Is it natural

for me to

be little enough,

to see that

mighty oak in me.


Burn baby.

Consume m3 a fir3

of immense singe

on an incendiary stage,

i will make use of my rage

as would a gas on a flame.

But will it be lit,

again and again

if hear your shit ass motho effin name.


NsVs 320100

. . . a wall of oak,

came bearing down then

those leaves left them trees,

and ran away with maple

with the autumn breeze. . .


Qwipzeeoligy 02.l1

I will learn to go to my left,

as if i were my right and watch

to learn how the ghost of each center

makes the water be left behind.


Qwipzeeoligy 02.h1

That red crayon lable told me its vermillion.

Then when i used it on a thick paper it bled purple.



Be steadfast in quatrains,

in all the loveliest stanzas of old,

though i do pen my grief and pain

the sorrow of my tommorow is and was be told,

Then why ask Y, when i can hear thy name of, I.


Poems and artwork by

© Oliver A Melendez