my favorite time of day
where stillness reigns.
No firecrackers, no rockets,
or pinwheel brilliant bursts.
The party people have retreated
gone back into their caves to rest
and stock up on ammunition.
Thousands of firecrackers still silent are strung across
countless streets hanging from makeshift
welded metal and boards, haphazardly constructed
by retired policemen and accountants
who later rush to Longs to purchase last minute fire starters
and sparklers to light that first strand.
Then the smoke will come
inundating the asthmatics
forcing them to retreat into
theaters to watch the latest
release on high definition screens
with Dolby enhanced sound
drowning out the noise of the celebration.
The endless cacophony of doom forced
upon us by the revelers intent on blowing up
their small portion of the island.
An island strategically located in the
Pacific Ocean sheltering for the moment
a President and his family,
who sit on the sidelines
and pay to observe.
It occurs to me That I require an ideal To summit these peaks. Something more than a patch. My tenacity shouts above my perception Shooting ...
**This poem was inspired by a T-shirt design—I bought the shirt! I am also trying to convince certain people of the importance of POETR...
***A prose poem written in pidgin english Da gross cockroach militia stays booming in da plumbing in da face of mass killings in Kaneohe ...
Fresh pine scent captures holiday spirit. Santa’s little helpers burn clean fuel. Christmas cheer expires on December 26th. Cards and let...