could I ever explain
will any words you transpire
will any alphabet portray
to you rose bush why
why I must take the flower from your stem

what beauty what wish
could make me **** one
to honor another?
Yet, ways of love what
may I give in forgiveness, thorns?

Dear, oh dearness growing
an honorary a remembrance,
may I return  her here,
for you to understand her glory,
prettier than growing alone,
is your flower
adorned her golden hair,

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.

For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R          e          a          c          h.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.

I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.

I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.

I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.

I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.

So I wrote a poem for the ages.

bayou baby

She comes from the swamplands
Back in the mangrove
Back where the stories say
Magic runs wild
The devil plays host
And all who visit must stay

Witches and Zombies
Together by night
Gators and Snakes there as well
The river, it changes
Cut you off in a flash
And then you end up in hell

Hair as black as Kentucky Coal
And eyes green as the sea
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me
Born out of the magic's world
Where the mystic world runs free
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me

She comes to town
to get supplies
That's where I saw her first
I followed close
Back to the swamp
And saw her do her worst

A simple boat
A single lamp
An oarsmen, long, long dead
A different route
Through water black
To a place where most folks dread

Hair as black as Kentucky Coal
And eyes green as the sea
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me
Born out of the magic's world
Where the mystic world runs free
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me

She saw me
And I looked back
She knew that I would follow
She slowed down
Her travel home
And she trapped me in the hollow

I never told
Another soul
Of who I go to see
I travel out
At night alone
My Bayou Baby waits for me


Hair as black as Kentucky Coal
And eyes green as the sea
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me
Born out of the magic's world
Where the mystic world runs free
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me

I tried to write an epic
Like those who've come before
It had to grab the reader
It had to leave them wanting more

How to start an epic
I've a line but it's not mine
I  could use it, as have others
I think most will think it's fine

But, it's been used so very often
By writers  we all know
Four words that grab the reader
Four words that make us go

We see these words and wonder
Where will our writer lead
Will we go to foreign countries?
Will we see someone in need?

I'm five verses in now,
I've not even started yet
I think I'll use the four words
They're the best I'm gonna get

So here is my beginning
In the sixth verse, and last line
I guess it's here where I'm beginning....
Once upon a time...

Will there ever be a day when all the wars will come to an end?
I, myself, can not answer that
I can only be one of those many dreamers who wish for world peace.
Our soldiers have gone in pursuit of that dream and give us hope that we may succeed,
However, how can we?
When blood is splattered everywhere and violence is the "answer" to any disagreement.
Some day though, I believe, there will be an end to the darkness of war and there will only be the light of peace.

what a sight,
we see,
when,
with eyes, wide open
we love someone;
from the place of truth,
in our hearts.


it is, beauty incomparable,
enigmatic, eccentric,
sometimes unbearable.

it is, a labyrinth unravelled,
a road yet travelled,
a sojourn for sighing soul.

it is, awe inspiring,
death, defying hope.

it is, kindness and patience,
a forbearing of ill will.

it is, awkward and
uncomfortable
and the revealing
of family secrets.

it is, showing up,
showing off,
antics,
awesome and terrible.
and hell's bell's,
ringing out the doomed
damnation,
of carefree days
and liver
destroying nights.


it is, heaven,
when, you know
the love that is.
but remains unspoken.

it is, every aspect of
daily life,
given extra,
shine and polish

it is, ever forgiving strife

true love is life
and
life is love.
the other stuff,
mere, broken tokens,
spilled upon cobblestones.