The Passionate Month

Autumn the passionate season

Nature displays

The changes that come

Painting the leaves

As green leaves turn color

Red, Orange, yellow and brown.

Skies turn golden

The breezes caress

With sweaters I walk

And coffee in hand.


Bittersweet Truth

Walk through the block

beautiful house,

watch the flag wave

the red, white and blue.


In love with country

a patriot it seems,

turning in whirls

more pride wearing flags.


Beautiful homes

one can’t help think,

A wonderful world

The American dream.


Reality bites

one hardly can think

the sky doesn’t mix

a cruel brew of hate.



In the darkness, I sank

it doesn’t make sense,

to lose one who cared

so sudden it’s cruel and unfair.

We didn’t say goodbye

no way to prepare,

On Sunday he passed

And Monday he wasn’t there.

In tears, I then grieved

for who’d understand?

the dark for he cared,

in darkness I’m cast

not sure where.

No one could say

no one could know,

one sure thing he’s not there.








The water drips drips

listen, absorb

its meaning so deep

it’s not understood.

It’s hard to understand

perhaps we cannot

but my ears can pick up

the rippling sound


Green Grass

Green is the color of grass

when do we see?

we hardly look down.

the world in a rush.

On a metal bench

nowhere to look

its gray lonely floor

I longed for green grass.

Its scent filled my nostrils

I missed it so much

I wasn’t there long

but I now always notice green grass.


If he could know

if he could see,

if he could sense

what’s in my thoughts.

He knows how many

want him now.

fame revealed just

so much how.

I’d stroke his hair

look in his eyes,

since I can dream

I’ll make him mine.



Hunting no Fun

Going on the hunt

setting their traps,

it makes them feel tough.


Shameful cowards

hurting God’s creatures,

They hunt them in fun

trapping small ones.


What have they won?

what can they gain?

why can’t they see

just how much this pains?


The human race

saddens me great,

hunting them down

how much is hate?


Letter Writing

They say letter writing is out of touch

a primitive way to communicate,

buying stamps

mailing it

waiting for days to be read.


Letters to a friend, has made this fun again

to rediscover joy,

in writing with a pen.

Nothing used to beat

waiting for replies,

one to three whole days

nostalgia explains why.


Anticipating them

letters from a friend,

holding in my hand

those things that cannot end.








The Prisoner

Outside she’s lead

with arms bound behind,

all eyes are cast

she’s now a freak show.


A lowlife she is

the prisoner removed,

she’s led in this room

where patients await.


She flickered and winced

losing herself,

never again

can she trust herself.


Take them away

far far away,

children astray

she can’t look their way.


Never again.

Project Rats

The projects

ghetto life,

no one sees us

in poverty we die.


who really cares?

they always blame us

for ending up here.


They judge how we live

but they don’t know,

food stamps, welfare

that must be our life.

I could wear a sackcloth,

to appease the masses.

Look how they dress

better than most,

cell phones they own

taxes they drain.


Moochers; lazy

they live off a check,

they must sleep all day

wasting their time.

They take from us

so they could live big.

They never see

not that they care,

they just assume

we’re all project rats.