I want to be remembered someday as someone's elder But will such status ever be reached From within my unemployed streets of overflowing pretty trash Graffiti scratched across my back I symbolize a percentage on somebody's graph of stats. Young, brown skinned male like a catapult propelled Into Alleys of Aloe spilled Merlot bottles skeletons of rustic autos Silk turquoise bra, empty plastic milk gallons In the land of ghost cannons Tres-Leches cakes melt With the Son's abundant help Wish he'd recognize that wealth All it is is timely health. Self-esteem and prior convictions Often meet in crucifixions Picture villains with some priors Then a company that hires Never have what they'd required, While the streets she's always busy. So strong yet she's always in need of help, She gambles away food-stamps and trades welfare checks For dreams of polite and soothing temporary forgetfulness; But we just need some work. But so do they across the street, They all need and need and need... And sometimes the youngest bleed, For them dreams we've near machined And architect perfected them, have somehow Now been the makers of our doomed nightmares. Graffiti scratched across my back as I surface From within my unemployed streets; I want to be remembered someday as someone's elder But will such status ever be reached. Satan's helpers: Respect thy Elders. P.X 12.30.13

Heather is a very prolific and versatile writer whose poems are always a delight to read. She can compose a poem on any subject, often with a touch of humour, which is sure to bring a smile to your face and a warmth in your heart.

Heather, thanks for your kind comment about children walking in the rain. We would go out on a summer day and stomp about through these great puddles. It was just one of those things only children would love l did just have a chance to read many of your poems and I enjoyed them very much. I had not seen your work before but I will be going back to it frequently. Dick Lackman