Faith is a flightless bird Of great heart and little brain Surviving on grubs Too foolish for extinction Hope is an empty gravestone Purchased well in advance But left unmarked in case Another could use it more. Love is a…
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Blog Archives
heaven’s fire
she thought herself invisible. fire that burned within her breast was muted by others’ wishes for her. junes would rise and fall with her heaving sighs a secret conflagration held in check to quell the evil they foretold. they choose…
What’s Past Is Prologue
In the Good Ol’ Days fathers mostly weren’t. Kids were brightly colored dolls you made for your wife and boisterous noisemakers designed to help you recapture your own youthful dreams. Now, society has entered its adolescence. Little girls are sweet-smelling…
nativo
near to you, the air is sweet of jasmine tinted with allspice from Jamaica, balmy, humid, orchid bittersweet or perhaps freshly baked apple bread sugary, and brown at the edges your sugared heat rising to me – I salivate in…
En Marruecos
Steamy café on Morocco’s coast A Moorish temple to Spanish decadence in crumbling stone and tarnished brass. European tourists scramble warily by nervously dodge children begging money picking their consciences clean for a day’s bread. A bar’s fake Picasso glares…
Once Upon a Weed
Once, God did whisper to a weed hidden from the sun, that it was more than brush and seed and when His talk was done, the weed did flower, small and bright for He knew poets need them. Still, flowers…
Portrait of the Poet as a Young Genius
I remember being happy as a child; I believe it was on a Tuesday. Most of my early years were spent trying not to be my father (who was not my Dad, whom I met at aged 10). My sister…
Hannah
Hanna hopes to go back home To her handsome Hampton house Past the perfect picket fence And her barbed wire bed Craves his careful, crafted cries Falls for falsely fashioned tears Hopes to hold his heartless hands Safely in sobriety…
middle age
middle age is peeking at me. she sits in the corner lifting her skirts to the heavens crosses a knobby knee and winks a heavily mascara’d eye in my direction. bitch is not my type
For Fela Kuti
we walk in many village scrape the dust from soles of feet earth-baked sorrow and sun-parched skin tears are luxury for the rich but sadness grows wild in the bush the weeds of our discontent we walk in crowded city…
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