A lonely wind tells me its secrets
Treats me to its scented memories
Apologizes for its inconsistencies
While hiding in a slow rising fog
She claims she is but a pawn
Held hostage by the sun and sea
Warm vapors stir the forming clouds
Icy waters chill the air below
The battle sweeps her into its path
Spins her in a tornadic dance
An unseen sun calls the devils tune
A drumroll as warming waters roil
And yet her sister lifts a falling leaf
Sets it gently on a chilling lawn
Riffles the marching rows of corn
Colors the cheeks of school bound children
Thus, she bids a hurried farewell
For stillness is the harbinger of fate
On leaving blows an icy kiss
As friends arrive in hoar frost coats
I want Love.
The kind of Love,
which holds my hands,
kisses my cheeks and gives me peace.
I want Love,
which wants me too,
"I'd let the world burn down for you".
I want Love,
which respects,
the "forever and beyond", I guess.
But where's this Love,
I can't see?
Do I miss the opportunity?
Or are just my expectations too high?
Is this Love too much Disney?
Or is Love just hiding from me?
Even if it is -
Love, you have to know:
I am going to always want you.
wheep wheep
whee whee whee whee whee
crickets and birds
chirping and tweeting at nine p.m.
my front porch sounds like a bog
we are close to a marsh
mosquitoes verify this
bull frogs take up their violins
crawdads hum
big dog and I sit on the porch, listening
breathing in the Kansas night air
enjoying natural orchestra of the evening
the sky darkens
now there is silence
I am hungry I think
my body shakes with blubbery laughter
now I want sugar
she cries happy tears
getting what she was after in the first place
Streaming like the rain outside
The windscreen wipers working like
My heart and chopping onions stuff
A testament to will the good of another
The kids are in the back and can't see what's going on
Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling in the driving seat
I think of my wife and when we first met
She was always running late
As I was shoegazing on the corner
I needed a parrot sidekick
High on Belgian waffles and coffee
A hip new sensibility
The dash cam records the journey
Join me on my magic carpet
Grant me three wishes
Give me some tassel
In the Maghreb
I'll be your magic lamp
In order to reveal myself
Let's pick out curtains
Contemplating life after listening to the radio late at night...
(a found poem)
Do you suppose thunder island
is in the middle of fire lake?
(I can still hear your voice from across the bay)
Which of us made the first mistake?
I have no time left now to go searching
for maybes without answers.
(I did not find those wings or better things)
If you had only dropped in to see
what condition I was in
(after I tore my mind on a jagged sky)
I would have taken a long shot gamble,
(ignored the green grass and high tides)
rode away with you down a carefree highway,
where we might have found
those castles of stone and peace of mind!
Songs:
Thunder Island by Jay Ferguson, 1978
Fire Lake by Bob Seger, 1980
No Time by The Guess Who, 1969
Just Dropped In by Kenny Rogers and The First Edition, 1967
Green Grass and High Tides by The Outlaws, 1975
Carefree Highway by Gordon Lightfoot, 1974
I told her I'm a stranger
A souvenir
She thought I am from Ghana
Because I'm black like Ghanaians
She concurred
While listening to my accent
She confirmed I'm a Nigerian.
She said she can't
Wait to have me
Saying I'm one of a kind
I'm always on her mind
She called me the law of attraction
Because like a magnet she's always attracted to me.
She called me
A heart robber
Because I stole her
Heart away
With the way I do my things
She said I'm differ from others
Because I never pretend to be another.
Memories
of Formica
kitchens
And 2-burner
Hotpoint
stoves
Lipstick on
a menthol
butt
Costume
pearls
in rows
Perfume
from the
five and dime
Drive In’s
on the
field
A promise
made
a promise kept
And
love
— that time can’t steal
(Listening To Patsy Cline: July 4th, 2025)
Looking out the window
I didn't see a sound
Nothing out there moving
The world on solid ground
No birds were out there singing
No rustling of the leaves
Is the river flowing
But silent as a breeze?
Was I really seeing
The absence of all sound?
Or was I only hearing
The silence all around?
What has brought him to this cheerful place?
Is it curiosity, hunger, or an escape from loneliness?
A mild wind from the East caresses the gleaming waves,
and he expresses jealousy with deliberate rage;
his small nest was destroyed by the wrathful storm of February,
vainly, he searched for it through the bushes of wild huckleberry.
The mid-spring sunrise is bright-golden and luminous:
similar to a brilliant sun that illuminates all in its path;
and yet the green-blue pelican ignores it and chooses
to mourn his loss, never hoping to find his little ones alive:
to survive in such a wilderness, any bird needs to strive
or die even when harmony invites to explore new skies.
It's Saturday morning, I'm strolling and singing
and perched on the Monterey Cypress stretching
its branches want to embrace him for solidarity,
would he accept or refuse the feeling of empathy?
Listening to the pelican's affliction is sensing total despair,
something I've felt and carried inside to deepen the wound
of a tragic event that provided no minimal healing whatsoever:
we were created differently from these fowls with thrilling sound.
Feet walking with direction and decision
Mouth speaking sweet words
Not riddled with derision
Heart beating for pure love
With no malice or spite
Eyes seeking and finding acceptance
With no attachment of wrong or right
Ears listening for a moment of bonding
Not tools for inspection
Head held high with pride, positivity, and deep reflection
Forbidden
In human nature,
hearing and listening are
not the same thing:-
You can hear said words
but can not respond to them,
if not listening:-
Ancestrally said,
you not listening is bad;
not caring, is worse:-
Being a wise one,
do not just hear what is said;
understand also:-
You’re the kind of beautiful that feels like it belongs in a poem — soft, powerful, unforgettable. You’re the kind of person that makes others believe in magic again — not the kind in fairy tales, but the real kind, the kind that lives in rare hearts like yours. You have this way of making everything feel okay, even when it’s not. I don’t know how you do it, but when you listen, when you just are you — it’s like the whole world slows down and for once, I can actually breathe. You don’t just hear me — you understand me. And that’s rare. You’re rare.
I hear the sound of clanging and banging from a distant source
Like an orchestra of metal pots that have fallen on the kitchen floor
which brings a ringing to my inner ear
then a low vibration comes as I stand still
This frequency happens frequently
transmitting a language I've yet to unveil
Creating a magnetic peace during its stay
One day I hope to understand the meaning behind it all
A tale probably woven over a thousand years
I hear the sound and listen in
The tone goes away just as mysterious as it came
Reflective listening
Thats the one
People can say how they have been undone
Or have a glorious tale
Of adventure
Bad guys went to jail
Listening carefully
Too all they say
Can perceive their life story
In five minutes
A day
Often they drone on
The story is repeated
Elongated
Embellished
Stretching the five minutes
Until they call it a day
No one knows how that goes
Except for the therapist
Who is picking her nose
Repeats back one or two words
And on the story goes
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