8/4/2025
Countless individuals
have become self willed.
Seems each day that passes
innocent people are killed.
Shootings and stabbings
have become the norm.
To society’s prescript,
many loath to to conform.
Perpetrators all receive
what we call “due Process.”
So they’re given a lawyer
who excels at aggress.
Because oft times the penalty
doesn’t fit the crime.
Some are granted pardons
precluding doing their time.
Many times the perpetrators
upon return to the street.
Unwilling to seek a job
and with others compete.
They return to the same life
they failed to escape.
They were given second chances
to slash, shoot, loot and rape.
Dark, black, midnight in my cup.
Cream is light, especially sweet.
Hot, warm, rekindle Winter’s mug.
Bitter chill, biting, nipping at heels.
“Baby it’s cold outside” teeny trees.
Tenderness handled in warm grip.
The pour fell into the cold-temp cup.
Warmth filled every space, then
my lips, my tongue, inside cheeks;
fills cherry mountains below eyes.
A caffeinated prescript aft’ “ahh,”
and Boston brown “molasses” bread.
America’s on a limousine roll
with presidential flags waving.
Transfer of power, balancing -
perhaps we can all be friends, again.
A rich-only career fortress
A man’s world, where others protest to impress
Where you seek any progress
By being a self-starved actress
Where the normalcy of serial monogamy
Ignores the tenets of loyalty and family
Profanity has eloquence
Obscenity is glamourous
An industry dressed up in robes of hypocrisy
So avaricious but with tears over piracy
Diversity is merely for the stage
Equal opportunity is caged
Their life has a prescript
To live for a price tag
Their feelings are not distinct
But they live so far away from us
In world of sex and looks, always lusting for extolment
FOR THE BOYS TO MEN OF MOZAMBIQUE
(APROPOS CONDOMS FOR PEACE)
PRESCRIPT:
The tinted thin twisted twine
hued with the colors of sunshine
wraps around the cold blown latex
creating full balls to kick away the pain.
Happiness is a child’s game
chasing away the pangs of hunger
lingering in the abdominal gas chambers.
Forced smiles starve off reality. The weavers weave.
Hope hangs in woven webs of nightmares blowing
in the dusty winds of barren fields of dreams.
PRELUDE:
The mirage of food fades; the skies crack;
parachuting condoms blanket the parched fields:
POSTSCRIPT:
Today the world cup overflows;
Perpetual balls of blue fly everywhere;
But food is disqualified and is denied entrance.
New balls.
Same old game.
Wars and pain remain.
O Lord my God!
Is there no shame!
Prescript: My collective works, I've titled Silent Songs/I Was Here.
Is a collection of my thoughts I put down in prose.
Whether I really was, nobody really knows.
I was left behind these doors.
Drifting endlessly on these dried up shores.
The sad thing is, I'm not alone.
I know of so many others who are unknown.
Who sail across these oceans of empty hearted sea's.
We're all slowly dieing of this by ourselves disease.
The window has a two-way mirror.
It see's outside and in.
But when no one desires to look.
You'll never know what's been.
I'll leave this world and die one day.
And what I've said, is all I'll say.
Van Gogh and me, well just maybe.
But I'll be gone, I'll never see.
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