—to one's own company (original working title: the music you play)








—to one's own company
(original working title: the music you play)





are these leaves pure green tea,

to steep in a cup

designed so quaintly?



i know a type of

music, but not all things


because there

could be drill rap music

which they—call—




it's not a pretty picture
anymore for a degenerate


i think transnationalism

somehow creates a



i just hope we don't fall
victim to this wake of

to be foisted, with gradual

influence—to one's own









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Other Life

Hand Written

"First, he says, 


first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 


He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 


trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 


and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 


not the voice. 


the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 


and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She


giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps


succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 


All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 


I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered


more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 


And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.


I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 


subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,


I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 


Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 


Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.


Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 


They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 


requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...



Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote while observing a poetry reading of other poets. I read this piece during the 'Open Mic' portion, each poet smiling at my own nod to each of their own pieces. A good night of art.

Blues For My Man

I don’t wear
A gardenia in my hair.
But baby,
I still sing the blues.
Thank you for the heartache,
And a special thanks, for the attitude.
When you first laid eyes on me
You were like Billie Dee
(And I Miss Ross)
Swooning for your dizzy charms
So thank you for that sweet gesture.
(short and sweet)
And thank you very much for my song.
How could I ever resist,
Your honey suckle kiss,
Tumbling down my bare spine?
(you know I loved it when you kissed me there)
Baby, thank you for those tears I cried.
And thank you for the dry bitter wine.
Good morning heartache
Hear I go again
Good morning heartache
Can’t no other song spin
Me and Billy got this thing
And it’s more than the swing that I do when I hear her croon.
“I cried for you” She sings!
And baby,
I cry for you.
Finally someone gave me something to pout about,
Something to shout about
Something to wail out loud about!
You put the b flat
In my tune
So thank you for the heartache,
 Yes, I thank you for the heartache!
I said, I love you for the heartache!
And a special thanks for my new attitude.
Can’t you hear me singing the blues?
All of me
Singing the blues,
Why not take all of me
Singing the blues?
Can’t you see
I’m no good without you…?
By Ayesha K. Faines Copyright 2010

Sentimental Summertime

What would it take

what would it take to make you mine 

can i have a second 

a second of your time

or maybe just a dance 

a dance for two under the stars

i want to vacation in the warmth 

the warmth inside your arms

On the rooftops in Seattle 

or lake michigans cold shores 

i don't care where we go 

as long as baby, i'm yours. 

Monk And Trane Converse



Monk And Trane Converse




The reedy sounds of Coltrane’s sax,
those vibrations of discontent,
set the stage
for our journey
into the unknown.
Our hearts beat time
in anticipation,
as we stepped off into the future.
Meanwhile, Monk and Coltrane
increase their tempo,
tears streaming down as
they laughed at these notations.
Piano and Sax,
(even the drummer got a say)
what better way
to bring in a bright, new day.




~~redzone 10.17.12




Author's Notes/Comments: 


Note: This one is for 'Lady A' who asked me if I had written anything lately. Hope you enjoy the jazz, Ms A (and all who happen to read).


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Yellow Ducky

Yellow Ducky all alone
No friends, no cares
Ducky only groans
With life thats unfair

Red sunshades on
Belly big and round
Where's ducky gone?
I've looked all around

Off to fat cat cafe
Quarter shining
Waddling to the bay
Lifes intertwining

Smoke filled air
Laughter and dreams
Bourbon and music blare
Vodka streams

Poker Games calling
Pots a laughing buddha
Watch the dice rolling
Hears what he shulda

Big slick, Apple jack
Ducky's lucky day
Starlight pack
Nothing does he say

Jazz like moonlight
Shining silver sax
Gamblers delight
Jukebox tracks

Yellow Ducky all alone
No friends no care
Ducky only groans
With life that's unfare

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His Final Revenge

The rain pours on a solemn face
His final revenge remains so sweet
To disappear without a trace
A victim walks beneath his feet

He who lives below the sun
Knows nothing but himself
To he who knows but anyone
He suffers from your health

He who cannot hear or see
Lives to speak a final word
His final word that speaks to thee
To thee who only overheard

The rock that kicks the person's feet
The sun that sings the heavy tones
A life of crime he soon shall meet
His life will fall just like the stones

The crows that have blood ready eyes
The pathway seems so clear from now
And grey clouds formed into the skies
Hearing screams of why and how

The pinnacle of easy that sits and laughs
The pinstripe suit that mocks his worth
No tears been cried on his behalf
The fat cats full with men of earth

The shadows filled with his demise
Where the chew toy of a man doth lie
His eyes fill with our despise
With knife in hand his freedom die

The rain pours on a solemn face
His final revenge remains so sweet
To disappear without a trace
A victim walks beneath his feet

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Another Co-write with Colt http://www.postpoems.org/authors/colt

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Classical music
    minor is sad
major goes
        either way.

It ends.
    It starts
  Can repeat.
    It's specific.
  It's stylized

Classical music
        is clean.



Jazz music
      is emotion
         covers all
leaves none.

It never ends.
       It continues.
Improv is
       never the same.
It's unique

Jazz is beautifully


Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was April Challenge day 7: clean and dirty poems.

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