Listening to rhythm of poetry slammers,
the rapid, passionate, perfect phrases,
it dawns while dusting the dining room table,
then my grandmother's walnut cabinet,
that I long, I pine, I desire to inspire,
and may be I don't have it in me.
May be in mid age, I'm too unbending
to gift poetry from these hands,
or too scared to dare
to say engagingly,
lyrically what I know,
what someone else knows.
I remember what it's like
to be purple and blue,
will that mean I'll succumb
to the fear I'm not near
- in the back of the pack -
of these poetry slammers
who leave me breathless.
Breathless.

"What do you want to be?"
my inner voice asks me,
who is not of this world,
who is in me in this world.
"What do you want to be?
Because you can be that..."

An inspiring poet and song writer,
whose passion is fearless,
a wonderful mother, a caring friend,
a loving lady to a loving lord,
a defender of the earth
with a dictionary of swords.
I want to laugh and draw cartoons
till the end of my days,
to sense and perceive deeply,
to be what I sense!
a tree, a bear, a comet, a stone,
because I know I can.
I know we can.

I listen to brilliance of great poetry
slammers, jammers, warriors, and lambs,
I think this is who we are...
Yet, we speak with our own voice...
What I want to be I am capable of being.
What I want to be I am.