I'm standing close by a river of rhyme,
where words cascade, in endless pantomime,
each line is a ripple, on the rugose water's crest,
but the chaotic current seems a randomized mess.

I see waves of words riding swells of sonnet,
into concrete verse, only to crash upon it.
There are dark plaintive whirlpools of elegy
and swirling haikus kissing off sharp envoi.

This river of rhyme could wash me away,
with its desperate currents of poetic dismay.
Its sensual verses can become a toxic wine,
oh, God, don’t let me drown in the river of rhyme.

Don’t play
with the real people
in your life
they really are
rare

I confess to the moon
The object that got me fly
On repeat to the sky
I called out my name
If she's still excite,
Of the things she embrace the most
I confess to the moon
Where the stars locate
My heart that beats
The beads to my soul
I confess to the moon
If ever your far away from me
Let me hold your hands
When it's cold
Because of winter and spring

.
If our family was a tree,
you must be the roots.

Forever planted,
forever supporting,
forever nurturing.

Just so that all of us,
may bask in the amber
of the sun...
And bathe in the silver
of the moon.

.

little purple flower
In a desert of scree
waits for a butterfly

     (me, too)

A poem is a story itself
it's just ambiguous