rain falls on old tin
a stray cat slips through soft mud
mud marks my old path
tapping takes mind off hurt you left behind
From devastation and ash bloomed a small flower
Frail at first, but growing stronger with each passing minute
Our flower of love grew strong as our pages were being rewritten
I gave you my rusty tin can of a heart and you polished it
Now a gleaming heart of steel safe in your soul
I have found my home in your embrace and my forever in your eyes
As we share the storms of life and the laughter that heals
We may not emerge perfectly but always together
Time will change us as it does everything
The one thing safe from the cruel mistress of time
Is us
different colors
caused by rains hard beating
and snows long stay
My tin foil hat sits on the side, its quite flimsy..Yet it got me by.' In a foxhole of
Truth, i kept it on, as the salvos from so
Called experts; t-rolled right along! false media
Drain-stream? It just came in floods; but that tin
Foil hat.? Well it didn't budge.! others brains
Were fried with fear.' And the psudo science; dear oh dear.' But this flimsy thing it stood
Their best.! What does that say for their
Material.? Once we put it to the test.'
By Phan Tan Hai
Tugged a sleeve to jot a few words,
the two elders asked, for what?
a whole century of history—
democracy slipping off its path.
Tugged a sleeve for a photograph,
the two elders asked, what for?
the Ben Hai River still cold,
resentment on that side, sorrow on this.
Tugging a sleeve, no words left—
tears chilled on both shores;
meeting again in misty streets,
mountains and rivers lost in drifting verse.
— California, June 2017
.
lock'd are mine mawz
grip'd by vinter
it's froze'd
rust'd
stick'd
'tiz thuh early spring
surly
dorothy will be come'n
any day now
most likely in uh
diaphanous vernal
frock
i need
uh uv
bit
earl
have uh heart
"AI has stolen my words and my imagination. As a human writer, I write from my heart. AI can not steal my heart. AI is the great copier because they have No heart to write with." By Poet
With a writers human heart,
writers pen in hand to start.
AI machine that is cold,
made out of tin and not gold.
Tell me this is a bad dream,
before I let out a scream.
Muse and pen will always stay,
a human voice all the way.
If you wish to seek it, just follow the music.
It's the sound of a tin can against asphalt.
The melody is the echo of the lost.
Humanity sucked into an apple, a smartphone- a PlayStation.
The babysitter and her boyfriend
have AI on the brain.
If you find it, there is no rescuing it.
It's become necrosed and hollow-eyed.
Burnt beyond recognition.
Humanity in a tin can ward
with third-degree burns
over 100 percent of its soul.
The new world is in raggedy disorder
Jesus can't come soon enough.
In "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,"
I could feel my fingernails digging into his back during that electrifying moment.
It was astounding to witness tears streaming down the face of such a strong man—he truly wept! He sighed deeply, reaching his climax over and over.
Was this a testament to his athleticism or a cry for help beneath his tough exterior?
There once was a sleek silvery sardine
Who dreamed of marrying a svelte eel queen
With his heart ever lurching,
Swimming through seaweed searching
In an olive oiled tin, he was last seen.
In "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,"
I felt my fingernails digging into his back during an intensely charged moment.
I was surprised to see tears rolling down the cheeks of a strong man—he wept!
He sighed! He reached his climax, time and again.
Was it a display of sportsmanship or a sign of injury?
I pried with a screw-driver driven into a lid
sealed with age, and rust, to crack open a
callous retribution, set aside, tombed over.
I was curious to learn how much remained
and in what condition. Up came the lid with
a gurgle, fizz, hiss, expelled with age smell.
The paint on top, had dried, to a skin, a curd,
a viscous scum of strange foreign color that
did not auger well for its pending redemption.
I poked through the thin skin, scooping it out,
to reveal the paint separated into its primary
colors. Once, thrice stirred, it slowly rejigged
into its original color and form, ready to adorn
marks on the wall, scraped and sanded ready
for a fix, now all's done dusted, and forgiven.
The eating of pie before dinner,
It isn’t on point to get thinner.
It’s best to let go
That tin pan of woe,
And be a calorical winner.
i'm whiskey beats outta country
jazz, too classic
old's city in LA
high damn
runnin up you like water
all most hiding skin
and overatures
lest i grieve through absurd
trist's with confi, daunting
clapper town
east block alter girls
choired saints lost frames
too paint
sorry bouts
runnin up like water's mam
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