We are the *******, we are the spicks.
We are the kykes, we are the hicks.
We're the one's who wait our turn,
To read the books you wish to burn.

We are the honkies, the mussies with guns.
We are the beaten, the poor and the dumb.
We see the horrors, the mistrust and the hate.
We are the people, the ones who relate.

We are the chinks, the bindis, the *****.
We are the losers, the mixed and the muts.
We are alone, left to fight.
We are the ones crying at night.

We are the triggers, set on the gun.
We are the fighters, refusing to run.
We see the world through darkened glass.
We see each other as mutants to pass.

If only we learn, it could be done...
We are all different, but we are all one.

A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.

a butterfly flirts with me

she stands before me
but turns when i look

then

she fans herself
like a spanish dancer
teases her audience

i wonder if she knows
how captivated i am
by her alluring ways

or

how i'd do anything
to hold on to this
moment

i can only pray
please stay

your name echoes in my thoughts.
bright lights spell it out
racing, my mind can't stop
you're all I've ever asked for
craving your response
evidently my heart beats a little faster when you're near
night turns to day and you're still here.

we aren't perfect,
more like a shifting puzzle.
we have our turning points,
better times.
other days I wish I hadn't woken up for,
but in the end
we make an exquisite masterpiece.

some people admire our artwork,
others only find its flaws.
but what are flaws?
peoples definitions of imperfect?
because "imperfection" is just an opinion.

however, one day you decided art wasn't your forte.
our painting was no longer on display.
it fell off the wall
the painting broke along with my heart.
it left scars and imperfections on the wall.
without the painting, the wall looked bare.
the wall lacked character.

now when people see the painting they just shrug thinking about what it used to be.

however I am the painting.
a jumble of colors thrown together in attempt to make something beautiful.
I was just hung up until a better painting came along.
then I came crashing down
and thrown into the pile of unwanted art work
only looked at according to my flaws.
longing for my pieces to be put back together.

but how could a broken painting ever compare to a brand new one?
it can't.
but that "shiny" painting won't last.
it's only for looks
as for me, look deeper.
because when you aimlessly try to put the pieces back together
there's always something missing.
and that something is you.