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POEMS Storyteller

The Revolution

Good morning, the sun is out, yet it is a crisp cool day. my friends, I think fall is creeping up the trunks of trees with a keen eye on the green leaves, let the revolution begin.

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Stories Storyteller

War and Roses

I sat on the verandah looking up at the stars, frogs croaked and the crickets responded. A cat stalked something in the yard, its yellow eyes disappeared into some bushes. Then there was a loud pop, and the dark night turned into orange day. The hills on the other side of the village lit up, the shadow of a bird swooped over the trees. The ra ta tat of AK and M16 rifles erupted, men having an unreasonable conversation. Dogs barked and howled in the village, a baby cried in the house across the street, a lone truck sped by on the True Blue highway. The cat scampered into the bushes behind the house. A helicopter came from the airport and hovered over the hill, a poisonous bug in the orange night. The helicopter unloaded a barrage of death onto the hillside, men shouted, the cows in the field mowed simultaneously. The unreasonable conversation stopped, the man made day began to t relinquish to mother nature’s power, the monster bug floated away, just as the night overpowered the orange. The dogs stopped howling, the child whimpered, someone turned on their radio, Jimmy Cliff’s voice settled on the wind, “I was born to win.” Dishes clanged in the kitchen next door, the stars reappeared. I toke a deep breath, the overpowering scent of the roses that Mommy Charles planted filled the air like a peaceful Sunday.

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Papa Jumbie

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Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

My daydream

My world, my daydream, my storynew cover size