Breeze rippling sheer embroidered patches as sunlight streaming shadows prance across plastered walls… As precipitation mist cool Floridian rays beaming tin roofs.
Winter temps once again; no show. pre-Black Power, post-slavery; steel railroad tracks line wooded villages alluring Negro Parramore affluent historical influence.
Simple sassy society triumphant triad; God, family, integrity… As orange blossoms scents catch rides on gulf ocean breezes; lakes squeeze catfish and mullets squirm.
Black power, affirmative Action-Jackson, Gen-ex, Millennials; table of contents of discontent line groves of grown at thirteen; Mom teens and classic hassles of graduation tassels blow green-orange, maroon and gold
Story be told…South Street runs rich with dissecting black blood across OBT, Gore, Grand, and Church. So many secrets roam streets of culture, like vultures tearing back the skins of unresting Heros and Sheroes of color.
I inhale a blessed life and exhale my passion of poetic signatures. My past has not been kind, however, my zeal to overcome the frailties of life has blessed me beyond measure. I am a devoted wife and Christian believer.
I lay in bed Listening to the hammering rain Pit pat pit pat Beating on the window pane I gaze at these racing drops Hitting a different note each fall Spreading the fragrance in the air Of their rendezvous with
I awake to the gloom of a cloud covered sky, There’s a dampness that floats with the air. A stillness and peace has enveloped my world, And I don’t see a soul anywhere. You can already smell the rain on
Instant in second thought would we peer morely impoverished flame would we adhere lonely would we let love persevere or love in lost love in those disappear into a pleasance our one love so near an impoverished flame of our heart so sincere pleasance from love we once sought in
Breeze rippling sheer embroidered patches as sunlight streaming shadows prance across plastered walls… As precipitation mist cool Floridian rays beaming tin roofs. Winter temps once again; no show. pre-Black Power, post-slavery; steel railroad tracks line wooded villages alluring Negro Parramore
Poetry is the heat, a part of my flame, it keeps me cool, envelopes in a frame. Am I sentimental, idle and worthless guy? Feeling keeps me human, passions let me fly. A force compels me to etch on papers