The world, a scratched record, skips,
a longing for sun-scorched knees, a hose's arc.
"Better," a ghost word, a sun-bleached photograph,
before the static, the fractured, the stark.
Bare feet on hot concrete, summer's endless haze,
clean air a promise, in those simpler days.
A phantom echo, a desperate, silent plea,
to rewind the tape, and simply, just simply, be.

The bully’s lesson, laced with spite,
would say it wrong to start a fight.
And when he opens mouth to speak,
the bully makes himself look weak.

He calls it strength, he calls it might,
he hides beneath his hood of white.
A handshake firm, a sneering grin,
a broken promise, his skin so thin.

Let’s face it, he’s no diplomat,
a stage for thugs in fake combat,
and we the world see his game,
he comes out shouting, shifting blame.

at 5:01 AM in Northern Hemisphere
out of hibernation,
sans mancave, I will climb
eastern standard time,
when calendrical, celestial,
and chronological prime
airy factors mark
onset of temperate clime
mitt, also coincides with
'super worm equinox moon,'
to this Earthling, would appear
no larger than a dime

Standing alone in my ghostly room
Wondering if some day soon-
I will be the spirit that echoes the walls
For all my friends have their mission calls

What to do
Where to go
Am I behind
None of which I know

The mirror reflects my shadowed figure
Much more raw, thinner than a picture
To spend my days to apply?
Or is it the Lord that I deny...

What to do
Where to go
My faith held still
Awaiting a sign to show-

What I am going to do now.

The puddles are all but gone now
They've been beaten upon mercilessly
By the fiery African sun
But I have a feeling that somewhere down south
The rainclouds are gathering again

I'm learning to have some patience
Even as my puddles dry up
And my grass withers and browns
Because life, I've come to learn
Is a thing of seasons
And that one of these days
My heart shall know rain again

The tree grows in one place.

A seed burrows and holds up two or three leaves
The first tree.

Then the spindling goes on.
Climbing, Branching, up, up, up.

until birds

Live in it and no one can
remember it wasn't there.

The Tree stands always here.

Got no money in my pocket
too many holes are in my shoes
but I smile
yes I smile
Cos I got the blues

No roof for my shelter
no work for me to do
but I smile
yes I smile
Cos I got the blues

Got a load of nothing
so much nothing i got to lose
but I smile
yes I smile
Cos I got the blues

I begin the day with true fasting
Prayers capture my entire day
I seek a way to relay
My inner thoughts to God
Changing my actions
For the better
To be free
Of sin
Lent

Quite by accident
while on the laptop
a photograph,
a memory of a moment in time in 2017
was shown.

What a surprise!
A photo of Shaya
at the now closed
Shakahari Carlton
together with three
of the A Team.

I did not expect
this to come up on the screen
and I grabbed it,
saved it
and made it a screen background.
Any photos I can get
I take.
It's a gift.

Peeping outside a large box, his tiny eyes
glaring at me.
What a frightening site did I see.
A tiny dwarf. Leprechaun green as a tree.

He was decked out in a lime suit.
A big top hat of Jade.
A yellow buckle as bright as the sun.
The top of his head all shivering with long hair and a sweeping mustache.

Now the little Leprechaun started dancing
as free as a bird.
He flipped and zipped around the floor.
Making a sound like a herd of deer.