My poems

The garden

The flowers still bloom in ash

The garden still glimmers in sand

We may grow in the fire's of sorrow

But. . . We must never lose our hearts to the mad

It is after a fire jungles grow

We the people stand for what we all know

Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers; we stand

Our garden grows, no more ash or sand

We the people bloom in the fires we blow, 

but we cannot forget that color, blue or black,

does not separates the flowers,

never keeping them back from each other

These are tough times for Americans. I wish everyone safety and love - Isaac