When she calls him
by a stranger's name
and he complains,

when she tells him
he is her 25th husband
(or perhaps the 26th?)

and she casually mentions
countless cascades of lovers
she never chose to wed,

he loses all desire.
He sees her passing down
ages dark and light

with men light and dark
(and perhaps women too),
and he suspects that among

this motley and vile crew,
as he envisions them,
there are at least a few

whose bedroom prominence
looms larger than any
he could ever provide.

There must be someone
To decide a flower's mean
The one to lend the bees its pulp
The ones to outlast the devilish winds

Petals to get crushed a little abruptly
Some devoid of the plucker's heed
Those to tickle the eyes of the beholder
And those to stir death in someone's milk

There must be someone to choose each one
The white ones, perhaps reserved for some coffin
The cherry ones are meant to only blossom
And then, fall there and die, unattended and satin

Nor is each flower's fate same
Something perhaps is like their sins too

Poetry has erased my depression You helped me to erase my pain, and I gained so much confidence, you held me so tight You made me feel safe until I found your precious arms I was lost Poetry you are the reason for my recovery

Happy-go-lucky Sunday dinners after a hell raising hand clapping church service because Jesus saves and washed away our sins
pass the oxtail and rice and peas even though it is only 6 o’ clock,
but I am starving.
My soul is starving. Family is everything, but maybe not this family.
We must communicate and laugh and pray together, but don’t you dare tell our business.
But I will tell yours, oh yes, I will.
Your first period, your first boyfriend, a girlfriend!
Let’s shout it from the roof tops, for you have sinned against god.

Let's be the difference Let's love each other Let's support each other Let's fight for each other Let's be each other guidance Because we are one and the colour of our skin does not matter to us. Racism is not in our blood

That Night “I’m sure there are good people out there,” he said, as he eyed the door. “I’m just not one of them.” He talked. It was his way of calming down. He was right I knew. And, you might like to blame the war, the wine, the women and shake your wise locks sadly. But, I’d been there all along. He was born bad. That night, we were in a bar we were in a bar up near Times Square.

To my memories
A snow fell
Carried by the sweet voice of death
From empty spaces
Plagued with freedom
And something clearer, yet worse.
From the moment I understood it -
That my friend, much like Jesus
Would be crucified
By his own words
From the cosmic cycle
Into our bodies
Creeps the bottomless abyss
And draws life poisoned with dreams
And only the poet
Sees its schemes
And finds eternity
In the moment.

Dozens of contrails stitch a patchwork sky
Warm autumn hues embrace unbound edges
Of visible horizons

Harvest tractor trails reap what was sewn
Crisp rusts and russets seep through the fabric
Of woodlands and streams 

Roads, fences, and rails block out patches
Nature’s palettes transform vast forests
Of speckled hills and heaving mountains

Shades of grey pillow above our heads
Shades of grey blanket below our feet
Lost in tangles of unwoven strands

Hours spent planning, piecing, and placing

Catch them young! The sparrows call out While the mind is still impressionable, While easily influenced by tenderness, By understanding. Teach them young! The eagle whispers from skies so far While brain cells still are receptive To training, While alphabets can still be learned, While algebra is not yet a headache. Dissuade them young! The streets kneel, begging To be rid of the increasing miscreant youths, Keep them at home, While they still enjoy parental cuddles, While the activities have not eroded, The little self-worth still in place. Help them young, Dead and buried humanity heave out