What is Life?

Life’s neither a gift nor is it a curse.

It’s basically whatever we want it to be …

Multiple choice: to abort or not to abort?

To forgive or not to forgive?

To love or not to love?

Ha! Good luck in a world that

Shuns kisses and hugs,

Praises ditches and shoves.

Chapped lips lubricated with hate.

Lovers search for these particular traits;

It’s how real men get historical dates.

Machiavellian karma has dictated many fates.

Too bad it’s misunderstood.

To be feared rather than loved is good—

If you’re surrounded by heartless cowards.

But to be feared by your Father? Mother? Son? Daughter?

In that context, I’d rather be loved and slaughtered.

Sweetest Victory (A Woman's Stance)

Can it be … the sweetest victory?
Honey cupped in sweaty palms.
Faded bruise to a face, it’s …
A revelation: Who am I? A champion.  

You slapped, you kicked, you beat me,
But I had the sweetest victory.
You said I would never leave,
But in the end … I had the sweetest victory.

A punch to the face …
You watched me bleed
Tears, so bittersweet.
I loved you like a kingdom.
You took away my freedom, and …

You slapped, you kicked, you beat me,
But I had the sweetest victory.
You said I would never leave,
But in the end … I had the sweetest victory.

One day, I grabbed a butcher’s knife.
Killing you was on my mind.

Should I let the pretty blade kiss your throat?
But I told myself no.
Instead, I walked away … no goodbye …

You slapped, you kicked, you beat me,
But I had the sweetest victory.
You said I would never leave,

But in the end … I had the sweetest victory.

Help Would Be Nice

Feel like I'm all alone,
Shivering down to the bone.
This cold is what keeps me going.
A warm heart's eroding.
I keep still, trying to relax,
But all my patience is out of wack.
I wanted to be someone--someone noble.
But I've got too many loose screws.
Plus I'm antisocial.
What is a breath if all it inhales is pollution?
On my head there lies a protrusion.
Ignorance, ready to burst through my skull.
Perhaps I should be as indifferent as Camus's The Fall.
I'm jaded, no longer enticed.
All I do is complain, but some help would be nice.

Just a Thought

I’m merging into my own lane,

Swerving. The doubt has me choking up …

Foot on the brake pedal,

But I can’t meddle with a state of high level

Consciousness. Conquering the consequence

Of thinking outside the box, and then …

I make amends with foes.

Start unintentional beef with friends.

The cycle of life is a paradox of gems.

To the explorer or to the top bidder they’re sold.

And yo. I’m coming outta the closet:

Lyrically, I’m transgender;

The truth is indifferent to male, female perceptions.

My body of work is in a constant state of erection,

Forever chasing knowledge—the mark of perfection.

No matter how many times I’ve proposed, she tells me no.

How can a woman still be a lady if she’s given it up to the status quo?

Fun with Words

Pardon me if my words pack potency.
You see I’ve got these tendencies

To bench press heavy concepts.

Brain muscles stay flexed.

I’ve Got Next, right after KRS.

Test me, it’s gonna get messy

Like a mob scene.

Haters concede as I begin to weave

Fictitious stories.

They become suspicious of the allegory.

See  a bit of themselves in the antagonist,

Who starts having fits

’Cause he’s been exposed like bone

After the flesh and tissue have been

Left in the kitchen—too hot couldn’t stand

The heat. I create vivid scenes,

Where dialogue pivots themes

till the characters are ready to take foul shots.

Still, they ain’t ready for a team that dreams.

Some might think I’m a psycho,

Waiting by the roadside to hitch a ride,

And then clip a couple as they scream, “We don’t wanna die!”

Relax. Don’t be absurd.

I’m just having some fun with words. 

For the Love Of ...

She vituperates me until I fall to my knees

As though she desires a prayer for the prey.

A mistress of mine, she is not, just a tease.

Still, I court her every day.

Sometimes I think we’re in love,

But I clearly know that’s not the case.

Like a python she kills when she hugs,

But her spell resurrects me with haste.

The strange thing about it all

Is that I’ve  never seen her looks.

Our tryst is as mysterious as a cabal.

I only feel her presence, crannies and nooks.

She is no good for me;

I know that for a fact.

A thought of her, I start trembling,

And my heart thumps madly as if being attacked.

My life’s not right whenever she’s around,

But her mouth hums the commonsense out of my ears.

People wonder why I’d be attracted to this woman who puts me down.

I tell’em, I do all of this for the love of…Fear. 

Lonely World Part 3

Seven billion people,

Seven billion egos.

I’m at Seven-Eleven,

Sipping down a Big Gulp,

And eatin’ chicken taquitos.

Somewhere someone’s

Sinking suddenly

Into sophistry.

Either a victim of the Self,

Or a victim of someone else’s

Subtlety of a specious ideology,

And it’s this very thing

That creates lonely disparities

In societies where variety

Is lost in the irony 

Of individuals striving
For conformity. Normalcy reacts 
Negatively to abnormal acts:

The loner, living in a shack

With no Wi-Fi, disconnected

From the pissed and restless.

They're jealous 'cause he’s
Content and blessed with

A fishing rod and a stream

Like he’s living Theroux’s dream. 

Lonely World Part 2

It’s a Lonely World I dwell in,

Imprisoned, forever a first time felon.

Tellin’ myself tomorrow’ll be the seventh

Day, time to rest. God of my universe,

But I’ve yet to test my own miracles.

Swallowed them, they refuse to digest,

And I can’t upchuck, so I’m stuck.

Constant pain in the pit of my gut.

Just a pathetic dude whose energetic

Tools is limited to acting uncouth

Like a drunk snoozing in booze.

Wake up woozy, spirit oozing the blues.

 A floozy seducing a fool.

Life is like that to me. 

Lonely World Part 1

I grasp the mic

Like I asked it to give my lyrics life.

Living inside a three pound universe, so much strife.

Acting out like I wanna act like a

Gangsta riding at night,

Headlights off, off, off.

Everything’s off on demand.

Cable connections are unstable.

The picture ain’t really clear.

Still, I am able to turn tables

Like DJs and clever strategists

Standing in the rear, refusing to

Put up fronts until the perfect catalyst

Appears, perhaps it’s

A drunken sailor battling the perfect

storm, Weather or not

he’s weathering knots

He still sees a sea of deceit, which flows

Every which way like

Unpredictable plots

The Aging Emcee

There’s spite in the mic

That I hold in this hand.

Hmm… This hand. So old

And crippled, and decrepit—

Pathetic, and yet it’s like a relic.

 I admire the scars from grippin'

The mic tight and rapping hard,

Spittin’ bars that were so hot they

 Left the mic heated, my hand charred.

Ah, memories of being the top emcee,

Rockin’ clubs and parties and

Everything in between.

What am I’m gonna do now?

Be ample and proud

As I trample the crowd?

Scramble’em down

To an intangible compound.

Use a mandible that grounds

Fly cannibal hounds…

Dog eat dog.

Not once have I barked.

Quiet as a Savanna predator.

But the prey is all gone.

And with nothing to eat,

I’m no longer strong.

Doesn’t really matter to me.

I am just an aging emcee.

Life's Weight Problem

Life is kind of hard to carry.

She needs to lose weight,

Which means eating right

And exercising daily.

Does she ever do as advised?

Of course not, so I must keep

Feeding her white lies:

“You look good and slim

In those skinny jeans.”

But I’m tired of lying to

This wannabe Beauty Queen.

I’m going to sit her down

And say, “Look Life, I don’t mean

To be mean, but if you don’t

Lose weight, I’m gonna have

To let you go.” I won’t tell her

That tonight, but Maybe I will

Tomorrow.

We’ll see.

The Unknown

Everything is clearly unclear.

What is it that I fear?

The unknown is inevitable.

Packed in it: many regrettables.

Pop a few in my mouth…

Misery runs about

On top of juicy taste buds.

Regrettables running amuck

Cause the buds to desiccate,

And then slowly fade away.

What am I left with to call my own?

Once again, the unknown. 

Rap Poetry Song: Lawless

Verse 1:

Like junk, I feel boxed in.

Stay rocking the mic

And the mighty pen.

Spend my time unlearning bad habits.

Student of Life, lessons are havoc.

Testing this savage.

Some lessons are tragic,

Stressing—I’m guessing—

That life’s short and dramatic.

Just ask the girl in the attic.

Quite frank when writing in her diary.

I’ve had it! Tiring of the static

Shocking the ego,

Cocking the Eagle.

Birds fly, but so can people

When out of their minds.

Anything transcends the legal.

Morals are natural

As coral reefs, deep in the sea.

Brash egos haul into them,

Get torn apart, exposing their

Core being.

Chorus:

And we are all lawless

Flawed to our beautiful bones.

Yes, indeed we are lawless.

No one, but us can tidy our homes.

Verse 2:

Lawless and flawed,

But spit the rawest

Take on morality.

Hey, the cordiality

Wanes in the midst

Of generous vitality.

No one is selfless.

That’s why the media

Sells fish—Oooh-wee!

Ain’t nothing like

American sushi.

Lady Liberty? Who’s she?

We’re trapped in the bowels

Of her American dreams,

Staring in windows

Displaying cookies and cream.

Fine line between

Adults and teens.

Only real difference

Is adults make laws

That justify their

Childishly obscene

Actions that careen

Into nine-to-fivers

Paying taxes and praying

To God that they can

Afford to make it to their

Kid’s school play.

Lawlessness…

Comes from a pure place.

Chorus

 Verse 3:

Kool-Aid Jim Crow

Still quenches thirsty souls

Of some folk

Who are dying to be provoked

Into thinking the world is

Mirrors that blow smoke.

Woe is the delusional,

Spewing words that

They think are Constitutional.

Enter a David Duke pissing contest

With John’s Hancock.

The first to sign-away their rights.

The first to complain about their plight.

Look to the sky and ask, “Father, why?”

And their Father replies, “Get some z-z-z,

And then awaken from your sleep

And see the world belongs

To all human beings.

Your laws are not aligned with mine.

So humble yourself and find
My moral shrine,

And in time

You will be at peace

And free from your

Ridiculous law-making machine.”

Chorus

Rough Rhyme

My rhymes are so fly

In order to catch’em

You’ll have to be willing

To take the red eye.

Cater to a select few who choose to

Sit through the turbulent lies

And vague facts in order to converse

With the honest truth.

Destroy hacks and silence quacks.

Throttling greedy ducks who’ve got green bills.

If I’m heavily medicated, it’s because

I took one too many chill pills.

Ain’t chillin’ still,

Sittin’ like I’m ready to pounce on the next mission.

Toot my own horn at a sub teacher

To create a submission.

Humble myself like a good Christian

Saying his Act of Contrition

Cause arrogance is an action that can

Backfire when you least expect.

I polish off my intellect

With my blood and sweat.

my read shelf:

Rowan Berries

This World

This World in which I was born

Worships those who conform.

But if one jiggles one’s way out of the norm,

This World would crush one for being foreign.

This World in which I was born.

Sometimes it produces,

Other times it destroys.

Whether or not this act is conducive

The World remains quite coy.

This World in which I was born.

The World is a beautiful creature

Rife with mountainous curves as sacred as nunneries.  

 But the World is a deceptive teacher,

Catering to those who can afford her luxuries.

This World in which I was born. 

African American Urban Literature: Life After Being Lost-Book Trailer

It’s Okay (Remembering Ernest Victor Frazier 4/23/2014)

It’s okay to be sad,

To let tears drench the corners of our eyes,

Then slide down and flood our sullen cheeks.

It’s okay to be angry,

To curl our fingers into fists and smash things…

If that soothes the anger in our fragile, cantankerous hearts.

And it’s okay to question God

For feeding us hope, then snatching it away,

And in doing so, leaving a part of us to starve

For answers that our tongues will never taste.

But we mustn’t forget to rejoice

In knowing our Grandfather or our

Dad or our friend is at rest.

Though we might find it hard to believe,

There is indeed mercy in Death.

And we mustn’t forget to calm our anger

And dust off that inner peace.

But most of all, we mustn’t forget

That the one we’ve cherished for 96 years

Has gone off to see a Higher, all-loving Being.

Rapaholic

Got an AA meeting to attend.

Being a rapaholic is no fun, friend.

Sometimes I think, Why would I

Wanna end these rhymes of mine

That pack potency like getting high

Without the side effects of a disturbed intellect?

Intelligence is elegant.

When I guzzle a bottle of raps,

I become president.

Traveling through fifty mind states

Of the belligerent, battling the ignorant.

I’m indignant like the indigenous  

Living intensely for the root of the nature,

Creating my own branch of legislature.

The law of logic appears to be lost to profit.

In a capitalist society, we are always eyeing the

Sucker with the “Kick Me Sign” on his back.

Dollar signs equate to money stacks.

But money ain’t evil, it’s the people! The people!

Oligarchs keep their circle air tight

And righteous as a steeple.

 The feeble have become lethal

To their own chagrin.

Political cannibals, eating at the very ideology

That sustains their hens.

And forget about the goose

Whose golden egg fame is worldwide.

Her days were numbered.

Now all she's got is her pride.

Pride don’t  put food on the table.

But it feeds the ego, so it is able

To perpetuate the delusion of a civil state.

Rapaholic, yo. Got me thinking I’m Billy Gates

Wealthy and safe,

When really I’m just a Billy goat gruff.

Looking for food for thought to bulk up.

Troll's in my way.

But wait until the day

I become the third goat,

Battle that troll, till he’s ghost.

Rapholic. 

Sanity

Knife plunges into flesh.

A red hot blood spritz, yes!

And then an ebullition.

No more suppositions.

Flesh hacked into fifty pieces.

He finds beauty in the egregious

Acts of his pack committee

That is as silent as the boy in Sin City.

“Sin City!” he thinks. “Now there’s a thought.”

The war within him, watches each peace rot

On the cold constitutional floor.

He smiles, looks around, then makes his escape,

Off to seek his sanity, to give thanks and praise.

The Puppy Song

Ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

Said, ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

Soon as he makes a mess, uh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

Soon as he makes a mess, gotta tell’em no-oh!

Pup has no episodic memory

So tell him no right when he pee-pees. 

Train’em in a crate or use the pads.

Be patient, though, even if it’s bad!

Ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

Said, ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

Soon as he makes a mess, uh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

Soon as he makes a mess, gotta tell’em no-oh!

Pups like to bite, be cute, and playful,

But a biting pup equals a dog with no home.

So train’em early to bite only pup toys,

Before he bites something you really enjoy.

Ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

Said, ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

Soon as he makes a mess, uh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

Soon as he makes a mess, gotta tell’em no-oh!

Get your pup at a shelter, or a good breeder

Because puppy mills are bottom feeders.

Don’t believe me, just do your research.

‘Cause mean pups weren’t properly nurtured.

Ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

Said, ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

Soon as he makes a mess, uh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

Soon as he makes a mess, gotta tell’em no-oh!

Ain’t no need to hit your puppy.

The Truth

What can I do to uncover the truth?

Shall I sit and meditate in a booth

As I sip grand ale and eat sweet beef stew?

Outside my door there lies political floors:

Politicians making decisions or

Thugs that enjoy the kill forevermore.

The Truth! The Truth! Yes, we all want the Truth,

But the Truth makes us ill or does it soothe? 

Never Change

            I’m a million dollars in debt.

            Still, people ask me to change.

            I’ve tried, without success.

            I guess I should try again.

            So I sit and contemplate.
            I think up many ideas,
            But nothing populates
            My brain region's

           Plagued with too many fears.

           

            I’ve seen many silver faces,

            But that’s all I ever see.

            I’ve searched in many places

            For the sick ones whose skin is green.

            Every day I awaken,

            Knowing my palms are empty.

            I wish my spirit would be taken,

            And then set free ever so gently.

            But this will never happen—

            At least not anytime soon.

            So all I can do is imagine

          What it’s like to be rich like you. 

The Quitter

I am a quitter.

I quit everything:

My jobs, my goals, my dreams.

I am a quitter,

And I hold my head up with pride.

I am a quitter.

Now, if only I could quit these lies.

The truth is, I’d rather be a failure.

At least a failure can say he tried.

But I am a quitter.

That is all I will ever be.

A quitter.

Too bad I can’t quit being me.

Curious

I’m curious. Why am I here?

If God doesn’t exist,

Then life is meaningless.

If he does,

Then life sucks.

I’m curious. Why am I here?

If my IQ were high,

I’d be smartly asinine.

If my IQ were way low,

I’d be off the payroll.

I’m curious. Why am I here?

If I could answer the question,

Maybe I’d learn a lesson.

If I chose to remain ignorant,

Bliss just might set in.

I’m curious. Why are you here?

Dander

Like dander settling in on the scalp,

I sit-away my life

Until someone reaches up and

Scratches me out of existence.

Poetry: My Love, My Enemy

Poetry.

My Love, my enemy.

I can love without you,

But I hate when I do.

Poetry.

My Love, my enemy.

Why, oh, why are you so… cruel?

 Poetry. You’re found in everything I do,

Which is why the only woman I need in this world is you.
I love how the tongue behind your seductive lips
Slips me a French *muaw*
To my unimaginative brain.
Now I see the world in high definition imagery.
Plenty of metaphors and similes
For me to wrap up in a heartbeat
Like that “Cold World” rhyme.
Lyrically, I’m at my prime,
But missing a Mrs.
I’m waiting at the altar,
But you never show up;
You’re off kissing
Someone else.
Do you like being a mistress?
’Cause if so, I don’t know
What I’d do.
You used to be heartfelt.
Now, it’s like your heart failed
Or could it have been mine?

 Poetry.

My Love, my enemy.

I can love without you,

But I hate when I do.

Poetry.

My Love, my enemy.

Why, oh, why are you so… cruel?

 Thought we shared true rhyme,

But you left me in a state of assonance.
You were my muse,
But I skewered your presence,
Ignored your blues.
I had the audacity to be confused
When you left,
Expressing your free verse.
Those precious footsteps
Pitter pattering out the house
How many meters into the street?
Perfect rhythm like a melody within a beat,
Lyrics voicing the song’s creed.
Can you ever forgive my iniquity?
Your ubiquity is killing me;
It’s everywhere except between these bed sheets,
Now a cold place blessed with disgrace
Like a sinner unable to grasp hold of his faith.
I keep mementos of us inside a CD case,
Recorded songs back when we were great.
Love conquered like Alexander,
But was as sweet as…

Poetry.

My Love, my enemy.

I can love without you,

But I hate when I do.

Poetry.

My Love, my enemy.

Why, oh, why are you so… cruel?

 Let’s not forget the past.

Reel it in to the present.
This love is destined
To be, to be, to be
Full of conflict,
But more importantly,
Resolution.
All poetic stories of intrigue
Fall into a certain category
Called restitution.
So return to me,
To us, to “we,”
Together can create anything—
At least as far as imagery.
Your pad, my pen.
Let’s put this reticence to an end.
Strip down to your brown skin
Like India Arie.
All we need
Is a bed of metaphors
And a thick sheet of similes
To give us an abstract,
But comfortable meaning.
If you’re down, meet me
In poetic aria…

Poetry.

My Love, my enemy.

I can love without you, but I hate when I do.

Poetry.

My Love, my enemy.

Why, oh, why are you so… cruel?

Beautiful Blue

Today, I stand here at the edge of this cliff,

Staring down at you, Beautiful Blue.

Dare I taste your salty flesh?

Feel your depth?

Anything to get away from this place.

Beautiful Blue, could you be a convenient escape?

A merciful one?

No, I’m not a quitter. Land is fun—was.

But I’ve done battle in every valley,

Kissed in every open field,

Climbed every mountain,

Stood on their tops and cheered

As I watched the wildlife below.

The Wildlife.

The Wildlife.

   The Wildlife… 

Where animals and humans congregate.

Animals, at least they’re cute,

But these putrid humans?

These creatures with pretty teeth

Claim to be civilized. Oh how they deceive!

Religious zealots and pagans with statements,

Claiming atonement for public debasement.

Scum.

Bitter, I am not.

A bit weary and  overwrought.

To drown among the Dolphins and Great Whites,

A peaceful, fitting way to die,

But I seek not death.

I simply desire asylum

From this treacherous mire.

And you…

Such a Beautiful Blue.

You’ve inspired writers,

Poets,

Sailors,

Divers.

You are the perfect person.

Placid and playful,

Violent, but faithful

To your nature.

How can I reject you?

Beautiful Blue.

I want to be deep inside you

Craving, like an explorer,

A lover,

Craving, like a small child cradled in the womb.

Some might call me foolish, stupid even.

But you, Beautiful Blue, know what I mean, and

So here I go…

One…

Two…

Three…

SpLaSh!

Graveyard

            Vivid images pry into darkness

            While light hides itself behind

            The shadow of the night.

           

            mourners whisper, leaving echo’s in the air

            Like red herrings, dwindling down on cold stone tops

            comforted by death flowers from the caring

                    

                              ARISE,

            Questions    

                                          but

                                   

                                                are

                                                            left unanswered.

           

            A mother weeps 

            as her child gets   carried   away

           

            in   a   frosty   casket.

           

            Winter is here...  (Overcoats are quickly consumed by cold hearts.)

Africa, the Strong

Africa Mother,

Africa Father,

Africa Daughter,
Africa Son…

Birth of the first family

Cursed with a terse Misunderstanding

Of this wanderer of alabaster skin.

African sun-tanning;

Melanin is a felon in

The new eyes of the African

Whose old eyes have been

Denied by European contacts.

Now how can Africa be perceived

Through dark eyes trying to visualize

A world tinted blue?

Where the sinless spew religious billets duox .

Christians on missions holding a heavy Holy Book

Meant to whip the light-hearted dark-skinned

Savage until Jesus Christ underpins his habits. 

The light-hearted African becomes Saved! Saved! Saved!

Now he, now she writes with a ferocity of a freed slave.

Equiano, Wheatley;

African culture replaced

With one that gives their existence meaning.

Yet listen to Adichie,

And ask yourself if she’s wrong.

Are You in America tasteless

On the tip of the outsider’s tongue?

Your Ebony Speech dismissed as dumb. 

Ask Princely Hope Glorious about that one.

Africa Mother,

Africa Father,

Africa Daughter,
Africa Son…

Conrad’s breath…Okonkwo’s death.

Blue Eyes and  Blond Whigs.

Beauty and politics mix

Well for those who sell

Themselves for a pair of tales.

Organic food for thought used to come naturally,

But now has turned the women and MENdacity

Into MENtal perverts seduced by European chastity.

The new African mantra: Capitalism is everlasting.

Those blue eyes, everlasting.

Ask the Asian kid Lee Min kyong

About her blepharoplasting.

Africa Mother,

Africa Father,

Africa Daughter,
Africa Son…

Birth of the first human breath.

This breath escaped,

Returning only to collect blood diamonds.

Young kids dying over fashion statements,

Diamonds, eagerly sold by persistent tradesmen.

Meanwhile, the African clans are quiet

Or dismissed from the African scene,

Reduced to National Geographic TV and color maps

Folded inside a magazine.

Africa Mother,

Africa Father,

Africa Daughter,
Africa Son…

You are strong, so get off your knees!

And roar like the Lion King.

Use your cunning like Anansi or stomp like the

Mighty elephant or charge like the bold rhino

Or creep like the hyena, the croc, the hippo…

Or beat your chest like the silverback.

They think you to be a gorilla anyway. Insulting?

Gorilla’s are more peaceful than a human being.

That human who’d kill for his luxury car,

Her animal scarf,

For his private jet,

Her silk dress.

Africa Mother,

Africa Father,

Africa Daughter,
Africa Son…

Yes, you have every reason to be steeped in

Nervous Conditions—Tambuitis.

Can you fight this?

Tsetse flies try to destroy you,

But you survive.

Nodding disease tries,

But you survive,

AIDS tries,

But you survive.

Colonists try,

But your heart still beats

Yes, you bleed…

And though many have left you in the dark,

There still lies a spark

Within a soccer ball. Give it a kick

And get a few hours of artificial light,

Thanks to Jess and Jules.

Some care about your plight.

Some people care enough to fight.

Africa Mother,

Africa Father,

Africa Daughter,
Africa Son…

Africa, the Strong.

The Curmudgeon

Broken sounds and loud visuals tend to

Distort the mind, distort the mind until

Something ill happens to the human who

Once liked the lone curmudgeon, hoarding a mil

While he unknowingly captured a rue

His house was rich, his soul was poor and chilled.

Now the human detests the curmudgeon.

Oh, what mirrors reflect in a sudden!

                                               

People On Life

People say Life’s unfair, uncouth even,

Yes, a Xanthippe, a Rancorous Beast,

a Creature, mad...A Killer, a Demon,

unstable—unbelievably so, peace

is not the answer for this Wicked Witch

whose teeth are fangs, eyes of Eden's snakehead.

A forked tongue; anger on her lips, sweet with

a fantasy that stabs hearts of men, dead. 

Still, to some, Life's  a bittersweet lady,

prancing on broken hearts until weeping

as if her heart, too, were broken, fading.

Mouth frowns, eyes narrow. Is her heart bleeding?

Oh yes, Life’s a woman misunderstood;

Forever a Wild Thing, lost in the woods.

Answers for Our Mistakes

            

            The mistakes we make

            Are meant to help us grow.

           

            But sometimes what comes to mind

            Is a malfunction of the soul.

           

            Righteous thoughts are often lost

            When sense can’t be made.

           

            So we dwell in a well

            Where our worthless lives now lay.

           

            We look to holy books,

            Hoping for an answer.

           

            But the light’s not too bright,

            So we just marvel at its candor.

           

            There’s such a yearn to turn

            To things we think can guide us.

           

            Seeking not the Zen within,

            Letting “the self” walk right on by us.

Dedicated to My Maker

You made me.

The reader knows this, and yet…

He likes to feel smart

By picking me apart,

Line by line.

My stanzas are sore.

Grateful. I think I’m supposed to be.

They put me back together,

But never the same way.

I’ve been reshaped with an intended meaning.

Yet, still I, the poetic Humpty Dumpty,  am meaningless.

Yes, they pay attention to your penmanship.

Guessing, theorizing, objectifying

You…me.  

Some conclude I’m inferior because I am free,

And not contained in an ottava rima, a sestina,

A villanelle…Those creations are all swell,

But they’re not me and I’m not them,

And that’s what makes us interesting, I think.

For the imagery each of us breed is packed with pulchritude.

Blue skies or rainy rainbows, reigning diverse kingdoms.

Portraits of freedom look like Death, but feel like Life.

The runner at the starting line.

The Mother at the finish, praising a dirge.

See?  Our guts are composed of gracious words,

Broken down into nutrients, fuel for the body.

Still, the reader insults me, dismisses me,

Claiming that I’m too complex, or too trite,

Or too nothing. Sometimes I’m angered,

But that’s about all.

I have faith in You…

My Creator, my Maker;

You’ve given me life,

And that’s enough reason

For Me to just Be.