Poetry Samples

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Beauty in cellbars

We lock ourselves up
not because of the bars and
steel that surround us
not because life doesn't bend
to our every whim

But because of the projections
we place onto our worlds
The judgements, the i cant's
The trying to please everyone
while not pleasing ourselves

By seeking the beauty on the outside
that is surely within
For prisons are created internally
and are found everywhere

We allow unnatural and unreal thoughts
to be our walls,our limits
Because of the dam we build to
stop the universal love, the light

It's all within ourselves
this paradise you go to of beauty
and love
There's peace, where along with the
eagle you may sore
A place inside that was inspired
from the inner and above
which are one and the same

The world may not bend to
your every whim
But, it will flow wherever you
want it to go,
where it's supposed to go
There's beauty in cellbars

No Beauty in cellbars

Restless, unable to sleep
Keys,bars,the guns being racked
Year after year
Endless echoes
of steel kissing steel

Noise
Constant yelling
Nothing said
Vegetating faces,lost faces
dusted faces

A lifer
A dreamer
Tomorrow's a dream
Yesterday's a memory
Both a passing of a cloud

How I long
for the silence of a raindrop
falling gently to earth
The magnificence of a rose
blooming into it's many hues of color
The brilliance of a rainbow
when it sweetly lights up the sky
after a pounding rainfall

Picnics in a rich green meadow
We saw the beauty in butterflies
We made it our symbol
Tiny grains of sand
One hour glass
A tear that may engender
a waterfall

The memories
the dreams
are now
Love is now

There's no beauty in cellbars

Schools

I think of the Children
of Angola
given no fresh water
but sold Coca Cola

Kids killing kids in schools
out of loneliness, out of dispair
out of wanting the spotlight there
who feels sad, it’s not cool

Yes, it’s sad, it’s not cool
the schools being shut up
in America
not many just a couple now and then

In Angola soldiers kill
not only with guns but with spears,
axes, swords and machetes
children dying of thirst
and of aids is worst

I think of the children
of Angola
given no fresh water
but sold Coca Cola

Children not seen on american TV
too busy following some celebrity
too busy chasing some fucking
politician getting his fuck on
too busy filming someone pulling
a dog from a lane or cat from a tree

Too fucking busy to see that many
of the angolian soldiers are children
forced to kill over and over again
some before the age ten
sometimes their own moms and dads
children dying of thirst
and of aids is worst

I think of the children
of Angola
given no fresh water
but sold Coca Cola

I think of the children
of Angola
given no fresh water
but sold Coca Cola

Who feels sad, it’s not cool
american kids gone mad in school
who feels sad for the asian kids
enslaved and sold in the sex shops and
sweet shops across this golden land
when is fucking enough’s enough?

What good is the media
when it stops no war, touches no souls
and glorifies killing?
What good is the media
when it goes into the Congo, Rwanda,
Kosovo, Ethiopia and Cambodia only to
film the dead

Hiding under tables
does not work against bombs
that burns the night
Hell no, it’s not cool to kill
to have young kids
not much bigger than their
smile killing
children dying of thirst
and of aids is worst

I think of the children
of Angola
given no fresh water
but sold Coca Cola

I think of the children
of Angola
given no fresh water
but sold Coca Cola

Heart of the High Desert

Lying here on this bunk
my mind drifts and dreams
within itself searching for a poem
Ocean winds, gentle breezes
find theie way through the bars

Through the bars a sparrow sings
and it’s melliflous melody
is all about love

Ninety degrees hotter I’d be warm
The wildflower takes its first breath
of air after a generous rainfall
the night before

I grew up in the Mojave
in a small desert town in the heart
of the high desert
the only place I’d been
until they brought me here

I stood on Crocks Street
looked at the purple and red clay mountains
that surrounded me
they appeared to be the whole world
How naive was I

I was nineteen when I got busted
that same day I have signed
up for the marines
I wanted to see the world

They took me to a cell
off to myself on the corner
I couldn’t see but I heard the sounds
of those football games I had been to
my whole life in that town

My nephew Robert Jr. Wrote
he said he remembered me I taught him
to whistle, to drive
he said: ”Dear Uncle Stanley…”

Stringing memories that had been lost
frowns of the face, sadness of the heart
Every wrinkle on my face
is but a harbinger of joy
fighting to overtake the sadness
of the heart