My Creative World

  HURT LION   i'm now a wounded lion, teetering on the thread of life of passion — wasted years & shattered dreams as i inhale the smell of oppression, my nostrils revolt, gasping for air for life captured in metals i am a display of beauty in this horrible garden bearing angles of sorrow sorrow that last i sing to freedom when sleep comes to me the imprisoned lion’s roar is as vain as the whisper of a bird singing on the tree weakness eats into my femur and it sinks into a forgotten land of thorns     the poem will feature in a forthcoming anthology in October, 2024.             

  Car ride She felt a loss coming on, yet just a few minutes ago Anima was giggling with her friends, swapping gossip, and telling funny stories. As she waited at the bus stop, the rain started and the wind began blowing. She held on to her skirt –afraid the wind might shove it up. A car pulled up to the bus stop, the window lowered, and the driver asked, “Will you like a ride home? Where are you heading to?” He looked a little older. He was the kind of man that had a young guy’s demeanor. He could easily act like a 30-year-old.   Anima, freezing to the bone, nodded and opened the passenger door. She got in and with chattering teeth attempted to thank the father of one of her friends she’d been partying with. “Lift your skirt and I’ll show you a trick to get warm in two minutes.” Anima lifted the skirt up and the man cranked up the heat and told Anima to hold the skirt around the heating duct and the chill receded, and then came on again when she felt the man’s hand ...