The Tiniest Seed
Offical Website of Author/Poet Michael David Correro
Poetry Review
Second Chances
Is it true what they say,
That second chances are just another way,
To repeal the first failure?
If that is true—
Then would not the world’s greatest achievers,
Be the most abundant failures of our time?
What if Einstein, Franklin, and Edison had stopped?
How many men—would it have taken—to reach,
Their level of creation, if given only once chance to succeed?
We all know by this age,
That nothing last forever, or remains the same,
Except that elusive chance—to love again.
Michael David Correro
September 7, 2007 ©
Johnny Tel: Unmasked Poetry Review
Johnny Tel: Unmasked
Johnny Tel—do tell—the end to begin!
Since the birth of a soul, where have you been?
Is the art of the unspoken word
only to see the title or the fare that you dread?
Why are you hiding a silent creed behind this encrypted mask?
Why don’t you tell us, what lies deep in your sorrowful head?
My rooms of experience still scream into the night
a sea of despair for a child I am still;
while I board the junkie train
from Tutwiler tonight with a summer’s kiss.
Words on my face leave me with red eyes
and opposite rites at the gate;
and the burn remains upon my stained glass heart
with an ode to Kevin Nee.
13 years and a foolish threat
sends hearts on the run with the lesson;
while the grand and rust,
leave me with no disguise, for the name is no game.
Kiss, butt, dong was chanted simply and clandestinely only to us;
however in Barnard’s Palace discover
hand in hand the sweat of hide and seek which won.
The Galaxy 500 put it into the wind a birthday card for Jim;
and the painted girls go…ooh!
Suntan lines delivered: it’s behind the door;
and the token her father’s eyes put on the face of generation “X”.
Touch of hand by a guest I say to you with my face in the window;
led me into the sand, where the fence is never level.
A fool’s heart, when shoulder to shoulder, seeks the rainbow end;
but like my grandparents said—fatum is the last window in our house.
Note from the author: This poem was penned as an artistic experiment to see if I could capture the entire essence of the 66 poems in this collection. Their is something very unique about this poem, but you have to have a copy of the book to discover it, for the key is the "Table of Contents" in the book. Good luck and let me know if you figure it out...Michael David
Johnny Tel: Unmasked Poetry Review
and The Painted Girls Go…ooh!
You have used my space, my breath, my energy
for your sordid existence. Be gone with you!
Leave me now. Alone! Afraid! Penniless.
Walk away. Drive away. Die?
Please just leave; and the painted girls go…ooh!
Take with you: your love, your hate,
and your fear of my voiced raised in anger;
the imposter of you—myself.
Remove your waded tissues concealing stashes of pills;
your hording; your stumbling and falling.
Walk away bent in agony or upright in pride or anger!
Just leave; and the painted girls go…ooh!
No more dress rehearsals; no seeking;
no pondering; no flashes of wood from the couch.
Turn the key or begin afoot upon the road;
not another spin; nor any more tales;
fuck your brides and your spells.
Get out! and the painted girls go…ooh!
Johnny Tel: Unmasked Poetry Review
Say
I like her. He likes me. She likes me, and I like he.
He wants to love me. She will not love me.
I can not love he. Can I love she?
Oh! I feel like a tree—split down to my knees—why three?
Will her heart untwine? His heart is mine.
I look to the sky; to wonder and cry.
She can not cry, but he is willing to try,
however, I just act shy. Am I so sly?
Why my mind is fine. Let me define.
He just left his lover, and she has been with no other.
Why her heart is cold. He is not to old.
Is he to bold? Which should I hold?
He knows her. I know him.
She knows me, but what about when?
She is not my friend, and he is not kin,
but I should offend—this triangle must end!
My decisions bring to often, no knock at my door,
so, here I sit; trusty pen in hand,
Alone again to write without; late into the night.
Well, at least this way; oh…I ain’t gonna say.
Johnny Tel: Unmasked Poetry Review
Rust
A look,
a smile,
together in a pile,
if only for awhile.
Out of sight the two find delight,
shelter or weather,
day or night,
after her feelings become aware,
only his jeans show wear.
Concern you become,
when there is no return.
Away he runs,
who shot the gun?
On your knees,
anything for his seed,
because rust never frees,
only the heart bleeds.
Time has passed,
along with his dash.
a look,
a smile,
and you cry awhile.
Your heart sinks,
when you simply think
is there a link
between just pink?
Look to your side
see who abides,
for love is more
than feeling like sky.
If love is true
do not color it blue
let go of the past,
and be true to you.
Johnny Tel: Unmasked Poetry Review
A Birthday Card for Jim
Who's writing?
That we would sit and ponder,
on the Birthday of our friend—his passing.
Who's writing?
When we shall gather next,
to count the years, and share our tears.
Who's writing?
With permission to hide, or the choice to decide,
leaving a skin unable to peel, no deals.
Who's writing?
That so many should die,
so many we love now among us.
Who’s writing?
How many chapters will it take,
to end the debate, before more reach life's gate.
Who's writing?
Listen to my regrets, and savor my moments of love and passion,
and know my unspoken fears.
Who’s writing?
Laugh with my guarded tears.
See me now, all must learn the truth.
Who’s writing?
Feel my hands, embrace me with hope,
reel me in, pen us an end.
Who's writing?
I release, nor shall I condemn,
or will I hate, a lover late, but I will not forget.
Who’s writing?
There were no rules, against choices to make.
So, who's writing next?
The Tiniest Seed Poetry Review
If I Had Only Kissed You
If I had only kissed you,
Why did my body tingle in spirit?
If I had only kissed you,
Why did you let me kiss you twice and again?
If I had only kissed you,
Would you have spoken of soul mates?
If I had only kissed you,
Could you have mistaken me as just another date?
If I had only kissed you,
I could understand how I let you walk away.
If I had only kissed you,
I would not question the teardrop against my face.
If I had only kissed you.
Poetry Review
Johnny Tel
Johnny, you are the poet in my heart,
Who remembers all the untold parts,
From the peeling of my pride,
To the netherworld I have buried deep inside.
You don’t dare let me forget,
How a brown rabbit squeals,
Or the last whimper,
Of a puppy dog’s breath.
You are the beholder,
Of a kitty cat’s ninth life,
Taken when buried alive,
And a hound’s cry, after a .22 slug went clean through.
You still hear them sing and clap,
When she walks the streets drunk at night,
And you remember why,
Because you cannot lie.
You have felt the perfidy of being shot,
And know the panic and fear of being hunted,
You will never let go of being wrongly accused,
Because you were young, strong and innocent!
Poetry Review
Resurrection of the Space Between the Notes
Today it rained—from a clear sky,
And the Eagle returned, with the illumination of spirit, healing and creation.
Lying in bed—I read aloud to him, while undressing my soul,
And he listened in silence, for the resurrection of the space between the notes.
Together we share a bit of laughs, and a little bit of pain,
Then the words came—it takes two to make a perfect human.
The blending of two souls he continued;
When one is weak…the other is strong.
So strong is he, I blur when trying to imagine his pain,
So weak am I—when I speak of my change.
But when I am in his arms—his head resting upon my shoulder,
Our souls have no gender, and our hearts are melting the crying shame.
No more shall I run—no more shall I hide;
Nor will I heed the voice of the many, seeded to keep me lonely and afraid.
His love has set me free—freedom to leap by faith, rather than by distinction,
And this flesh will no longer imprison me; for his soul has touched me.
Poetry Review
House of Sigh
The sun setting—city lights rise to the sky,
Upon these streets are many in search for the house of sigh.
In these walls of a no-tell hall are,
The answers to a past, lurking like a hidden hasp.
Sometimes love was in season,
Or maybe treason was the reason.
No matter now for we have all found,
Death was unbound—even above ground.
All around us, the tickets now rebound,
No price to high, no fare to low.
Who could know, from just a blow,
That what you gave, you could take to the grave.
So underground is where we are found,
To determine our need—a little we bleed.
Blessed are those, who have not to dispose,
Pray for those, who got the rose.
Poetry Review
Bottle Rain
Bottled Rain I have been called a “genius” by a guest,
Whose name I did not retain,
and I was Compared to Albert Einstein,
by a sister Who’s Great Spirit is destined for fame.
I am fluid as liquid—many will concede,
Never to meet a stranger, but fast to disagree.
Yet, why must I feel so contained,
Like the timeless existence of bottled rain?
A personality so soluble, no prejudice or hate,
Though I am baleful to myself, only to revere in others.
So many friendships, while some associations came with great despair,
But AIDS has stolen my best friend from this page.
A storm I must brew of great courage and defiance,
To destroy the cork, which holds me back in distrust.
For which is the greatest sin—to remain within, no change or gain?
Or to rock and create waves and flow fluidly—until captured by one’s grave?
Poetry Preview:
The Tiniest Seed
The tiniest seed is my gift to you,
Please sow it with devotion inside your heart.
As your faith grows, others may soon part,
And goodwill will soon spread, as you seek a new start.
Signs of change are not always visible from here,
For our struggles are wide, far, and near.
The first sign of the tiniest sprout,
Is measured by the company you keep.
Soon the tiniest sprout bears its’ first leaves,
Fanning out like the wings of an angel.
Just as the tiniest sprout strengthens into a tiny trunk,
The heart is healing and growing stronger and wiser.
Habit or addictions—once held sacred,
Now are dissolving with little or no effort.
Wounds struck by ignorance and hate,
Are healed by forgiveness of them and thy self.
The time has now come and the season is here,
For the tiniest branches are reaching out among us.
So, open your arms wide, and reach out with love,
For with each hug you give, another soul is freed.
Michael David Correro © 2004
Poetry Review:
The Silence of Noise
Among the hills and valleys, shaped with pines overgrown by foreign vines.
In the gullies below were the rain-swollen streams,
Which measured her monetary needs, but her thirsty rivers still bled.
Her words would pierce your emotions, like the Delta mosquitoes at night,
But leave you scratching for the crass truth.
And her temper would invade your space,
Only to leave you witness to your own insecurities.
Her fragrance was always as bliss as the honeysuckle blooming,
And her laughter roared greater than an afternoon thunderclap.
Needless to say, she kept us in stitches,
And she never a missed a toke, while you licked your wounds.
However, a great sorrow I see in all the eyes,
As I glance at the passing trees traveling by.
A reflection I am unable to disguise,
Which leads to the following tale.
In a small town, every other word goes around,
Her newborn son lay quietly asleep my dear.
However, that morning—only confusion came,
And she chose—the silence of noise.
Poetry Preview:
Pslam of Hope
Hear my cry Lord, like the hawk circling in the sky.
Dry my tears, which are running like the creeks in these Kemper hills.
Silence my pain, which cries like the whippoorwill in the night.
Forgive my sins, Lord, for they are as many as the falling leaves.
Use my life, as you use the sun and moon each day.
Strengthen my faith, to grow as earnestly as the Loblolly pines.
Bring forth your rains, to cleanse my hollow soul.
Give me a direction to follow, like the eagle soaring across the blue sky.
Lord, let me hear your commands, like the rolling thunder among these red hills.
Michael David Correro (c) 2004
