Tall order
To a whining child's offer
Didn't is my best friend, a word there
That has silence as a prophet

Winds of dissuasion
In the name of admission
A skill of pride, and intuition
Has future sorts, for a private listing

Once, upon a time...
A readied smile, has sought a thrill
Of curiosity's same, the some of trying
A panicked we, with a service to an ideal, to still

Thresholds of jaundiced more
In the skirted issue, of poignancy
To add and rest, in the name of full on war
With a finger of opportunity...

Seem and dreamt of, in foreign lands
A philosophy of courtesy, in vague fights
We have seen the obvious, the march of times hands
Into a wall of significance, looking for senses rights

Hope a shadow see's the better of a painting
Escape or given the boat of departure
The times are a changing heed, to live with a mercy wishing
For the childhood, of baring a friends win, of curiosity...

Look suspicious?
Save me from a toiling health, that has the kindness
Of worth, for a running here and now, to acquire a lesser us
In the name of joy, these charity's accept the known, with a shame's best?

I come as is and don’t worry about much.
My money’s not large yet I don’t wretch.
My writing’s noticeably not as ***** as mulch.

Camouflage and flannel, not gold.
Didn’t blend into high school.
I avoid MLK boulevard.

Talk like I’m white.

Yet my hair gets all puffy and I’m not snow.

Clone stamps don’t exist,
Heaven's kiss only breathes originals.
But when darkness overwhelms,
It’s hard to embrace lovingly,
The slump of a body,
The shadowy figure,
The shallow intimacy it gives out,
So they are overlooked, not seen, not valued.
Commodity is an exchange price,
And if your invaluable tag has been ripped off,
Who can speak of your true value?
Back to the breath.
Recreation can commence for the adventurous,
New life with wisdom,
How ripe a red wine will that drop be?

Emily shmemily,
Emily Dickinson,
Recluse and poetess,
Rendered her rhyme

Idiosyncrously,
Much of her poetry
Reading most cryptically
Much of the time.

They take into themselves,  living water
from the vine strip that love brought to them  from
the canopy's Gathering--
from the passing storm of the lair, in Stratus

And behold, they are unafraid,  
     these thirsty-ones--

these cohesively-vibrating, pre-feathered cygnets
these illustrious,  winged smolts-- 

                              stream-drawn,     
              ­              ocean spawned.

Their wings: give flight?    No, not quite;
(though for an eternity  they have flown.)

And ever since love,   its been known
ever evolving,   they are..

         yet never  fully grown--

The Living water
keeps them stretching,   reaching..
yearning,  for  a  wind


        that will give their hearts a home,
                                             seed-sown.

These rocks--
round,  not suitable for skipping
centuries of rolling along
the stream's flow--  all
the edges ground smooth
in the most ancient of ways.

These ones making walking difficult--
when one rock doesn't fit well with others
it rolls
and shifts;  not
wanting to find its   place
with the other rocks, making
footing unsure--       unstable.

I see this one;  there--
unconcerned with the fit.
It
has an edge or two--
   still..
as of yet  not ground smooth.
It stands out--  not
for the safety of step it can provide,
but for it's utter uniqueness--

               a stone like no other;
     with it's almost chosen-rough edges.

I want that one-- right there.

                         That one.

full of light is the sun

when bowing down

behind the hills

where feathery flowers

wait for burning its gold

waves of colours, faint

in the evening light

and hope scents

the land is growing wild

in the flushing breeze

dancing each stem

in its delicacy

We are on a marble
                Of finite cracks.

Let us not be the ones,
     To shatter the purity

That holds the uniqueness
   Of every thing together.