15 Cents Worth

I am wealthy and rich,
for I have 15 cents to spend.
What shall I spend it on?
On food?
Pay the rent? On love?
On music? On candy?
I can’t spend it,
for I have spent 15 cents
worth of time thinking
how wealthy and rich I was.

To read this poem in Spanish, click here.

I am a survivor

Imagine if all the words in the English language were packed in suitcases, and all you could take on the trip was a small fanny pack, what words would you use?  That is poetry.  Here is a good example of the pack’s contents.  Here’s a poem by Brother Bill Kelso.

I am a survivor

I am a survivor.
Ashes from the fire
flavor the meat of desire.

I know how to give
so we all can live
when survival is grim.

When it’s time to eat,
hands feel the heat,
and company’s a treat.

I learned as a scout,
survival is all about,
not being without.

Food, clothing, shelter…
having enough is better than
lack of having  any ever.

When are choices made,
friendships may fade, and
egos are subject to trade.

I can hunt without a gun,
fish for food in the sun,
and I can be the only one.

I am a survivor.

To read this poem in French, click here.

The Blind Man Knows the Truth

The blind man knows the truth
 
He has been around the block,
and he knows every crack in
the old sidewalk by name.
The blind man knows the truth.

Even without good eyes he sees,
and in his mind he does believe
in every step he takes.
The blind man knows the truth.

His experience has been more than
most, even compared to a seer’s
biggest boast by far.
The blind man knows the truth.

He uses other senses to get around,
and he has a sixth sense to be
 ound if you need help.
The blind man knows the truth.

The blind man was like you and me,
with good eyes to see, but reality
hit him in the face.
The blind man knows the truth.

To read this poem in Spanish, click here.

Word Sculptor

From blocksofbooks a
writer c h i s e I s
away unnecessary words
 and letters f
                       a
                           l
                             l  
to the floor  i   n  pa  t cu  a    pattern.
                      n   o    r  i   l    r
         
After hoursof work, a scupture
              called a poem
is created reflecting an idea
                   the artist treasures.

           I

                   I am the mother of my thoughts,
The father of my destiny, 
         and the child of a soul who plays with life every day.

To read this poem in Spanish, click here.

Bricks

Bricks

I take each moment of my life,
and stack them together
like bricks to form my life,
my personality,
my existence.
I only hope I don’t
build a wall around my ideas,
my thoughts,
my feelings.
I must be free to
express myself.

To read this poem in Spanish, click here.

The Battle

In this battle no one dies,
For little climps of lies
Cling to one another and side
So that one may survive.

In this battle there aren’t any rifles
But nothing amounts to a mere trifle.
And when the wounded are put in heaps
The Menace upon the soul creeps.

In this battle something is lost.
Time and patience are the costs.
The common troubles are the foes
And it is the battle of the soul.

To read this poem in French, click here.

The Peter Pan Effect

If man could suddenly fly by himself,
would people immediately take to the sky
and discover the limits of this change
                        or would they examine the wings, take
                        them apart and ground the opportunites
                        to extend their realm?
                Perhaps, at first, most would watch me play Peter
                Pan, laughing in disbelief, and a few would take
                the risk and follow me above the clouds.  The fear
                of flying would stop because of what would become
                known as “The Peter Pan Effect.”
Sooner or later, the skies would get crowded, with
lanes for slower flyers, and the people would be
monitored by sky police to make sure people
follow approved route patterns to control the flow
of traffic.  Helmets would be required in case of a fall.

Shadows

(photo by Mike Hall)

A metal sculpture casts as shadow of its form against a wall in the affternoon sun in Downtown Laredo, Texas.

Shadows  

The line where black meets white
depends on the position of the light.
Close to the line are shades of gray.
This is the zone where peace plays.

To read this poem in French, click here.

Peace Tree

Like a tree in the
summer,
love will bloom
in its time
in its degree…
Like a tree in the
winter,
peace shall reign
on its time
in its order.