I hope you know it’s true

Mister Boy,
              You’re mad right now and the tears
fall down your face.

Lovely Boy,

   You’re sad again and the fears
forget His grace.

You believe you’re misunderstood.
Oh, I would comfort you if I could.

But you turn away,
within your bad day
and I don’t know what to say.

Except, ‘I love you’
and,”I’m here.’
and I hope you know it’s true.
That I do and I am, whenever you are blue.

submitting at Jingle Poetry and The Poetry Palace

I Will

All girls long for little luxuries,
                             for flower feasts,
                             for deep bliss submersion.

So darling, though they bloom
 not as beautiful as you,
                   I will bring you roses, I will draw your bath.
                   I will paint your childhood with love, colors, vibrant, as best I can
                                                                           and your story, I'll pen with belles-lettres,
                                                                                                         while I'm able.

And when fully blossomed and in love
                                 my prayer will be that he, too,
                                                  will often bring you roses.


Submission for Thursday's Poet Rally, sepia scenes, feeling beachie

What's Hidden?/ Perfect Poem Award :)

"Poetry is concerned with using with abusing, with losing
with wanting, with denying with avoiding with adoring
with replacing the noun. It is doing that always
doing that, doing that and doing nothing but that.
Poetry is doing nothing but using losing refusing and
pleasing and betraying and caressing nouns. That is
what poetry does, that is what poetry has to do no
matter what kind of poetry it is. And there are a
great many kinds of poetry." -Gertrude Stein




Do you see the trees?  The forest, the scene?  
What's hidden within? 
Are you lost?


Whose lies do you believe?
Whose story do you cover?
Can you call it like it is?


Do we grow together?
Are we growing apart?
What's growing here?


I am the noun you replace
when you silence me. 
But it does not change who I am.


You and I are poetry.
You and I are stories.
Let me write my own. 

Yay! Thanks, Poetry Palace for the Perfect Poem Award.


I nominate emmett wheatfall for the next award.