The day was promising, searching for a friend,
he needed some time with none to spend,
his absence was noted for quite some time,
his presence unseen, was it a sign?
He was shy and elusive, but kind,
a transient mover, hard to find.
Many had tried without success,
if they did, it ended a mess.
He used to be the talk of the town,
and now no where to be found.
You could ask him to share his abilities,
people still talk of his fine qualities.
He looked for him in church, in each and every pew,

Up north where the wild wolves dwell
he sat before the lit up screen
typing words that would impel
one to think beyond what's seen.

Whenever his writes were read
best you had your wits turned on
just to kin the things he said
when his imagery was drawn.

Unlike simple scribes like me
his writes had depth beyond the words
in a rare type of poetry
which sang as clearly as mute birds.

What do you see when you look at me?
Do you see that I am magical and beautiful?
How quickly do you see my imperfections, flaws, and scars?
The ones on my skin, below the surface
my heart has bandages and stitches.
What do you see when you look at me?
The epitome of hope and resiliency
Are you evaluating and analyzing how I am a risk, asset, or liability?
Are you waiting for an opportunity to call out my next mistake?
Do you see my potential, my wonders, my victories, my complexities?

Just because you only dress to attract attention
It doesn't mean that only nice people will look at you

[The person I want to look at me, should be twenty-five years old, have a nice car, plenty of money
and be as sweet as a newborn baby.]

Just because automobiles aren't supposed to hit you
It doesn't mean that you should walk in the road

[I should be able to walk where there are no bumps or cracks in my path
and I don't have to lift my feet higher than my ankle.]

I almost drove past, but it caught my eye,
tempted, just to pass by,
a force told me to seek it out,
it required me to turn about,
it was small, with limited space,
with only my loneliness, to embrace,
touching that moment, with solitude,
going deep it played inside my head,
making me uncomfortable, instead,
it made me look at my legacy,
look at my worth, you see.
Did I make a difference?
Did it come down to dollars and cents?
Uncertainty makes me shout,
is that what worth is all about?

You were once my all,
My happiness, my love, my heart,
I knew this during our fall,
In the last tender moments of our depart

What I would give to hold you again,
To have another feel of those sweet gentle lips,
Your warmth that transcended through rain,
To touch your silky curly locks at their tips.

In your absence, the world has lost its shine,
The future holds no other description but bleak,
Now that I've lost all in the world that was mine
Cheerful songs fail to escape a bird's beak.

Attached to nothing,
how could I swoop on earth
unobserved?
Then tilt and invert it's sod,
air furrow through
the olive groves,
finding ploughed space,
to fly above and out
and beyond any scurrying
mind below.

Then to, skirt and court
my azure bowl,
pledge one allegiance;
one alliance:
to simple indifferent gravity,
fate, instinct, and joy.

This has no word,
It just falls,
to the wingless,
through the mind
of a sky.

Yuan was a good friend of mine,
even though he lived a different time,
he had a dream of flying to the moon,
he couldn't wait, tomorrow wasn't too soon,
he built a chair for space travel,
for questions he wanted unraveled,
forty seven rockets were built to propel this chair,
it was his dream he didn't care,
forty seven servants assisted in his dream,
each lit a fuse, it was extreme,
Yuan sailed up to the sky,
and this is why?
I ask "has anyone seen Yuan Ho?"
Does anybody know?

If the world ends and again,
if the privilege is given to all.
i will prefer the choice of my wish,
may be consanguinity i guess.
albeit, the omnipotent of the
universe determines justly.

As black and white,
stimulate meaning to life.
his identity unveils boldly,
his greatness over shades.
to my likes,
he is the symbol of heroism.
all lingua honor him gladly,
the African poetry father.

The memories stack up
each one having it's own place
I can remember all the laughs
each and every face

I didn't take many pictures
of the sadness and the toil
For I'd rather not remember
as I shuffle on this coil

There is enough of grief
troubles and the woes
The world's too short in joy
as everybody knows

So look at these scenes, my friend
see the gladness and the fun
I remember all the good times
we had troubles on the run