Is What It Is (Haiku)

Heaven Costs Five Dollars

had a hard time believing back then that all it took for me to get to heaven
was to follow the ABC's of faith
and the conductor would punch my ticket on that train to glory
they told me in quant Sunday School corners and the weeping and wailing moments of alter calls
...admit 
...believe
...confess

I also saw it in pamphlets passed out by street missionaries  
it confused me
because back then 
all I thought it cost to go to heaven was
five dollars
the price of a movie ticket to the Fabian with any girl I had a crush on
who would simply say

yes

and ask what time the movie starts
meeting at Broadway Pizza for a slice or two 
and I'm thinking 
not of the ABC's of faith as the price to go to heaven
but the five dollars I would earn by dutifully raking the leaves 
taking out the trash without prompting
...

Be Queen

what I wish for you is too much to pen
and if my words could touch you in your corner of the universe
I want these words to cover your body with kisses
to smother you just long enough to take your breath away
to have you dance joyous
naked and unashamed in the Caribbean windstorms
and sway in the breeze like drunken palm trees
 
when thoughts of love for you are not butterflies
but mammoth pterodactyl
in fierce attack mode from prehistoric times
may my words caress you
until you climax all over this poetic page
 
may the bee that you are
spit everlasting poetic pollination
germinating into a thousand love poems for all of us to see
to feel
to touch
to be
 
may the art of love
the call of love
beckoning you to its holy throne
once unpleasant
now a natural high that has no fix
no antidote...

At Fifteen

it was in this year

clouds of innocence were slowly removed from my 
freshly minted fifteen year old eyes
windshield wipers in the rain on low level
clearly 
I began to see and experience the wonders
the frustrations
the cruelty
the humanity
and the reality of this world
 
it was in this year
I discovered that words written and spoken could be steamed
fried
prepared to order
and sometimes microwaved
 
I remember always digesting them
after it being served thoroughly minced and diced
sprinkled with a little brown sugar
washed down with a cold soda
 
it was in this year
I began to prepare and serve words for others to digest
interesting to note that words taste differently to each tongue
onion flavored
bitter
salty
too sweet
needing more flour
or f...

By Request

she laughed
stretched out across the beige carpet of our apartment
my clumsiness always did that to her
 
she nods
when I tell her that I might try to become a contestant on
Jeopardy
as long as they don’t ask me about chemistry
or European cuisine
 
she thinks
my wallet is suffering from deposit amnesia
although I have never turned away any of her withdrawal requests
 
she smiles
when I sneak up behind her after she showers
drawn by the scent of Ivory soap
she yells
when I drop kick my pants into the closet every morning
after a hard night at work
 
she cries
when she sends forth her heart
and it is returned trampled upon with a thousand muddy footprints
 
she asks
as I endlessly stare at my computer screen
‘why don’t you write a poem about me?&rsq...

This Cup

so I write
never asking for this cup to be passed to me
but it is my turn to drink of its bitterness
or of its sweet nectar
depending on what day it is
or
who reads my poem
or
whose poem I read

and I will not criticize
nor will I critique your pain
your death 
your happiness
your ecstasy
same in verbiage
but a different climax 
pain and/or pleasure
wondering
will your poem hold me in the wrinkled aftermaths
leaving loose change on the nightstand
the sounds of your works lightly closing front door
careful not to wake me

but your tires screech from the driveway
down the road
never to be seen again
or is my poem a thumbs up from a poetic Caesar
or death in the dust 
last gasps of a poetic gladiator
or will your poem leave me 
again
prostrate 

A Warm Moment In Time (For My Valentine Back In The Day)

I loved her
though she wasn't the cutest girl in the neighborhood
couldn't afford to wear the latest threads
place her delicate feet inside the latest platforms
or shape her afro into the perfect Angela Davis sphere
 
I loved her
because when she slow dragged with me
I lost all of my insecurities and inhibitions
for the length of the 45 playing on the turntable
words lost their weight
while I held her tightly in rhythm
 
her warm
even
breathing caressed the side of my neck
and her fingers
sinfully lost
in the deepest part of my afro
 
when the three minutes were up
I would return to the end of the sofa
and wait patiently
while others took their turns
and lost themselves with her
in their own
warm moments in time

Perceptions

at one time
black
was evil and satanic
then became
beautiful
whereas
it is now
fashionable
and God only knows what 
black 
will be
tomorrow

Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind

out of mind
out of sight
was what you said last night
as the light was turned off
and I walked away shackled in shameful handcuffs
skillfully placed when I wasn't looking
 
out of sight
was what we used to be
strutting our stuff across the stage
like when James Brown was all the rage
back in the day
we were the soul couple #1
but when the performance was done
the curtain came down
and no one called for an encore
 
out of mind
is what I was and what I am today
walking past me without a word to say
and a cold look penetrates my being
and what I'm seeing is snow melting slowly
uncovered
the uneven pavement
with last summer's trash
still piled up beside the gutter
 
out of sight
what I once felt for you has been packed
neatly stacked in a box
set lovi...

Til Death Do Us Part

forever 
penned in poetry and prose and Hallmark cards and letters 
calls
texts from places where I can’t get next to you
the
“I Do”
part
up to the 
“Ashes To Ashes”
part
 
but it ain’t promised
Las Vegas giving tomorrow even odds
seen and heard about
forevers 
ending in the strangest places and times
here today
gone 
while they lay themselves down to sleep
joy 
absent in the morning

so 
I ain’t gonna bore you with empty words
promises my love for you would like to make 
so you can rush off to the lottery man
cash in your scratch off winning ticket
for sure
forever
is keeping the battery fresh in my watch
listening to the minute hand ticking in the background
yet ...

Clean

I’m not a poet
have gone through the rinse cycle
a writer of poems