That familiar sound of a helicopter approaching
out of nowhere its search light focused.
Down onto a desolute and lonely moorland
quickly joined by a second one.
But what is the true intention of their task
as a figure looks up wearing a mask.

No ordinary being sitting there in isolation
as soldiers approach with guns.
Nearby a circular craft of unknown origin
lays damaged amongst the grass.
Away from the view of a watching public
the covert operation is slick.

Taken alive the alien is roughly removed
put into a third chopper nearby.
Two other bodies are bagged and tagged
the sight is cleared of any evidence.
Reports of an object seen falling denied
once again the military have lied.

How many incidents have really occured
the public know nothing about?
The real truth of an extra terrestial existence
rather than endless misinformation.
Was Roswell fact or fiction what is area fifty one
when will the real truth be done?

The Foureyed Poet. The Foureyed Poet

This Black African nun in cherished photo
she calls our right to vote
Her kindness in her laughing squinting eyes,
and her kind bow smile to match
The voice of liberty written and etched upon
her kind and brilliant face; all imprinted for years
to come

All hail her bus with her sisters all in one;
a beautiful chariot on busy wheels that run
across our nation to give a helping hand
And lift our thirsty spirits on a dry and desolute land

They hold that lamp of liberty on kind hands
and gentle voice, but strong in truth be known,
to hold our basic right, to close those drapes and
snap a switch, to a voice of our own

They cross our land in valor in gentleness and kind
these nuns of liberty and justice in an unjust time

Their hearts are made from goodness; their strength
so often done, in a land so heavily pillaged, they will
never never succumb. They see a new sun rising over
the distant hill
They know their work of justice never to be still...

It was lovely,
The sight of a moist skinned sun.
I forgot my illusive state
And found myself harmonized
With the cold but gentle outburst.

It's bewildering,
These droplets so fragile
Yet it calms me down
With its cold and subtle presence.

I must listen,
She says to me
Listen to the rhythm
The ringing of the earth.

She wants to tell me,
It's growing faster than time
Life, in all its chaos
It's growing.

I try to capture her
But she dissolves
Dissolves into my hands ,
Into the earth
Then she disappears.
Nothing, ceases.

Heavily, she pours down
Touches and strokes me.
In her cloudy armour
She gives me shelter
Over my meagre posture.
Washes away my desolute land
Embraces me
Devours me
Smell of wet earth.

Now I long to touch you,
Keep you caged.
But you! my Mother,
You teach me
The earth ,your child,
Life transcends
Life evolves
Life. It changes.
And I must just remain,
Remain as it is.

Out of the dark shadows
a night bird shrieks

The howl of the lost
and forgotten
   chatters the green monkey

The man with a red guitar
dances in the Mexican heat

Discordant broken strings
of music
   fill the desolute night

The shreik of the green monkey
murders the soul...

All alone, I stand in the deserted room,
Where once happy memories did bloom…

Wasn’t it just one day before,
That this room, a surplus of joy did store…?

But now, it’s a desolute rock,
All essence of life it does block…

Gloom and melancholy fills the area,
The whole place struck by disaster’s mafia…

Maybe it was like this all along, but to it I was immune,
When the effects of “love” made me swoon…

For I really was in romantic bliss,
Just before my life ended up like this…

Maybe I was just fooling myself all along,
Maybe from the start itself I was wrong…

But it made me happy, and the room colourful,
And every day was satisfyingly eventful…

But then it all just went away,
Like good things were never meant to stay…

Maybe “love” was just using me,
Before throwing me into a destitute sea…

Maybe, maybe it wasn’t love at all,
But just my lonely heart’s call…

Maybe I just assumed everything that was happening,
Was “love” that into my life happiness was bringing…

Well, it doesn’t matter what may be the cause,
For there is nothing else to cause me loss…

I am, after all, living in an empty room,
Devoid of everything except sorrow and gloom…

Over which “love” painted fake colours,
That washed away along with my tears…

But im fine now, with this existence,
Where nothing else can be a grievance…

So, I stare into this empty room.
Which is in fact my heart where only darkness does bloom…

I can't feel for a fool.
Who lost everything in a divorce.
It probably was your decision.
It probably was your choice.
Then again, it might not have been.
Once upon a dream, you both were good friends.
And most divorces happens cause you let another enter in.

The cars, the mansion and the money too.
Only high light the seriousness of your trust.
Which seems amongst the rich not to exist.

I can't feel for a fool.
Who simply goes broke?
Bad investments, bad decision and bad choices.
When they fail to listen to their inner voices.
Which advises them better than associates.

Just listening to their commentary.
You come across seeing it as a laughing matter.
The athlete.
The businessman chasing women as a sport.
Sad thing about all of this mess.
The women that played the game ends up getting the blame.
And a loser too.
For, when he's broke and desolute.
Whom are they going to find to foot the financial bill.

The life style.
The child support.
The alimony.
That many needs to survive.
After all, the fool no longer can assist you.
Cause from looking at him.
He's hurting too.

I guess this is why this poem title the fool?

My displays are astounding
I regress to an infants zeal
Because I hate everything around me
And need to tell you how I feel
Tell you things of sugar rain
And crystal  mines of lore
Cuddle my ribs with pure disdain
As my body washes to the shore
Hey man little village
Hey ya the leaves are brown
Hey man the trees are changing
Hey ya they're falling down
Symposiums with the fey are symptomatic of enchantment
(Or insanity)
Seeing beyond a day
Of desolute drudgery
The eyes in my head keep assuming I am dead
(Those whispers from the back of my head)
And the fear of living is the wound of
Re-living what another might have
Said.
Hey man little village
Hey ya the leaves are brown
Hey man the trees are changing
Hey ya they're falling down
Crickets outside are singing so
Sleepless nights feel less lonely
Cannot decipher which side of me
Is dreaming when I'm awake till
Early morning.
Hey man little village
Hey ya the leaves are brown
Hey man the trees are changing
Hey ya they're falling down.

From Smog and Snooty Stairs

To Humid Summer Air

Palm Trees And Sand

To Desolute Miles of Farm Land

Wondering when and If It'd End

To Praying I could be back home again

A new age A new stage

Coming together    

Forming a Reason

Forming a Person

and A self Esteem

I returned early,
You were still there.
You left a chair and table
For my meals.
My recliner and lamp were waiting,
Before the new flat screen.
You made-up my bed,
One pillow at the head.
Closet space had its place
With missing clothes and shoes.
Others fared less well
More were desolute;
But you walked out in style,
Took time for a Good-bye.
The house has less furnishings,
Plenty of meaningless stuff;
It's not the missing articles,
But your missing voice,
I guess.

a last shot into unknown,
dive deep into the soul less ink,
only to impart your own,
perhaps to emerge victorious?

imbue the stale cruelty of the inanimate
with the vivid cruelty of the soul,
bleed unto the mocking desolute canvas,
drawing blood from mindy & body in whole.

a last shot with broken minds,
write words that are not your own
for crazed usbthe hand that the soul hides behind
a battle of thoughts, then all alone.

Was it really anything at all?
These things I write, I can't quite trust them.
Yet I can't trust what I don't write.
It's so easy to get lost
In the _ of  _

From desolute world to devoured stars I never found a way to stop loving you.