Hey you little sister,
  I hope your day's fun
And all of moonshine glitter,
  Yet thrice brighter than the sun.

Hey you little sister,
  Now that you're a year older,
Be brave than a rising twister,
  Strong to break like a boulder.

Hey you little sister,
  When days ever get rough
And you can't even smile at a jester,
  I hope this poem makes you laugh.

Hey you little sister,
  Wishing thee more salubrious days,
Brimming with pulchritude like the aster
  Kissed by the noontide sun's rays.

Hey you little sister,
  Should you ever feel low and dismal,
Sit thee down upon thy keister
  And just give me a phone call.

Hey you little sister,
  My wish for thee is like the sunshine;
Warm, cheery, and full of glitter;
  And like a starry night, soothing & fine.

Hey you little sister,
  No matter how the years go by
We'll always be one like stars in a cluster,
  No matter how many birthdays fly.

Hey you little sister,
  May God follow you always,
May the path always be clear
  As you live to celebrate more birthdays.

       ©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.

Baby , Please forgive me
For my clumsiness  
   For the overflowed
      Cup of heart
          For the fresh
             picked flowers
                With all the thorne
                  still attached
For the never ending
     Love letters ,
          For the breakfast
             In bed,
The foot massage
  To get your morning started.
                    Baby,  Please forgive me
           For the overwhelming,
             Phone messages to just
                Say I love you.
please forgive me
   For all the
      selfless things I do
         the sleepless nights
              Because I cannot rid
                    Not even for a brief
                            The good thoughts of you
                         Please forgive me
                     For my clumsiness
                 Because baby ,
It’s not that I’m a clumsy man
         It’s Just that I’ve never
     Been in love before

And
I’m in love with you

Wherever I go
there's a dog called Ego
that follows me.

Listen!
I'm the new Plato and Shakespeare;
I'm the prophet and the Messiah,
I'm Caesar and Brutus,
Robespierre and Napoleon,
I'm Queen Victoria and Jack the Ripper;
The father and The son,
I'm the voice and its Echo,
the alpha and omega,
big bang and big crunch,
the visible universe and dark matter;
I'm the poem that hasn't been written yet;
The word that means every other word:
Life.

Hush!
Theatres are closed.
There's people suffering and dying,
Unheard!

(In memory of Glen Slater)

Ya stupid sonuvabitch, the place is deserted!
It’s gotta be a ******’ night game, ya ******’ mook,
But though the parking lot had the forlorn look
Of a down-on-its luck strip mall on a weekday afternoon,
There was just the hint of activity and indeed a game,
A friends-and-family affair with the Cubs,
Losers if not particularly lovable,
So we departed the ancient Gremlin
(Ostensibly painted cab-yellow,
Though festooned with enough Bondo and duct tape
To make it difficult to tell
Where car began and slapdash repair ended)
Strolling toward the deserted ticket window
To drop the two-bucks per for upper deck seats,
Knowing that we would find amenable ushers
Willing to let us move down to the boxes
After it became fully apparent
There was no last-minute influx scrambling off the 7 train,
And we sat in the sun-drenched field level seats
(Though its warmth a relative thing,
The rays’ angle and the decidedly April wind
Requiring buttons to be snapped
And collars to be turned upward)
Viewing the spectacle of two clubs
Dutifully and somewhat optimistically
Performing the rites of Spring, each nine knowing
There would be no October heroics in their futures,
Their first-rate plays and foibles
Gathering our appreciation or scorn
Between gulps of over-priced watery beers,
And as we sat in this unlovely stadium,
Looking for all the world
Like some Bunyan-esque chipped ashtray
Plopped down on an unprepossessing landfill
(The hopes and wistful dreams of this children’s game
Perched uneasily atop ancient sardine tins and discarded rattles)
We agreed that we would do this again,
But it never came to pass, as life its ownself
Rolled on like the cap of John Pacella
(Invariably flying off his unruly mop
From the effort of launching yet another fastball
In the all-too-vain hope it would find itself
Somewhere in the vicinity of the strike zone)
Tumbling brim over crown in the swirl of the breeze.

We communicated more in silence than we ever did with words
She spoke with her eyes
I conversed via my heart
Right then I realized that this was the start of something special....