Hope is a Hard Subject

Hope is a hard subject to write for

in a world where there are no guarantees.

Hope is like a wish you want granted

there are no guarantees.

Hope is like a blanket

warm the elders and the sick

still no guarantees.

Hope is like a promise

it can be broken

like tomorrow’s no guarantee.

A Montaukett Sunset

A summer day draws towards to a close.

At a Montauk bar, The Montaukett

named with a hotel after a Native tribe.

Bar staff wear natives on their t-shirt backs

as they serve frozen mudslides

that slide down cool and smooth

after a day of August heat.

Next comes a sunset like no other,

where crowds line up to get a grand view.

This Eastern end sky turns orange, lavender, pink mixed with blue.

As quick as this change takes form

the sun bows lower and lower

into a gradual transition towards the water edge

past the ground.

Until it’s eventually swallowed up and disappears.

This place is like heaven

in its beauty of painted sky,

It feels like a different world,

a world away

especially without you


A New York Pizza

Round or square

don’t really care.

Just add tomato sauce and cheese

pepperoni, buffalo chicken,

ziti on top, any pasta would do.

A salad slice is pretty nice

as long as the dressing’s right.

It’s all about the water

in making the dough.

A New York Pizza

is the only way to go.

Running Almost Empty

Running almost empty
forgot my password

panicked need to finish

then I remembered it

wrote a poem so quick

so not to forget it

like my energy time is running

Rocking Before Bed

Just before bed

I listen to music

rocking back and forth

I daydream as I listen

my hopes and dreams

dance in the motion

the motions of my rocking chair.

Wide awake barely

Light are my eyelids as I write this

I’m not tired at all.

I’m wide awake ready to create ten more.

The only truth I feel is my surrender to sleep, but the hours are ticking so quickly and I determined to finish this task at hand.

Another marathon I’m competing

apprehensive for completing,

I set a snooze alarm in the event

I start drifting.

For the Raven in Westbury

I can still hear your squawk in Westbury.

So loud up high inside a tree.
Didn’t keep my car windows open long

for fear you’d fly inside.

I wonder why you shouted so much

you seemed to be alone all the time.

Alone inside that ever so large size of an evergreen tree.

Your face so dark I couldn’t see your eyes.

You looked like a sign of death.

A sign aimed at me I feared your every breath.

It was your large size and stature that truly frightens me.
Too large to be a crow

too small to be a hawk.

A real raven is what I saw,

glad summer school is over

rid of you that’s for sure.

Advice from a Flamingo

Because I love shrimp

my pinkness poignant

adds to the pigment

of my feathers.

Because I love Florida,

am the national bird of The Bahamas

I bathe in warm bodies of water.

Because my name is a mix of Spanish, Portuguese and Germanic suffixes

I’m a mixed breed.

Check out my long legs

I can stand on one for hours.

But, don’t piss me off

my black long beak does damage.

Don’t ever try me as a pet

try plastic there’s plenty imitations.


Ode from a Crayon

I once embraced this world

sharp and pointed.

My prestige label covered me.

I was the fresh wax scent

of a brand new box.

When you took me out

I engaged with paper

like butter does to bread.

That’s me a precise colorization,

my known popularity.

I’m #000000 Black inside

16, 24, 32, and 64 count boxes.

Crayola, never RoseArt or Cra-Z-Art


I’m the real deal.

The eminence of the coloring world.

You can’t color without me.


Then, my point got broken

flat-headed I still filled in and drawed.

Eventually I ended up on a preschool

classroom floor where I was ripped

naked of my grey wrapper,
stepped on, and broken.

I ended up in brokenness

of a broken crayon drawer.

Melted I blended in with a few friends

of shades no one ever gave us any names for.

Now I sit with other crayons and candles remains.

A far cry from Easton, Pennsylvania

the Crayola Factory I was made.

A Critique from My Late Crush

“I wonder if this is the way old crushes die.”

The Summer I Turned Pretty


I sit back with a cigarette in one hand

a Montauk Ale in the other

take it all in.

I just finished reading your poetry memoir of me.

Never realized this is how you felt about me

so secretive and so shy.

I didn’t know how much impact I made towards your life until now.

Thank you for your words and craft.

I’m sorry I can’t be a part of your life now.

It’s not meant to be.

Thank you for writing on behalf of my brothers

they are also here and appreciate their poetic tributes.

My Dad he’s here smiling too.

He knows too much now and we’re always in trouble.

Tommy won’t stop talking, John keeps trying to shut him up.

So shy girl thanks and keep writing.

You will always find me in my favorite places.
I know you keep me inside your heart

and that is more than this lost soul could ask for.  Frank

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