It is not the first time, I heard these words before
Recently, Egypt, after Tunisia, told their chiefs to go
The people are suffering, enough of the misuse. Go
In Libya, the refusal and the outrage, see blood
Flowing to streets of Benghazi, hear the wailing

Yes, I heard these words by and by, where I worked
When some staff stole with pen and paper, not gun
When bankruptcy hit us, see helpless victims cry
And when landlords wanted to increase their rents
See tenants roam till someone says come home

Let Us Now

Let us create poetry,
Of our contemporary times,
We wouldn't like to disown…
Creativity is no slave of mankind
Nor subservient to past unknown…

Let’s create a tree
Called creation
And
Not live alone,
in glorified jubilation
Of times and poets
Since buried
aeons passed.

To current times
We should remain married
And
Leave behind a poetic legacy…
Likewise to be buried.

Flowing with the last Narcissus  (original version)

standing in front of a mirror
time
presents itself with a click of imagination
stop, shock therapy
when did i lose the outer me to the image
present in my mind,
i am always me, aren't i?

you look at her beauty, force
me to notice your noticing, by this and that...
a movement of your body, closer to hers,
a camera's flash, you take a picture of
someone else, her face like a
finger pointing between, framing
the painting you paint of me

a neighbor's chimney smoke
drifts through a stand of jack pine
delivering small billows of fascination
onto my porch

the wide smile warmth of her kitchen
in every inhalation
and almond paste and cinnamon
a busy country oven

seepings of an open paint box and turpentine
sidle in as faint undertone

a unique blend of her, hearth, and home
nothing in the world smells quite like this

my nose becomes a projector
for all associated images
I fall back onto dog musty wicker
and watch

At the sound
Of her voice
Agony grows
Weary

She knows
The pain
Of living with
A two headed demon
That nauseates
Stomachs

She understood
The fear in a voice
The sweat dripping
From palms

Finding safety
From the seed of
Growing paranoia

Dancing on the page
Leaving images behind
Giving birth to words
That saves

Pilots of Pages.

I set my pen against paper
like a rudder entering water
the pen guides this paper
to it’s conclusion.
Such simple thoughts are
scary even hard to comprehend.

We are I believe pilots of the pen,
obtuse maybe, playful certainly,
serious sometimes, downright angry,
frightened, brilliant, almost anything
you can imagine we are, but pilots

the window full of bright
I watch the birds hover
and slide from view
the traffic waiting for the light
and I catch the colour
of your hue
the calm serenity of you

the coffee rich I sip and taste
the hours watch
I must keep haste
the quick exam your beauty
based
the pale flow
hair held by bow

away and from the shop I walk
and listen to the ravens talk
and place this moment
under lock
for rainy days
and thought filled ways

Nature's words.

The firs and pines they speak
their wind tossed branches
wave their words
across the miles of lake
to echo in the firmament
up high
where skylarks fly
and birds of prey they wait
to spy the mouse and vole
far down below

I'm a bitch
Jump in feet first
and think later.

Volatile witch 
quick to anger,
Curse and fight.

Someone attacks me 
they live to regret It
they will never forget it.

Filled with self loathing
Brimming with remorse,
Overflowing with regret.

Not to proud to admit
When I'm wrong,
Even when my foots in my mouth.