Rush, rush, the sound of waves,
Eager to fill the anxious bay,
Meet with a sweet thrust,
Recede back into the salty mist,
The ocean’s voice is found,
As a whirlpool circles ‘round,
Scattering seashells across the floor,
Like sandy memories of tides before,
Sunshine sets the blue aglow,
And lights forgotten harbors down below,
Of wreckaged ghosts so forelorn,
That they shall never return to shore.

Pessimism ,
distraught minds
two in one
should upon each others shoulders display,
some sense of consolation
and
admiration
but
not only sadism relay
Positivity ought to be the aim
Of lovers two,
how I wish
that new ones knew

Some boy soldiers in pastime played
On seeing a pregnant woman
Then argued amongst themselves
On sex and gender of fetus
Unborn Liberian in the womb

One said to the other, pointing
It is a boy in there, I bet
Another countered, it is a girl
The debate reached a crescendo
They resolved to check out crudely

Insanity drove the dispute
Diminutive diminuendo
A double edge machete in hand
Sliced up the belly in cold blood
Killing the woman right away

d r e h e n

riven a glass dressed in rains
the slow dance
the damp hell vice
upon a fire soul blazing

steam and wet desire
twin of night
twin of day

twas want for both
I long for play
the perfume of
the de ja vue

* been a long time since I did this.......1 poem in 3 forms

I rest against a poplar tree
on a small bluff above a creek
a spot I visited last week
where I go to seek serenity
and escape the jostling crowd

Seven days ago I sat in sun
beneath tall monarchs bare of leaves
no rustle stirred by wandering breeze
ere the leaf out had begun
unmuffled sounds seemed clear and loud

swaying ....................................................................upon
the shadow
of this moon.

the silhouettes
reflect ........................................................................two
as one.

our ...........................................................................stars
are fading with
the peak of a horizon.

for you....................................................................were
just sand
erased by the wind.

One Fulani
Woman stands
with only her tongue
with strange hands
and a choked heart full of palm poems
gathering shamans
scurrying a foot
to witness one Fulani woman
her backless dress
a long neck, chick pea chest
peeping two points thru engaged fabric
agile flow below extended lure
a chasm between
bayonet sapphire's like dangling participle
the rhapsodist a slight before the I
offering a review of her hieroglyphics
warming air around the warrior insitu

Maybe it's bronchitis or asthma
or my secret life as a witch
crushed beneath the weight
of stone.

I cross street after street littered with urban decay,
blue bags shredded in Sycamore trees
distressing emerging leaves.
But oh, the green, how it invades my senses!

Drip...drip...drip...
From the tip of the knife, blood drips
As it hangs loose from my fingertips
...
I will not let go...I will not hold on
I will not be here...I can't be there...
Grey is my favorite color.

Metal to flesh...look into my eyes
I will not...I cannot slash your throat
Or drive this...deep...deep
into...flesh...fresh, human...man...
I love to drive things into things...

Keeping an attachment,
To a fragile thing,
Watching it roam the sunset,
And dance out over the sea,
By and by, the beat of a soul,
That feels more than words can say,
Pondering explanations,
From which one can never walk away,
It is a hope,
To keep faith in the soul,
Empathy amongst the shallowness,
Light surrounding the whole,
God gave us the ability to see,
Beautiful moments that pass our way,
An attachment between one another,
To a most fragile and confusing thing,