a merrier christmas…

there was no need
to study the life line
coursing down the palm
of her hand
to know
of her past
one need only
to count the scars
on her face
stitches added
over the years
but this christmas
was different
she was alone
in the house her father built
atop a mountain
miles from the city
she thought she loved
in a one room cabin
with a small tree
adorned with left over
but each one
was placed with love
upon those branches
and she
felt loved
not by a man
but by
a simple


when were you
going to tell her
the truth about this city
this place of gray sorrows
extending into the sky
where social drums
signal the hate
and bias
of a culture
where in school
by her name
she’ll be placed
in an ESL class
whose halls of justice
are filled with attorneys
who will comment
her surname will keep
them employed for life
a city where
she will always be
a foreigner
in her own country
a social gypsy
tattooed with invisible ink
that all can see
she will feel the sting
as the needle imprints
her skin
with social venom

During the next few days, I will be on holiday…yes again…so I will be posting very few comments on your blogs…however I shall continue to post new poems here and hope that you will enjoy them.  Until then, cheers!

on the edge…

Challenge Photo II from Jade

the gray morning
air presses hard
against me
holding back
the sounds
of my footsteps
that were so clear
and distinct
as i began
this journey
but now
all i can hear
are my labored breaths
in and out
my throbbing heart
a heart seeking
to escape
these city walls
to leave behind
this street
where laughter
and joy
have fled
where only
your memory resides
shrouded in betrayal
wearing a cross
of lies
to conceal
the truth
of who
and what
you are
and what
you’ve done


This poem represents my second response to  the second challenge series between Jade and I.  As you may recall, each poet provides the other with a series of photos, visual prompts,  from which the poet is to write a poem.  Jade has written her response which can be found here

son of the desert…

shoes off
he runs
through the sahara sands
a desert fox
free from the city’s cage
no longer dashing
between motor scooters
and cars
that wind their way through the medina
in this haven
he moves among the tall grass
ears tuned to the sounds of
and calves
each one moving toward
a common goal
a desert pool
hidden within these dunes
the giver of life
this is his playground
where he belongs
gently caressed by the sand
like his mother’s touch
when he is ill
as when she presses him to her breast
soothing away all fears
and when he returns to the city
the desert’s arms
with fingers of sand
reach for him
as if afraid
to let him go

the damn smell…

i am a back street poet
pied piper of little harlem
using my pen for a wood flute
calling out society’s rats
hoping to write their epitaph
     smell the burning rags
     endless odors of death
people blow their minds
over things they can’t define
so they light a fire or two
in hopes they might forget
     endless odors of the dead
     which creep into their souls
so they drink and waste all
relief line soldiers is their trade
passing my door – off to the camp
the camp of the great white father
      who gives them no hope
      to forget the damn smell
some fools say move away from here
but how
who’ll lend you the money
ain’t no one i know got one cent
so that ends that in a hurry
     but the smell, the damn smell
     it remains in the air
children playing barefoot in the streets
among the maze of broken bottles
laugh and cry and don’t know why
their lives seem different than yours
     but the smell, the damn smell
     lets them know all too soon
come walk with me to the grave
in which they’ve lain your city’s child
whose unmarked and small grave
is covered in weeds
     but there in peace is rest
     away from the smell
     the damn smell