Short poem 9.
The cushion sits there.
Sun-washed, torn, flake-dry
stuffing moldy from the rain.
Like me —
strapped on a ride down a third-culture stream
observing, like that cushion at the yard,
the world’s idiosyncrasies,
while not yet realizing
how much they’ve affected me.
Short poem 8
When I beat the drum of hate
I feel its vibrations tear fissures
in the mould of my soul.
But when I beat the drum of love
I hear its song soar up and outward
liberating the ears of beholders
liberating my own humanity.
Short poem 7.
in tandem with the beat
that keeps sweat flowing, blood coursing
on the technicolor floor
In physical synchronicity
back-burning our lives on the stove of Friday nights.
Short poem 6.
I carry dust in my hands
of ancestors handcuffed and shipped
across the Middle seas
And like Adam I wait to plant my seed
in that fertile dust
to be the author of tales untold
in the dank depths of the cargo hold.