Lets cut the mic

No beat as I spit each line with dignity

Drum line my flow

Formation my lines of metaphorically speaking

Personification are abstract to qualities I will never seek

Alliterations became same sounds to letters I tried to master but as time moved on my English of new words and letters held their own rights

My adverbs solidified my place, time, circumstances, manner, cause and degree of what Ahava could be

My rhymes became me

I was free to express myself of rhyme scheme of pattern for my poetry

Dynasty of hereditary rulers... I saw myself amongst the prominent of role models

Poets that persuade audiences to hear them speak on all emotions... too me that was unique

They were unlike anything else of being one of a kind too me

Their craft of structure brung words as meaningful and powerful of elite

I bow to those who left their words told... to give US a chance to continue the importance of Poetry

- Ahava

Maya Angelou

William Shakespeare

Amiri Baraka

Syliva Plath

Robert Frost

Gwendoly Brooks

Edgar Allen Poe

The Death of an Eagle Poem by Lynn Wilson

I sit in this cage. Staring and wondering what’s beyond. People walk by each day. They look at me in awe. They speak of how wonderful I am. How beautiful my plumage. What a great bird I must be.

All the while never knowing. Never really caring. What’s inside of me.

Yes, once I was great! I was proud. Soared the skies, As far as the eye could see.

I am an Eagle! I am the best! I’ve perched on mountain tops. Where no other bird could fly!

But now inside, all I want to do is die. Trapped in this cage. Day after day. I am not an Eagle. It shouldn’t be this way.

Look into my eyes. There’s nothing, but despair. The eagle I was, is dead. Once where was greatness. Now nothings there.

I have no heart. I have no desire. All I can do is , sit, wonder and wait.

Knowing it’s going to take all day. Everyone’s fussing. Everyone’s worring. So I get off my rear, And go anyway.

Tell the Dr. this. Dr. says “Test that.” Draw blood here. Then go there. Sit and wait.

Pick a book to read. It’s to old. Set it down, Look around.

There’s a man over there. Looking out the window. I wonder what he’s doing here. What’s his need.

He looks at me. I look down, and pretend to read. The nurse calls. For me? I look to see. No.

Time goes by. The clock turns slow. I wish they’d hurry. Really need to go.

Nurse calls. For me? Yes. Time to see the Dr. I guess.

As I travel down the hall. I’m not worried at all. The Dr. Sees me and says I’m fine.

My heart beats fast. Hands begin to sweat. I think to myself … I’m dieing. I ask the Dr. How long have I got? The Dr. Just laughs and says “ Dieing your not”.

Going to the Dr. can be stressful true. I’m so glad I followed this one though.

Copyright 2017 by Lynn Wilson