Thank you to Glory Sasikala of GloMag for publishing my poem in the August Issue.

Drive

She steered in the direction of the skid 

Straightened the wheel as she slid 

Having no time to end up in ditches

Just facts travel through her car’s relay switches. 

Years of mishandling truth, causing loss 

A lack of control while she double-crossed 

Now her sinless, clean hands grip the wheel 

Truthful information highway holds appeal. 

There were long deceptive roads with no thoroughfare 

No place to speed away from fraudulence anywhere 

False treacherous roads made it easy to cheat 

Spinning her vicious lies up and down the street. 

She steers in the direction of the slide 

Makes straight when the truth swings wide 

Bad miles fall back, she drives toward the green light 

Exits the old, continues on the path of right. 

The poet (me) intentionally separates the last two lines from the rest of the poem.  This is a social statement.

Uniforms

Put on your dress blues

Stand tall and keep the law.

Put on your olive green

Stand tall and defend.

Put on your white smocks

Stand tall and heal.

Put on what you dug from the trash

Hide your face and feel the scorn.

Poe’s Annabel Lee

Dearly departed, 

your face fitted inside the ornate filigree frame.

Your feathered hat

surrounds a rawboned face.

Your shoulders hold a filmy wrap of satin and lace.

Your skeletal fingers

shift in the light on graceful hands.

Velvet gloves clasped as you, the lost lover,

endure your woeful waiting,

as the pendulum wall clock ticks,

and you hoard his books,

as you anticipate

his arrival.

Just Like Me

Oh I love her very much,

She looks just like me,

Cry little girls throughout the world,

From America to Mozambique.

Some small nosed dolls,

Round faces with square jaws,

And dark almond eyes,

Most pleasantly not at odds

With the surround of straight glossy, silky hair.

Full lipped dolls,

Broad noses at the bottom,

Long lashes at the top,

Elegant, graceful necks,

Each strand of hair coiled as if a separate galaxy,

One’s soul could get lost there.

Long faced Nordic dolls, with noses to match,

Straight ash blonde hair

With eyes of green or blue,

Red curly headed, hooded-eyed Irish,

The paler skinned sisters of the rest.

Indian/ Castilian mix dolls,

Light or dark skin,

Spanish-speaking mouth,

Dark, hypnotic gypsy-like eyes that flash

In the throes of a most magnificently

Played ‘behind the beat’ lilt.

Native American dolls,

Almond shaped eyes once again,

Dark coarse hair that lasts throughout life,

High cheekbones on broad flat faces,

Where above are bright shining eyes

That see the land true.

Little girls see dreams and hopes

In these approximations

Yet who defines that watershed time

When they cross the line

From self-love to self-hate?

How does it come to this?

When they look in the mirror

And all that they see,

Disparagingly,

Is that one who looks 

“Just like me.”

What Thunder Hides

Thunder, it has no mercy.

Such raucous behavioral potency of politicians expressed 

as loud-voiced, booming, commanding clout 

as they ask for sponsorship to fill the coffers and the purse. 

Overwhelming the weeping of the indigent. 

The bawling pomp of entertainers, 

the grandiosity of names in opulent letters 

on mammoth marquees, sidewalks. 

Blatant, boorish buoyancy

while the homeless sprawl 

next to these vulgar monuments. 

The foolish roaring of those who are imagining oppression,

misreading persecution and false strife into all things.

Rendering inaudible the feeble cries of those hard broken,

the keening of those whose struggle is real.

What thunder hides is misery, like knives that slip into the heart:

Bring mercy unto them; the lost, the hungry.

Let your gentle voice be heard above the boom,

for those who have none.

Thank you, Guy Farmer, for posting my new poem, Beehive City" on the Best Poetry site today.

https://www.bestpoetry.website

Beehive City

Upon approach,
deafening roars heard in the distance,
as big winged birds ascend and descend.
Beyond those sounds,
the noise becomes chatter and buzz,
prattle and piping.
Airport apiaries hosting bees,
beehives swarming with purposeful activity,
colonies in,
colonies out.
Outside, underdeveloped land hosts honeybee habitats.
Inside are modernly constructed human halls.
Jet bridges, honeycomb cells,
hustling, and bustling swarms,
pollinators and people.
Constant motion in daytime,
a quieter nighttime of soothing calm.
Watch the bees,
within and without these terminals.
Watch the bees and learn about life.