Straight from work the other evening,
I went to decompress
in a patch of summer woods
along a dim game trail I knew.

Upon exiting my old truck,
rapidly down the path I struck
so fast the world passed in a blur
as feet moved at an urban pace.
Way too fast
to see
anything.

But going up hill I soon slowed
as old legs quickly faded.
This slowed down the passing land.
Revealing how the late sun played
upon the duff through swaying limbs
which whispered "juusssst beee....."

feel your tundra eyes as I bury my world
of thoughts against the undulation of
falling dusk
like crushed pumice the clouds dance
their slow menace the glowing ache
of nightfall sighing in the green copper
of the terminal wire

sipping gently your drink with its
bright jewels of perspiration
ice glitters and strawberries
are lipstick red

deviously iridescent
painfully unblemished.
I deplorably repent
all that I’ve relished
dazed in confusion,
lost in disguise
cleansed in ablution, yet,
dead from inside.
awaiting circulation
of all I’ve tried to hide
the image in the mirror
blurry and distraught
overhauled with feelings
that I have long fought
I see, I pray, I wonder
if this is really me
or a mendacious fraud
as I fight to overcome
all that you applaud

In a sea of mediocrity
there are exceptions on this earth,

where integrity, and personal values
show a legacy that has worth.

A struggling, single mother
continually does her best,

completing what's in front of her
like taking some weird test.

Wearing hats a plenty
She attempts to complete tasks,

from her pedestrian existence
before her boss has time to ask.

Being a minority
helped land her at this job,

neither does she sing for joy
nor have private time to sob.

Silence,
As loud as the roaring sea
Echo’s in my head
Seeing the darkness
With no discernible features

Fear,
Creeping quietly
And filling all the empty space
Nerve ends tinkling
Wonder when will I be dead

Thoughts,
Master or slave
Of a mind filled with dread
A knocking at the door,
Is it death?

Sounds,
Creating pictures
Of things which are not
Really there.
Covers pulled tight for safety

If you kill the dead
they'll follow you home
no matter how large the moon
or small the fingertip.

Crop circles don't mean any thing
to the insect, regardless how intricate
the sign, I exist in God's delusion
and write poems about human petulance
in defiance of all the evidence that no one exists
but my choiceless thoughts,
I am dying into a Grand Canyon of words, what shade of India ink
shall I use to draw outside my lines
when I am breathless with awe and hopeless in the void?

Things are bad at home
Our mother
Nwa-Ozege Okoro died
Raphael Okpe please
Try your best to return.
Our mother
Nwa-Ozege Okoro is dead.

I am thinking of my life
To eat is hard for me
Matthias Okpe refused me food
Francis Okpe moved to the farm
Ifeoma, his wife helped sometime
To eat is hard for me.
Our mother
Nwa-Ozege Okoro is dead

You My Dears

You are poetic dear
I have to scientifically endear,
I do hope you all do hear

Albeit

I’d like to from you all individually hear...
The burst,
The tear,
The clouds,
the crowds
The thunder
the clap,
All are
and
shall be enlightened by poetry
Which undoubtedly you do bear
And
I dare say
I can ever at all compare...

I would sketch you with a stylus
your graceful curving lines
running through a new mowed field
bordered by blooming multiflora vines

Or maybe I should sculpt your form
in some type of classic pose
carved in clay or wood or stone
with the merest hint of clothes

Perhaps a water color painting
in impressionistic style
all pastel with blended edges
to best capture that fleeting smile

She was my old flame
I can never remember her name;

she often tried to bite me,
at times it did excite me,

she was my old flame.

My gal Christine
she was pretty, slender, and mean;

she was such a vamp,
in fact was quite the tramp,

she was but a teen.

Then came Shirl
who really made my life twirl;

when she left me I got sad,
She treated me so bad,

thought she was the girl.

Then came Anne
I feared she might be a man;