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Heaven?
Paradise?
Rapture or
Cloud nine?
Where is the key
to enter your Bliss?

So high on your heavenly horse.
So proud under your rose-studded straw hat,
can't see disheveled man on his dead cement
horse, independently hardened by empathy- the
anesthesia for poverty;
begging for a dollar piece of bread to eat,
not an outhouse or bathhouse to shit, piss, and bathe-
still nose high as the clouds in the sky;
can't smell nor tell what's smelling to high heavens, cause
head held as high as the hundred dollar
stiletto holding you high and its blade piercing the lowly hearts
Cheeks and lips blood red, sculptured
eyebrows and polka dot finger nails. Yet, you
carry you bags filled with empathy to your church- home.

At home in your brownstone, paradise
as tall as the high ceilings, with
faux pride coming in second.
A home-made key for each the
best fit ones misplaced
and your misled

Many without homes
and
priced out of heaven
by
all Saints.
Paradise is just a dream.
Rapture a state of being.
Cloud nine an idiomatic expression.

The down-to-earth one
exchanges one thought
for another.
Yet remains in the seat
in his own humble home!

(August 6,2011)

poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
Added by Poetry Lover
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