We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.

I think it's beautiful
The way your hands are sturdy and calloused
Not the gentle softness illustrators are known for
These hands have felt real art
Built from the ground up
Days of mixing, moulding and texturing
Breathing life into deathly white parchments

I think it's beautiful
The way your arms are slender yet firm
Dusky brown skin holding rippling strong muscles
Strengthened slowly
through years of bullying and soul searching
Their unsymmetrical realness known not
For their harshness
But for the gentle notes they strum
Weaving elegantly with the quiet moving pictures on screens

I think it's beautiful
The way your shoulders always stand strong
A declaration demanding the eyes of every being in sight
Their angled rigidity know to be surprisingly nimble
An immovable pillar for the melting of your body
A constant transformation into unknown characters

The hidden bumps of tired hands
The rough ridges of calloused skin
The angled sharpness of chiseled bones
Hidden works of art
Flitting secretively under the armor you wear
The priviledge of their appearance
But a few can bear

Sins of the father,
Wrought perfection among the world,
In ways I feel farther,
From where the rest unfurled,
Colors are more vivid,
Life is now peak experience,
The people are livid,
But men will take chances,
Among rolling hills,
And steep cliffs,
Into the nine hells,
Just to procure these gifts,
To create the song of progress,
And sing it from their peaks,
Where parasites arrest,
But with knives and leeches the hosts will leak.
The sunlight warms our skin,
And generates life,
And blights are gems we force to glint,
The straightest of diamonds are forged in strife,
Cut in sharp language,
Originating in the furnace of others,
Whether in joy or anguish,
The culmination of lovers,
The poets of life,
The artists of death,
Photographers of honor,
And authors of theft,
The illustrators of ethics,
Profanity’s architects,
Gaia’s ventriloquists,
And the firstborn’s defects.
Formulated impressions have no need to advance,
The darkness of these times,
Warrant no more than slight glance,
If mimes have nothing to say,
We’ll burn the sky as they dance.
This is the letter home from the warrior,
And the drunken hubris of a poet,
The weathered steps of the courier,
And those he had met in his journey,
Whether or not they knew it.

I never look at a blank page for too long,

Same goes for facing a blank wall,

it seems to be always missing something.

A photo, a picture, and most of all memories.



When I was a child the same goes with my readers

without those colorful photos, I wasn't

contented with reading the book.

I must have read The House that was up sided down"

More than a dozen times, love how the illustrators  

Mind-expanding illustrations, vocabulary or concepts

had capture my growing mind at a early age.

Today my mind, doesn’t go for the illustrations,

But it can capture poetic details about life,  

And the subject matters: as they come to surface,


When it comes at me in the mirror,

It's not me staring back, but a poet,

A modern free verse kind of poet,

Or would we say a Amazon online shopper,

Instead of a walk-in stores browser

Who see from the rearview of her eyeglasses,


The brothers, I have known them that for the past

Twenty-three years, not on a personal level,

But by observing those two as individual characters,



One was a war vet, the other a computer tech,

One with some post-traumatic stress disorder,  

The other like no other, had a Smoking Marijuana Fixation:

Most likely contribute to his cancer, which lead up to his death,



The other brother, is still here with us,

Hanging around in the lobby, making weird sound

And ****** expression, of a deranging war vet,

We must never assume, who is healthier and who is not.

Because death is a divider, a time stopper,

And unapologetic, defiant Donald Trump of times


At times, I also can be unapologetic

I owes you nothing, I owes you nothing,

I see nothing, I hear nothing, and I am the free verse

Of my daily writing, without rules,  without your approval,

or even riding my bike without a helmet.

Or walking the street of Brooklyn without protection.

In the hands of authors,
we are characters.
In the hands of illustrators,
we are imperfections to be fixed.
We people

Controlled by rulers,
modeled by peers,
"perfect" behavior by elders
never ourselves
We people

We people
need creativity
need reality
need freedom
need to be ourselves

There is no author
no illustrator
We are real
and free!
We do our will
not theirs
You write your own story

Who are we?
what,
are we.
we are the creators.
the illustrators.
not of words,
but creation itself.

there’s this new family that moved in across the street
single mother with son and daughter
the boy was only 8 or 9
and almost everyday he got out and played
the boy loved nature
he would run outside and shout “THE WORLD IS MINE”
the boy also loved to ride his bike
he would ride it up to the corner store
and use some change he proudly saved up
to buy himself a 99 cent ICEE cup
then he would sit in his yard
and watch the sun go down
he sat and watched as summer took her final bow
and as the fluffy white clouds vanish from the sky
so does our innocence
now, fast forward 10 years later
when the boy is arguing with his mother
because she says he’s got bad behavior
and he’s calling her a ******* dictator
this is when we become the illustrators of our own life
but the boy doesn’t know what he wants
he feels stuck
he’s angry as ****
and he’s rotting quickly, like a peach pit
then
in his room all alone
one night when he was ******
he broke down and cried
and that’s when he finally realized
the person he truly despised

Feel motivated and appreciated
Gather round and lend an inspiring ear, and let’s discuss Poet words
We are Poets and we want to be heard
Let our emotions be virtual
Putting our own minds through the test of time
Letting our inner feelings and inspiration combined
All our emotions within
From when to can
We actually enjoy being Poets and we are what we do is our craft
But that is only half
We have a mission, and it is poetry to pursue
We know the precise angle
By right, we are Journalist showing our current events
It’s our way in showing where time went
We are Illustrators
Having a concept in place
Our grounded thoughts
Grasping the Reader’s attention
It involves all our writing creations
Our hearts just pound
Round and Round clear cross town
It’s us Poets anywhere in the USA and abroad found
As Poets, we know how to have a good time and write it down
Stay inspired
Don’t tire
This concludes the Poet Roundtable
Continue to write while you are able.