doorway to the meaning
Of everything I don't think about
And that's what makes them
So very big.

We all have old scars
And sometimes the grey
Of Autumn brings them out
Just a little more when we feel
That cold air rush through
And the sun dips below the clouds
(These are seasonal scars that
Bloom like flowers in spring)
What before was a smile
Is now an agonizing memory
Almost tied in the heart and
The veins must run like
Knots bleeding out the pain
And when we experienced it
We yelled:
THIS HURTS TOO MUCH!
They say that's how you know
It was real, the pain,
And with time the scars turn
Into something else,
Like flowers in the spring.

What sustains it?
Open soul,
The clarity of mind
Let loose in the garden of night.

    Orchestral branches,
Momentum toward the spiritual
   On a gleam in your eyes.

   Receive the moonlight
On the waves of your hair,
   The architecture of my seductresses.

The darkness spins its webs,
  Your touch invents a moment,
Reality unrealistic,
   The night,
        a fountain of desirous hearts.

I guess the spirit never really dies-
Words help me remember
How everything was a rainbow.

And the spectrum -
A variety of freedoms,
A clumsy learning,
A horizon ending with friends,
A stick, a ball, and a soda.

I'd write the summers,
The humidity's tender sweat
Which I guess became a cloud just
For me whose shape would stir
My imagination as the sky fell for me.
I'd write the best of friends
That never turned away adventure,
The forest in our neighborhood
With the wind rippling trees as
Autumnal tenders blew memories
To the future.

I want the words which are forever,
Immortal kids running like flames
Over ripples of time,
Hearts that never aged and innocence
That never failed,
I'd write the poem of a little boy
And candy wrappers surround.

I'm a little boy poet,
I want to write every joy,
Every new sorrow with a veil
Of child like mourning,
To write the light in my eyes
As I saw my first crush,
A fathomless rainbow to remember indeed.

This poem is pointless,
I cannot experience them through
Words,
I think I'll go play with my daughters
And drift away into spectral grace.

On summer days
When the sun bore no fruit
For the over heated construction crew,
My father would remind me
Sitting in his 1995 Ford 350
How inadequate we all were
Compared to the golden days of framing.

Or he would praise the highest paid
On a Friday, payday whose checks
We're always there,
To build them up for a weekend
And let them rest from their
Toilings under his sun.

From 15 years ago
I can hear his voice,
"Your never going to learn are you?"
In his solitary voice
That confined a tone just for me,
A destination unknowing
For what a father teaches can sometimes
Elude the son with sarcasm
And verbal seeds of invalidity.

Honorable carpenter,
I remember him never missing a day,
His name should be on a wall
Somewhere,
I ask that I inside of myself
Remember the very best of
The very worst of him,
Which was the side I think
Was also the guiding parent.

May he always be ,
That I rise in the mornings
And still hear his voice,
I pour coffee into a mug
And remember.

May my insufficient ways
Honor him with the haze
He draped over my confidence,
I see my father in a certain way,
The eery silence filled
With his voices.

On summer days
When the heat is too much,
My father still pushes me,
I swear the humidity is
Him breathing down my neck.

The words will be remembered
As he held the book sprouting
From his dead corpse,
"We The Peoples!"
The soldier of nothing's bloom,
Will he have been vindicated
For the sacrifice he made?
The night follows a tearful mourner,
Behold the book of words
From the forgotten wars
And ignorance that breeds the child;
"So he died for what he believed"

Poetry of the warrior's bane,
Between reading it and
Not learning from it,
That poetry in its beauty petrified
The lesson that dies in the tomb
Of the un named soldier,
Though a candle is always lit.

Well such pretty words worthy
Of the fallen,
And a book in a soldier's hand,
How glorious the book was sprouting
From his corpse,
And there endeth the lesson.

Between the horizons
The imprisoned night,
Fallen from the grace
Of the solitary star.

Over mountain tops
With a bridal cap,
All is transparent
In the Light.

The sun moves
The living Waters
Under glittering gushes
And a sparkle as it rests.

The naked light
In mother of pearl
Glazing the morning mist
In a feast of reflection.

Like a lovers reunion,
The eyes kiss all that
Is lit as sky falls
Under shade.

The living star
In a fugitive passion
Brightens the forms,
The sun sees no light.

Anger exists.

This giant mirror reflecting past.

Rarely is justice blind
When it comes to color,
And I pick up the bitter facts from
The daily reports and place them
Next to my embattled soul.
I sink deep into my chair,
Pen in hand and wonder what
The hell a brown man can write
about the black man's experience.
I conflict with my poetical asphyxia,
Life isn't all love and wonderful sorrow,
I stare at the cold reality,
I believe if i wrote about anything
Else this chair would be a grave,
He wrote about flowers they said,
He wrote about dreams they said.

But no,
Those dead men have no words,
They bare their skin and died for it,
A murderous prowl on the ebony
Children with benevolent excuses
As to why it's legal,
They laugh so hard behind closed
Doors and fist bump in secret,
Stubborn roots dictate the taught
Generational hatred,
They find fruit with their hate
And split men from color refreshing
The mirror, reflecting reflections.

And when all hell is broken loose,
A people's voice is heard
Wit windswept ears,
Like God and the first word,
We will hear it only once,
The avenging fires burn in the hearts,
Though hate with its unending roots
Creeps into the darkness
Against the atrocious scythe of ignorance,
We will remember a voice.

"Black lives exist."
Yes they do.
As does hatred
and ignorance.

For whom does this poet speak?

Begin here
The forbidden hope of the poor,
The firmament under shimmery
Skies sailing dreams on the moons
Glass light.
Begin now,
What dreams may come
I become many things,
I am the man who loves,
However I am also the man
That hurts from the same source.
And I can't help being all the things
A heart desires,
Two hopes on my chest
And soon I am the world
With my solar ways and my
Lunar thoughts,
Moonlighting on the precipice
Of the promised,
The fugitive love that conquered
The momentum,
I proclaimed myself the undefeated,
And I,
Here and now
Become a bird
With a song of  flight
And all the treetops
Like a sea of greenery.....
Listen, my wings flapping,
I alone will dream and conquer,
The infinite hope inside
That yearns for my humanity,
And that makes me king,
For hope is the glory of all men.