Homesick Nomad

I miss my home. Bodegas crammed in next

to home improvement shops and dollar stores,

the barely legal street carts filed with fresh

cuisine from all around the world, the doors

that never match their neighbor, banging from

the yard next door where John said he could mend

whatever broke this week...I miss my home. 

I miss the clatter-screech of Brooklyn trains

that carry tired families back to Queens

when Coney Island play is done. Explain

to me how New York City has the means

to seep into my soul and change my brain. 

My nomad birth and gypsy life make me

unlike-just like-the rest of my city. 

Social worker’s poem

A perfect evening winds away
And yet I cannot go and play.
I type my notes and summaries
And dread the monthly drudgery.

All my files are put to rest
Submitted to my super’s desk.
The submission sheet is all square
Double check: it’s all there

Hours accounted for,
Services paid,
Summaries I abhor,
Job I would not trade.

Daily Dawn

Metropolis awake; the streets arise
with dawn. The buildings stand and shine cerise
while velvet eventide retreats and dies.
The never-sleeping city’s shifts release
the ever grinding gears of its machine.
On Chrysler’s spire, the rising sun impaled,
holds pinned the glowing gem of bright citrine,
illuminating neighborhoods unveiled.
The flares of window-fire, jewels inset,
explode with colors born when dawn erupts
and bursts on skylines tall.  We soon forget
the daily dawning tide. The rush disrupts
and presses us to hurry and disband,
released from brilliant, burning Day’s command.

Ablaze

Autumnal changes show the trees antique,
patinaed with the seasonal premier
of leaves aflame with brazen gold mystique.
When grasses fade beneath a sky austere,
deciduous arrays of bright burlesque
begin their dance. And when their tops combust
in conflagrations, embers will arrest
the uninitiated with robust
displays of garnet, gold, and brass. Ignite
the world, you trees! Begin, apocalypse
of summer’s wrath! The Winter Acolyte
returns with all her power to eclipse
the bounties of the field, extinguishing
the summer’s warmth with autumn’s pillaging.

Jamaica’s Lion

Jamaica’s lions poised in fall’s display,
a brilliant white on umber bricks and leaves.
The thrumming heart of family homes convey
a sense of safety. Visitors perceive
those quiet, elegant, older homes,
all cuddled up with brooding tenements,
are story tellers. Whispered, secret tones
are wind-blown sussurated sentiments.
The marble lion watches, paw upraised,
as time continues marching through the years.
The sentinel remains, though unamazed,
to witness passing courage, growth, and fears.
The Pride of Queens withholds his noble roar
and overlooks the street forever more.

Manhattan Sunrise

Manhattan sunrise over Hudson Bay
with cotton candy stripes of pink and blue
awakens sentinels to hold and stay
the course in reigning over their tableau.
Financial powers have their court’s command
in global rings to grapple day and nighr
while Culture proudly soaks into her land
with glamour, looking on with mirthful spite.
Like ink, the city spreads and runs up north
and leaves it’s stain on history. The Bronx
Does not escape the spreading course;
Long Island likewise feels the burning sparks
that light the skyline with a showy blaze
that’s quenched in river’s depths at break of day.

Stoop gossip

Good morning, Edith! How’s your back today?
About as well as could be, John. And you?
I’m keeping on; my son has come to stay.
Oh, has he now? Is Dave still with his beau?
Afraid he’s not. They split sometime last week.
Perhaps it’s better since that boy was fast.
He was. I said it’s better for him to seek-
Some nice young boy without a rowdy past?
Or, I was gonna say, a break from dates...
Well, that would work. Some rest and back to school?
And Dave suggested that when we last ate.
Your boy’s a smart one John, and that’s a rule.
I know he is. Well, off to work with me.
Good day! I hope to see you back at three!

DUMBO

Below the bridge by sprawling Brooklyn Heights,
a promenade awaits all dressed in stone.
It flanks the view of soaring man-made flights
of concrete, steel, and cables overgrown.
While standing proud above the river’s course,
the bridge holds on to time and history.
Where once the traffic was on foot, the source
of commerce flows in automotive spree.
The weight of modern life in Brooklyn’s heart
suspends itself beyond the borough’s reach.
These neighborhoods are breathing out their art
and breathing in the chaos and the peace.
In Down Below the underpass’s shade
the history of modern Brooklyn’s made.

Times Square

Down gridlocked blocks of shattered glass and steel
lay pearls of light on strings of city streets.
The concrete bobbins of the Times Square creel
holds threads of light of traffic where it meets
the ruby glow of neon signs. The Square
can never stop it’s dazzling display
where advertisements shine and dare to share
the sights, the scenes, the shows that can’t compare!
“Oh, come and see!” The signboards plea. They
assault your every sense with overloads
of light. The diamonds lose their shine at day,
but still the ticker runs its race. The road
is less for cars, but more to mesmerize
the tourist trail that calls the Square a prize.

Dandelions in Brooklyn

The lion's teeth send sprawling cracks trough walks
and stoops across the neighborhood.  Their manes
of shaggy gold are raised as if to talk
about their humble pride of having gained
this meager rooting.  Even grasses faint
at thinking of the dandelion's home.
Uplifted on the sea-borne zephyrs, plaits
of silver threaded seeds take flight and roam
from place to place.  These pilot seeds are wished
upon like stars to carry children's dreams.
Transiting wishes carry hopes nourished
by summer's pop of golden weed.  High screams
of child-delight float up into the sky.
We should, like dandelions, dare to fly. 

Sacred stalemate

Idolatry at war with sacred hearts

has drawn the line in Fifth to fight for faith. 

For where are souls offered? The changes start

in pocket books.  Cathedral bells or bait
for sinful lusts? Across from angels stand
the mockery of angels spread.  Beyond
the walls of disillusionment so damned
stands row on row of reinforcements spawned
by greed and hedonistic child's play.
Basilicas, like battleships bulwarked,
are block-bound fortresses for those who pray
against the swirling school of fetid sharks
who call sin culture and defy God's laws
and yet will never overcome our cause. 

Metro

Beneath the beating pulse of New York streets,

below the vibe and verve of seasons past,

a grinding rumble trundles with a screech. 

The howl of dirging trains approaching fast

collides against the silence of the dark. 

Perfumes of oil clash and harmonize

with all the smells commuters bring that mark

their surface status. They don’t recognize 

they’re just a guest inside the artery 

The route beats red with passengers, like blood. 

They ride the rails in still cacophony

and cross into the city’s tissues. Should

the heart of New York stop in marking time,

the whole east coast would be at “end of line.”

Graffitied Souls

A slashing splash of verdant city art
attacks a purple scrawl that marks the place
where man and can have ripped the bricks apart.
Imagination makes the wall a face,
the stones into a tableau telling tales
of primal crimson, vibrant cyan, swirls
of sable secrets, golden bone, and shell.
Awakening amidst the icon pearls
are stories of the hissing whispers. Marks
as sharp as acetone propel disputes
of where belongs to whom. The jungle parks
and balling courts are fields of artist’s fruit.
Graffiti charges up the borough walls
and sparks with life like tribal drumming calls.

Coney Island Summers

Careening clouds in honey colored skies
collide with city skylines and biting stars.
Destroying fire burns away the prize
of springtime’s fertile fruiting fields. Guitars
sing out with subway squeals to serenade
the sticky summer sun. When evening hits
and Times Square comes awake, when Broadway plays
and Wall Street calms from banker’s trading blitz,
committed vendors fuel the night commute.
The lights of Coney Island start to dance
and all the squalling seagulls start to mute
as different flocks begin to take their chance
at all the games and boardwalk types of fun
when New York summer says farewell to sun.

Heroes awaken

Believer, hear me when I say that we-
we holders of the light of hope and peace-
have more than just our hero worship. See
the mighty skyline? Heroes help us cease
our stoop-eyed stalking with our gazes down.
Instead, Believer, we are focused high
into the sky. We are free to look around
and change what isn’t right. We start to fly
and fight the fight like heroes. You are strong.
Believe that you can change our cityscape
from downtown to the shore, your rising song
can raise this city back to life. No cape
upon your back, no symbol on your chest;
you’re still a hero when you do your best.

Shadows on Velvet

An alley acquiescence leads to hell
with just one hit. He calls to claim her soul
and claws to claim her glitter. Just as well,
she sells her gilded future as it falls
apart like shattered glass in sparkling wine
Where did the shadows go?  Pulled back like ropes
At paparazzi rallies where the lines
have fallen, fallen like the stars and hopes
of yesteryear still stain like cheap merlot.
She goes to him, the velvet in his voice
like thunder in her ears. She has to go
but does not want it. Life has robbed her choice,
or did she do that to herself? The death
she cannot flee still steals away her breath.

New York

My brickyard reef supports your coral steel
that bites into the endless ocean sky.
where all the stars have come to shore to wheel
and dance among the shoals and fish that fly
down the concrete currents of this city reef.
The surf of sound, the rolling waves of man
in modern life. Fast forward to the brief
and lonely moments where it all begins
to run and bleed like water colored scales
and fins-the open gape and gasping maw
with wide-eyed stare that sees and starts to pale:
We fish, alone together, as they saw
in neighborhoods of plastic, steel, and stone
are knit together, joined at soul and bone.

City of Orphans

The gala of the noisy streets call out
for me to come back home to gridlocked blocks
and roaring trains and rushing feet, to shout
with all my soul amidst the glitz and schlock
that I belong to New York's orphaned souls.
We longing throngs are lost and searching for
a way back to our all consuming goal:
return to foreign and familiar shores.
For not all New York bred are New York born.
Yet still we claim to be the borough called,
the borough drawn, adopted by the worn
and ever-changing face of city halls.
We searched the world to find the rising stone
and make the dancing skyline our new home.

Waves of clouds

Across the grace filled atmosphere are waves

of clouds like tiles in the desert clay.

They have their own geography with caves

and canyons made of stratus smears. We play

among the azure halls like sailing ships

to unknown shores where Fate will take our hand

and call us well beloved because we grip

horizons well beyond our sight and land.

We aviators dare the miles above

in daring dances with the clouds we love.

The Lonely Wedding

There was a wedding today and you weren't here.
The bride was beautiful, but then, aren't they always?
There was a wedding today, and all I could do was watch
and wonder what you were doing.

I dropped my gaze, unworthy of their joy.
Traces of whipped cream from the other half of dessert,
rich and thick bread pudding,
reminded me that I had no one to share.

Irreverent artifications

             Eventually, you start being flippant with the sacred language.  Words are not so meaningless but are so full of meaning that they become autonomous. Even small words like "you" "me" "night" and "warm" become so haughty that the skitter off the page and into some romantic tryst that makes you wonder if they were planning it all along. 

              With such rebel syllables, how then do you dare use the larger workhorses of imagery? Dare you pen "passionate" or "smoldering" or "endless"? They are apt to bite you and suck your marrow out through your very soul. 

               You eventually begin treating words with the same contempt with which they treat you. You stop caring if a word is even real because the damn things breed. 

               Litters of letters besiege your page and you are left with...what?  You wean them, edit them, find them a good home where they are loved and trained, but they keep coming back and keep demanding from you more than everything you have. 

                Is it any wonder you become flippant and disregard the very rules you so lovingly put into place? It is no good anymore to count beats on your fingers or wonder if it really rhymes because in the end, it doesn't matter. 

               The truth of the things will happen whether you dress it like a sonnet or a sestina, whether it flows or stutters. 

               Words happen, often viciously or criminally. We revere, maybe even fear them at times, but in the end, the arcane lexical alchemy becomes basic household chemistry. There isn't even a boom at the end. 

Birth me slowly

Birth me slowly in the cold, cold night. 

Teach me the ways of the rambling seer. 

I wish to grow in the truth of death and daisies,

to dance in the feral blossoms of the night. 

Embrace me in the growing shadows. 

Welcome me into the eternal spires. 

Show me the path where the wild rabbit fled,

where the fox laid down her kits in the shadows. 

Birth me with passion in the mystery. 

Calm the quaking fear of my pain. 

Drag me out of light and into the cool, cool darkness

where everything is a discovered mystery. 

The immortal seed

I know the way into eternity.

It is easy, now that I see the way. 

I found your garden of serenity. 

I walk its paths in the night and the day. 

I know all your mysteries and secrets.  

It is the wall that guards your radiance. 

I have found your skies dancing with comets. 

I walk here knowing your grace and puissance. 

You are the immortal seed, planted by God. 

You are the eternal garden of light. 

You are sacred ground where none have yet trod. 

You are the stars that brighten endless night. 

I am the dreamer cloaked in my journey. 

I am a pilgrim searching out your  truth. 

I have walked paths difficult and stony. 

I have searched for you since my long passed youth. 

Now, we are here. The seed has been planted. 

Now, you are near. Our story is started. 

Water and stone

Water and stone

standing alone

outside my home

mocking bird's throne

Pillar and dish

carved with big fish

thirsty bird's wish

they splash and splish

Concrete basin

water within

too soothe dry skin

flutters begin

Bath for the bird

frequently stirred

songs often heard 

clean wings are blurred

Youtubulata

cat on a Roomba
day all wasted watching-
zoom, kitty, zoom!

How animals eat...
Watch closely: a vulgar display.
Hit play one more time!

Too many kittens
adorable videos
all over the 'net

They took my kidney!
Charlie the Unicorn's fate
Candy Mountain's lie.

Shall I compare thee to a winter storm?

Shall I compare thee to a winter storm?

Contrast against the blinding, blizzard winds

thy frigid, bitchy heart is not as warm. 

The temperate polar gales are my friend

compared to thy back stabbing, faithless lies. 

When I observe thy treatment of people,

I'm left surprised that anyone would try

to weather thee and all thy heartless bull. 

At least the winter rains will water crops,

while thee shall soak us with thy dramatized

uncaring gossip. Shall I go or stop

comparing thee to winter's stormy guise?

If I had choices to be made 'twixt thee

or blizzards, then I ask thee: let me freeze. 

Self portraits

1. There once was a girl in Merced
with too many words in her head.
She'd sit and she'd write
from dawn until night
and wonder if it would be read.

2. The fatness of my cats
when they lay like welcome mats
wrings out my sighs
'cause they look like pies,
except they're not that flat.

dem latex blues

I'm allergic to latex,

it's sad but its true. 

I'm allergic to gloves,

so what should I do? 

I went to the doctor

to get a Pap smear 

I didn't know that

latex was near. 

The very next day

it hurt when I peed. 

It hurt when I sat,

and it hurt when I sneezed. 

I'm allergic to latex,

it's sad but its true. 

I'm allergic to gloves,

so what should I do? 

I wear vinyl if I can

and nitrile if I can't 

but I like how latex feels

and now my comfort is scant. 

Now I've got a rash

that goes from there to here,

and I've learned my lesson

about latex fear. 

I'm allergic to latex,

it's sad but its true. 

I'm allergic to gloves,

so what should I do? 

Yes, I'm allergic to latex

It's true and it's sad. 

I'm allergic to latex. 

I'm allergic real bad. 

Laboratory rhymes

'Round and 'round the centrifuge 

the sample trays spin faster. 

I hope they don't open and spill

and cause a big disaster. 

Around the biomedical lab

the technicians all are working 

to solve the medical mystery

diligently without shirking

All around the medical world

The scientists are cheering. 

A cure has finally been found

for all the patients enduring. 

Pussycat pantoum

Twitch the paws and flick the tail

A cat can sleep how she wants

She dreams of milk and fish

Puddling her fur in the sun

A cat can sleep how she wants

No bird dares peep and wake her

Puddling her fur in the sun

The world rests in her whiskers

No bird dares peep and wake her

The day is long and lazy 

The world rests in her whiskers

She purrs while she dreams

The day is long and lazy

Twitch the paws and flick the tail

She purrs while she dreams

She dreams of milk and fish

In bed

You will soon go on an adventure. 

Beware of malicious scams. 

Don't be afraid to explore. 

Sometimes lions appear as lambs. 

Spend some time with family. 

Invest in your future. 

Fear is only a perception. 

Prevention is better than a cure. 

Children are worth more than you know. 

The truth may be hidden. 

Safety comes at a price. 

Dare to try the forbidden. 

Do you need more owls in your life?

Today! Yes today only!

You can abscond with this: 

An owl generator! 

You will not be lonely

Not with this new device

for only a few dollars!

A miraculous thing!

It creates a bird for you

of nonpareil plumage!

And hear it sing!

The svelte bird, (yes its true)

can cause no umbrage. 

You might think me selling

this contraption a mere

rodomontade,

but dear people its a killing,

the kind of theft of this here

machine from Riyadh!

Gather 'round my stand

and watch the workings work:

Crafted cogs and gears and cloves

Oddments go in and land

on this platform and then with a JERK!

Out comes an owl with a rose!

Come one, come all only for today!

The Owl-Generator is for sale!

But wait, there's more!

Have you ever wanted your turtle gay

and polished from head to tail?

Just buy my elixir and pour!

So see what you can buy

at my eclectic stall 

here at the trade show

Go ahead, feel free to try. 

You break it, you buy it all 

at the Carnival of Tomorrow!

Frankenstein's poem

We are the story tellers, 

                          Hello.

I could not think of what to write. 

They crashed the glass; we screamed at them to stop,

The lovely bones upon the shelf

The fires of the night glitter in your eye

It is night, and I am awake. 

In the land of Tir na nOg

Interrobang me

Me! Me! Me!

This town's a fickle dame...

Eyes like obsidian pierce with a glance.

Nighttime 

Dare the dawn on silvered wings

Idle hands the watchman grows when hours long and fragile spread. 

You told them all my presence there was death,

She's the type that drinks your coffee with this sneer that says she could brew a better batch

Come with me to a quiet place

Step one, turn on the oven. 

Despite ourselves

We are the story tellers, 
the rabble rousers, 
the star singers.

Ours is the power to ignite, to extinguish, to calm and excite.

In our hands, truth is a sword or a shield. 

We are the destroyers, the healers, the seekers. 

We are the star-forged, belched out atom by atom into the void. 

While we are temporary, our time is eternal. 

Listen, Polaris! 

Stand still and recognize the cold power;

 but you were already held fast. 

But who told the first story?

Who roused the deepening deep?

Who sang the first stars and forged man from the flames?

The Destroyer, 

The Healer, 

The Seeker of the Broken has come. 

He bolted Polaris in place, riveted by the power of His grace. 

His army stands at the gates, prepared for war. 

He extends grace to us, despite our shadows. 

He is forever and knows no temporary things. 

Beyond the void and wrath and cold, two words resonate through eternity:

I Am. 

        

Greetings, from human.

                          Hello.

 Would you like to hear a word?

I know a few I saved for you. 

These things that I have heard

I heard from the deep dark blue. 

                         Hello. 

Would you like to come to land?

I know the sea is deep and wide. 

Is the ocean floor all that bland

that you would surface on our side?

                          Hello. 

Would you like to see the sea?

We call it flat but really it's not. 

Can you tell us about the free

things swimming below the sun so hot?

                         Hello. 

Would you like to be dissected?

We never met a mermaid here before. 

Your fins confuse and distracted

the biologists who call the sea a bore. 

                          Hello. 

Would you like to be in a museum?

You are the proof of Atlantis gone.

These dusty halls: your mausoleum 

while science calls your death a dawn. 

                        Hello. 

Would you like to be a hoax?

You are impossible, a fairy tale. 

Half human, half fish is a joke

played that sadly often fails.