Poetry · Writing

Magic

I have to write.

I stare at this blank page

and it stares back

taunts me.

It feeds off me

like a leech it

feast on my fears for breakfast

and sips my anxiety like tea.

Never satisfied

until I write.

So here I sit

Staring through this open window

waiting for the magic.

From a home I can’t explain

neighbor of imagination

down the block from love

Or is it hate.

Next to the house that always cooks barbecue.

That smell that sweeps the block

through open windows

love hate relationship with your belly

as it fights for something more.

Yet, here I sit

waiting for the magic.

Watching this orange fuck

slowly crush our stars

gathering Universal’s Minions

calling himself Gru

wasting on a par 4

stealing candy from unborn babies

from the home that he

is burning to the ground.

Closing our window

after only a few months

He,

We.

Need to-

Look for the magic.

Gather fingertips

the window is still open

Jump.

Don’t fly

We still have to fight.

So

Here I stand.

Writing

silent page.

Starting at the open window.

Needing to make humans think

think twice

and tell them a lie

that this window

Will always be open.

Poetry · Writing

the day before yesterday

Planning for the future

with a hammer

and a couple nails.

It’s a joke

I know

but it’s the truth.

The nails are a bit rusted

felt like I should mention that.

Bent too.

Head to Home Depot

to have your card rejected

but find a two by four

on the way home.

 

Buddy said she had

some parts for me,

pity screw.

Looking up already,

call it a note worthy day.

 

Poetry · Writing

Faith

The black panther lives in the rainforest.

This is the home of Faith.

The promising work of a florist.

Home forever even as a wraith.

 

Enchanting the world with sunny kisses.

Always with you like a reprise.

True nature’s cheery missus.

In spring time, love is carried on the breeze.

 

Her beauty undeniable by all.

All wanted to see what she could achieve.

Impossible to foresee thee befall.

This panther bows as she takes her leave.

 

All panthers ache and weep.

Rest now in your beauty sleep.

 

Poetry · Writing

little red dream

she wishes from a washed brick balcony

stars too far to hear her

but her song still travels

paved with a milky trail of clouds

it might be all that’s left

she’ll never cease her song

until the day the stars reach their subtle ears

closer to her wolf proof balcony

she’ll be back the morrow

an the next

until the stars

are in her palms

Poetry · Writing

righteous movement

i wonder what you think of me

if you think at all

if you wave white flags for surrender

or who you pray to

if culture was the start-

was that you?

you’ve been on my mind

debating to see if you can see me

a little different

not ready for that conversation but

i can see it going there

when i am ready we will

maybe

Poetry · Writing

i am hotpocket

i don’t stand a chance

against the sun

but someone has to

he stands tall without a rival

burning the less worthy

like a hot pocket

going around in a circle

unopposed

talkin’ reckless

can never get near ’em

that’s not the world i want to remember

if i exist

will my face be in tact

slippin’ off a plate

wet dishes

if we exist

past four hundred times

over three hundred tics