24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Waiting for the bus
Listening for the train
Waving up a yellow cab
Riding subway cars again
Workers downtown at NYU
Washington Square Park
Old fellas playing chess
As walking dogs just bark
People feeding pigeons
Corn kernels spread about
Afternoon sun moves west
Mothers give their kids a shout
Uptown on the Lexington line
Time to take it home
City’s not for everyone
Though magnificent to some
The Crew
Every crew member has a role
Each serving as an integral part of a whole.
In order to work towards a common goal,
Everyone should be on a roll.
In her dark cloak
she takes refuge,
in the glow of the moon,
she shines,
her dilated pupils focus
on the nocturnal beasts,
thirsty they come out to quench
their thirst of hunger.
She escapes the sun and day,
both dry her glow and delicate skin,
but the moon rejuvenates her
tissues making her
immortality eternal.
Dear sleep;
Stop singing your sweet
lullabies, Your siren song
of slumber
It’s not time just yet
I see you there- with
your fluffy pillows and
your comfy, warm
extra big blankets
Come to me, come to me
you need your rest and I
grow lonely for your company
I know you do sleep, but my
job is not yet done-
I have more things to write before
I crawl to you and submit you your
bidding
Sleep, you’re a patient mistress
willing to wait for how long it takes
me to get back to you
Just wait please-
it will be soon, i promise and then
we will soar together
you will envelop me in your warm
cocoon of safety-
and there i will remain until I’ve
rested enough
Wait for me.
Love, Me
I wonder if there is a world without pain
He dances with my solemn self.
Replete and content to bide his time.
Watchful and waiting as a silhouette,
Severity in carried hibernation.
The slumber always ends with the ritualistic,
The greater offer of an unwilling supplicant.
Righteous Red, title of a song he ochestrates,
Waving his unseen hand in silence, justified indignation of immoral flesh.
Dark intentions will coalesce, with the intangible stare that seethes within.
A shade of murk that fixes itself to me.
cw: none
That’s the thing about love though,
isn’t it?
Love comes back, and no matter
how you bite and snip:
love comes, love lingers.
It lets you climb out of your shell.
And one day that canary flew –
it flew so far away,
so fast and so wild,
and it sang the whole time.
And all the cruelty that had burdened it,
all those harsh hands –
they were gone.
But the gentle hands found the canary again,
and the canary learned
it had always sung,
had always flown,
had always had everything it ever needed,
even though it was ripped away.
And it stilled eats black-ink-stained vellum flowers sometimes,
the hunger for words unable to escape it,
but it eats birdseed too,
and it sings,
and it flies with a flock.
And that’s love –
that’s the canary –
it is the final step in the story:
salvation.
When I retire to my bed, the lights remain on.
Every night, I look up at the moon, thinking about how it seems like a small pool into which I may fall. I recall school trips and slices of chilled meats, as well as money returns and new lingo.
I meticulously prepare 500 meals in advance, seeking preparedness and freshness in my life.i long for new shoes, ones that can withstand wetness and leave a lasting impression.
I hope to have a curriculum vitae that garners plaudits and a salary that equates to thunderstorms.
I’d like to believe that some folks enjoy lives as grand as palaces, where bills are paid on time and bird sightings bring them delight.
During my spare time, I accumulate coupons and keep them in my wallet, only to forget to redeem them, a constant cause of anxiety that gnaws at me day after day.
I can feel my heart vibrating within me when I close my eyes.
All the days of my childhood,
Mama spoke three languages,
Effectively switching from
Tongue to tongue,
Reflecting mood,
Responding to situation.
Public, private, perverse Mama
Obscuring conversations,
Shutting out nosy neighbors and
Strangers on the train
With smooth, sinuous Spanish.
And then the real private Mama,
The one living in a four-room rowhouse
Surrounded by difficult husband and
Raising even more difficult children,
Insisting on English,
Teaching us to fit in.
Most fluent of all, though,
The language of silence.
Tightening lips,
Expressive brows lifting in peaks or
Crashing into valleys,
Dark eyes twinkling, narrowing,
Changing inexplicably, yet unmistakably.
Spanish, English, Silence.
Languages for the seasons of her life,
Communicating far more by
Her choices than words could
Ever say.