Birds again will begin to sing
whenever the battleground falls silent

Love gave them their songs
and hearts to sing them.

for sure warmongers aplenty
far away from the front lines

it's harder to find the way out
when you don't know how you
dug yourself down.
sunken, so alone.
all alone now.
everyone left you above ground.

In my ancient history,
A mother stands over her daughter
Twisting her hair into Bantu knots.

The young men gather,
Who built the Great Enclosure
With the strength of mighty warriors.

I am 'umuntu,' a person, I embrace
The ancient beauty in their face,
Their shape, the color of race,

My ancient heritage.

I'm tired of writing letters
I'll never send
expecting they'll give me clarity
but leading me to a dead-end

J'ai fatigue de lui
is how you say it in French
it's not a language you understand
so I'll say this instead:
Estoy cansada de ti
I'm tired of you
and of the energy you bring

I'll write my poems about you
in old notebooks
I'll use the pages to write letters
I'll burn
but you'll never get

There is an
eternal winter
that lingers around
my heart.
It beckons with
icy music,
gray clouds, and
marches by Wagner.
Vultures, like ghastly
puppets picking at
my brain.

I drive it away with
sunflowers and walleyes,
fish fries and the gathering
together of friends and saints,
old soldiers that beat the odds,
and the neutered con game.
Leonard Cohen overcame,
and so did I.
Life was playing chess,
While I was playing
checkers.
Well, baby, it's checkmate.

I didn't need lucky bamboo
or a four-leaf clover, I needed to
use the wisdom that God gave me.
I made some changes in my actions.
When I behaved differently, I found
serenity and a Winnie the Pooh and
Piglet sort of happiness.
I was drowning, so I grew gills and
swam away to a river that flowed
through the Million Acre Woods,
and now when I am on land,
I waltz down Love Street.

I am a poet
Who paints with words.
My words are my crayons
Your understanding is
Your new poem .
My poems are inspiring
To all artists
But not all poets .