The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.

According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.

Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.

Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.

Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.

I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.

So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.

Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.

Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.

But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.

Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.

Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****––
retaliation – ******* in my dream.

Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.

Rocket red robots and tincan screws
Light up the night with sparks,
Which I love.
The workers work and the sleepers,
They sleep forever.

Making rye for the breadwinners,
Making toasty socks for the children,
Making copper caps and wee brass booties,
But won't let them take a wee stroll,
Not in contrary Mary's garden.

The kettleheads squeal and the bronze bucket chests,
They hum with drums in their stomachs,
Candygloss paint trickles onto
The sprockets below with their sharp teeth,
Teeth that creep over the outmodes and candy red.

Concern I am as a mother of three
of young girls and young boys, of today you see
Their parents wake up as early as 3
Spend time at work night and day
Hours of strenuous day
of hot and cold sweat ,
drains most of their energy ,
cooks their brain half dead
just to own some money
the sole breadwinners for family
a total responsibility,
unwritten committment never a burden
for the sake of love for family..sons and daughters

So dear young sons and daughters
Remember to value your parents sacrifices
not only for the material worth
but for their wisdom and virtues
the tears of blood that sometimes fall
to make you human and man of your own
but look at yourself today and ask
how much love have you sacrificed?
to honor these two great people
who'd given everything for you, even their life
to even write a word or two
to appreciate their love and compliment their good deeds
in a form of prose, haiku or poetry

instead everyday you declare to the whole world outside
look this is my man or the woman I love
till death do us part... till eternity
Your parents who've raised
and known you your whole young life
is no longer priority?

How pathetic.. how unfortunate... how sad..
for a second try to put yourselves
in your parents shoes....
imagine their smiles if they are reassured
that your love for them
is not number two....
so... do think wise!

I was pulled from the comfort
of sleep and warmth by my
father's voice from the floor
below. "Double-time girl,
we're going to be late!"
I hurried down the stairs
of our home to slip into
winter boots and zip up
my puffy winter coat.

In the garage, my dad was
already in his gray van.
I opened the passenger door,
climbed up over the rusted
rims and plopped into the
seat next to him. The cold
raced to reach my body. I
buried my bare hands in my
sleeves and prayed my wet hair
wouldn't freeze into icicles. I
could feel the stitches of the
leather pressing through my jeans.
Even they were cold.

My father's figure sat hunched in
the seat next to me. He gripped
the steering wheel with black
gloves. Staring forward,
he considered big things:
chemical structs and his
wife's lingering debt.

A familiar melody began to
waft out of the radio. Oops.
That meant that I had made
us  late to school...again.
At 7:35 each morning
Garrison Keillor's voice
spoke on something my
parent's called the Writer's
Almanac. I listened with
fascination to his voice,
which seemed to promise
each listener an afternoon
backstroke through the
milky way and the strength
to land, with grace, on Earth's
hard ground.

Out my window,
I watched the early-morning
breadwinners rushing to buy
their fuel: gasoline
and coffee. I wondered
if I could ever be good
enough, worth enough to be
mentioned by Keillor.
What could I do? What
would make me special?
Should I write poetry?

The episode came to a
well-known, comfortable
close: "Be well, do good
work, and keep in touch."
I hoped to do just that.

My dad's sudden voice
brought me back to his
shaky van. "****."
He too had been
wondering.

As the winds howl
The birds scatter
Dogs start to growl
And the windows shatter

Autumn approached quickly
Signalling the end of summer
Crops dry out
A bad harvest for breadwinners

Stale, cold food fills the table
Warmed by only a candle in the middle
Still air indicates the silence in the room
A harsh winter was approaching

16 August, 2012,
Today, we speak,
And today, we act,
We are tired of working like animals,
They stressed,
We are tired of being treated as such,
They asserted,
Today, all that will end,
They declared,
Indeed “today”, all that ended,
As like animals, “today” they were slaughtered and recklessly,
On the soil under which lay their livelihood,
Away from their comfort zones,
Away from where their naval cords were buried,
Subjected to undignified deaths that had no honor,
While politicians and capitalists farted in their comfortable seats,
And like animals, they were forgotten,
The grandchildren of Black ancestry,
The poor hardworking breadwinners of their poor families,
Plunging their lives into sheer deep insignificance,
Shame Black men of honor,
Shame!

I'm pumping out the place
With my lost
Trace of my relatable life
Moving on from the memories
Lay in a ball change the stories for the diaries
With the journals and manuals
You can be my boy
And men in the ill convoy
We make a great team
Lets jester and yap about the time to jam
Treat for the test in the yellow lane in the floating vehicle
Shameless
and excited
As I am punished by my incitement
It ain't nothing nice
It's a ruse
Well understood and I told not do that yourself
Do it to their breadwinners and fathers
Part of the same human race
Class of men
Freed by the chains of enemies

Yours truly does readily confess
the following poem crafted more or less
approximately a year ago,
when coronavirus (COVID-19)
wrought havoc creating global mess
when panic against collective temple did press
a feeling of melancholy and world-weariness.

Along luscious green acres banks steep grade
(in close proximity to
Petticoat Junction) naturemade
Perkiomen Valley watershed,
verdant landscape displayed
yours truly, (a garden variety
proto human) arrayed

solely donning birthday suit,
whose fifty plus shades hair gone grayed,
i.e. one infinitesimal measly mortal
whiles away hours, laid
back days of his life as
the world wide web turns
comprising second decade

of twenty first century
civilization, where
coronavirus veritably waylaid
furlough afflicts populations feeling betrayed
entire fabric **** sapiens staid
threadbare existence now best describes
chock full of endemic ennui proliferates,

where vast majority of people afraid
to leave their houses lest COVID-19 played
greater havoc, whereby society already upended
unemployment factor at record high since...
Great depression witnessed
courtesy somber parade,
ninety years ago benchmarked

from May 11, 2021,
an invisible oppressed heaviness weighed
down the madding crowds
aghast how stock market trade
hit rock bottom making paupers,
ill fate clobbered breadwinners
circumstance none could evade

October 29, 1929 haint no charade,
when Black Tuesday hit Wall Street
bitta bing bitta bang bitta played
bitty bitty chitty chitty bang bang
linkedin with irrational exuberance portrayed
American economy supine splayed
versus March 11, 2020 characterized
coronavirus outbreak as pandemic

by the WHO subsequently signaling
Trump cited "fake news" and not dismayed
to expedite drastic measures
none would impede golf nor Mar-a-Lago
leisure him sipping lemonade
acid test tee zing 'bout quaffing electric kool-aid
without getting his doggy dimples in a bunch

he grudgingly complied and obeyed
purveyors (governors) and Anthony Fauci
complete United States government shutdown
approximately mid/late March 2020
which undertaking generated brisk business
grim reaper experienced
(still does) protracted heyday.