A MEDITATION ON A TRUTH

  The mind is the womb where poems die making the soul an eternal lamentation exorcising the scent of death. From the mouth blooms a song, others may call sweet though its underbelly harbors a bitter taste. Hands wave conjuring art, deconstructed some would say “it’s grotesque.” Sooner than soon voices chorus “who’s to judge?”

VICTIM OR VILLAIN

Oh! Poor TV Star while visiting a lady friend was mauled beyond recognition allegedly by six men after he was blindfolded and tied down. Facebook is busy announcing his misfortune “Get well soon,” many wished “Put the bad guys in jail,” others wrote under a picture of his face swollen and bruised. My heart filled

PHOTOGRAPHER

I capture the present and sear it in memory not some image of glory, past or hoped for that lurks in your mind. I want life happening your face, its canvas telling a story through the lines and colors splattered all about you beauty, unadorned truth “hurts.” I see the look in your eyes tears