''How wondrous it is to be read by someone
who appreciates this gift given,
A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion.
A friend made, words displayed, a song, a poem, hello, goodbye, or maybe Shalom"
patty m
<>
look, it's not like I lack for inspiration.
138 butterscotch chips
already exist,
full poems, titles, couplets, bare naked (ladies) notions,
(men, women, children, asordid genders ageless-survivors)
all demanding rescue,
their cry of SOS, undeniable, but their
lamentations defied, asided, when miz patty m writes,
and oblivious to all else,
attention must be paid!
even when it is 2:55am
even on a Tuesday! (1)
<.>
to the meet, to the mess, to the beating heart that refuses to keep,
a doctor's orders of de minimus seven hours sleep,
when commissioned, when ordered without permission,
you drift into the sunroom, where the night outside
is holy dark, the silence raucous and overwhelming,
and utter inaudibly in his mind,
and piety and poet repeats:
"Yes Ma'am, Yes Ma'am, sir!
<.>
we write for no one in particular
for there is no one who is not particular,
all!
special, sharp edged, distinctive,

and there is no limit, yet,
to how many poems
can be created in a day,
except for the foolish delimiting, irritating
science of 24/7/365+1;
but mercy and insight is demanded,
when miz patty m
does not insist, but commands it
<.>
''A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion..."

indeed, in deed, in deep,
these the elementals of the one true religion,
perhaps the shortest excerpt that ever summarized
the humanist's
faith and the One Commandment,
that summons us & Grace to the table
where we compose and create,
not by fate tempted, but by a fate commanded,
by a faith so grounded & profound,
that every human
regardless of identity or language
each has in their possession, a heaven sent
something important to say,
which is why,
''A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion..."
is the largest tent ever constructed
after the Tower of Babel
where languages were created (4)

a half hour has passed,
a period of absolute measured time,
that cannot be recreated, recsptured,
but like energy,
nor can it be destroyed,
for this
poem, this kiss, this tear,
marks the moment, the neuronic iconic synapse (2)
of our interactive minds believing and breathing
as one,
and even the atheist  among us
must to no one in particular
(well, maybe to the Angel Leonard)
must whisper most utterly,
hallelujah

'''''''''''''
poem dispatched
at 3:44 am EST,
from the
current latitude and longitude for where natty is,
approximately 41.05° North latitude and -72.33° West longitude.

But I’m selfish—
even with myself.
What if I no longer wish to roam?
What if I’m tired
of digging through fire
just to find a softer home?

Tell me—
what does it mean
when someone won’t let go of love,
even when it breaks their bones,
even when the sky above
has given every reason
to move on?

Not because they’re lost,
but because they chose.

Because I chose a piece—
no matter how it fits.
Even if it cuts,
I won’t call it quits.
Even if it’s sharp
and tears through my chest,
I carry it still—
because I loved it best.

It wasn’t perfect,
but it was mine somehow.
So I hold it close,
like a quiet vow.

Is happiness in seeking
what finally fits?
Or is it in keeping
what never quits?

I can’t tell
if I’m betraying my soul
or finally making myself whole.
That’s the echo I hear
in the quietest part—
not a question,
but a stubborn heart.

A name I won’t forget.
A light that won’t depart.
A feeling that lingers,
sharp and true—
and still,
I carry you.

Gravity holding us on this planet,
As we rotate, somewhere, In outer space,
Earth, reproduces for free, our survival needs,
In your mind, a beautiful, peaceful place.
With a sun always around, free, light and heat,
For without, its bright orange fire, we would freeze,
From our head, to the toes, on our feet.
Many lit, evening sky’s, moon and stars reflecting the sun’s light,
With running water, rivers, streams, and creeks,
With mountains, valleys, and different colorful plants, wonderful sites,
Fish and other creatures, living  ln lakes, oceans, and seas,
Different, birds in the day, many shapes, and colors,
Along with other, animals, that roam in the night,
A perfect place, for every race, to survive, together, as happy as can be.




                                                                                                                                             The original: Tom Maxwell© 6 6/17/2025 AD

What makes a piece of art beautiful are its imperfections
Smirks and smears that callously redirect ones attention
When the piece can transcend societal norms and march upon new land
Constructing a new sense of understanding that bashes boundaries many never understand
It is in that instance that creation reaches its epitome of aesthetic

Melanin……
I reiterate MELANIN, God bless the skin that it’s enriched in
Imagine being birthed with a substance that halts the aging process
That personifies strength and out runs the confines of carnivorous opinions
Easily absorbing and reflecting the sun’s kisses as if its purpose was to point to the right way with light rays
Just the thought of being born lit is enough to brighten up a black person’s day!
And dear I say God looked upon you and thought to himself
You deserve a few extra dashes of my chemical X incarnate

As if your bronzed caramel skin wasn’t enough to garner sin
Those spots that delicately mark your face
They intrinsically provide a map to where any and many can find an escape
They are scientifically classified as clusters of concentrated melanocytes
But to any human not gifted with scientific insight
They can be categorized as imperfection whose greatness is directly proportional to the chaos of loss
The L taken by any X of yours that couldn’t step up
For any passer-by that is struck in awe by your gaze
Then immediately sullen by the fact that at that moment
Those seconds were a part of their last happy day
Because to go on living in a world where those cautiously coined clusters cannot be seen at one’s leisure
Is one life that is bereft of joy and filled with everything meagre
…..where one never wakes up eager

I pen this poem with the burning desire to let my fantasies run rampant
To the minds of the individuals whose faces are blessed canvases

So that they know they are walking statues of vigour and vaulting hues
Specifically my Black Brothas and Sistas that were blessed by the Gods
And given a torch that burns more radiant than the polygamous escapades of Zeus’s heart
I want you all to know that you add something extra to this world
That your beauty marks, moles, scars and freckles are a sight to behold
So continue to tread this earth carefully as children that hold the keys to its Gates
You all are indeed the Melanin Kings and Queens that leave nothing but courageous attitude and aspirations in your wake
And Lead with everything that Melanin can provide in its namesake