NYC Poetry

Tudor Spring

Magnolia wafts over the way from the South Park’s two trees, only one of which has blossomed.

A little fat fly buzzes past my ear,

The sycamore trees are green with afternoon –

Spring is here, for a short while to stay;

Yes, summer is coming all too soon.

Sparrows spring to perch by one another as the branches beneath them bounce –

They hop higher to the top of the tree, a burst of new life they announce.

I spy a chickadee among them on the uppermost branch –

He flutters away and leads all but one, who rests for a little while longer,

The fresh budding boughs his shroud.

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Good Versus Right

I feel that my skin is being pulled every which way

As I tiptoe with a cradled matter around people I live with.

I pray that the different wisdoms in my life

Don’t collide, divide and leave me severed from head to toe.

That’s how Saint Corona perished, torn between two palms –

Red bursting forth instantaneous, a horrendously awe-worthy aerial display

Between two equally springy trees; she was not unevenly split.

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The mirror shudders as violently

As that cardinal flings itself at our window;

Within, a stranger soul shrieks silently –

Which am I, Cain or Abel?

I cannot tell whether my feet touch the ground

Or if they fall right through;

I cannot process any or all sound;

I cannot tell what’s true.

Rosy whites of puddles for eyes –

Tender, inflamed, and oozing ego –

I grope to choke the murmuring mantra of lies;

But with what’s tangible

It’s been emulsified.

Holographic gazes glare through my skull –

I couldn’t feel worse naked;

To this body it’s not knowing who it is

That makes it entirely humiliated.

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Kiku Sushi / 聞く

Kiku Sushi –

Where friends run;

Stomachs, souls, and cellphones charged,

All for the price of one.

The window happened to go both ways;

The world and restaurant on the tiredest of days,

Of weeks, months, years –

(Let’s be honest), of decades.

The memories that we made

Might’ve been tinted, clouded, greyed;

Sincerely, I hope the afternoon sunlight shed

Didn’t make your night grow darker or more decayed.

Sleep tight, my friend, then I shall.



Flowering pea vines

Entwining their trellis,

Clinging for dear life –

I stand nearby on steps of brick,

Unaware of future strife.

Holding a wooden cooking spoon all covered in brownie batter,

My eyes linger elsewhere;

My gaze transfixed;

The brownie batter


Sapphire is out today,

Out in her great green pasture;

She plods along grazing

But in my mind, she with her grey dappled flanks

Rising, gallops far away,

Considerably faster.

Sapphire rolling beneath a cobalt sky

Frosted with an English breeze

Will forever and throughout my life

Bring me to my knees.



Is this the very same sandpit?

Drowning out the light of the moon,

The Jumbotrons swim along the street,

Coughing perpetually, spitting battery acid

On the man who may as well be invisible.

Invisible to who? And what may he do?

From the streets the answer may sound –

Encouraging or in utmost despair,

Damage the fold of your fluffy coat.

While the blocks revolve round puzzles of irony to solve,

Plagues and problems and muddled things

Reside in ever-deepening, evaporating puddles,

Gasping for the mercy of fresh rain.


Second Story Scuffle

Scurrying, squeaking, scuffing the floor;

Our mice have never been this rambunctious before!

What is their dispute? What can be the cause?

Why do they maul one another with their sweet little paws?

At what moment will they reach peace?

Is it when their squeaks do finally cease?

Or will there be much left undisputed

In the land of meece?



Hotel awnings,

Warm me up!

Radiate heat

From my scalp to my feet.

Your nose it stings;

My face frozen stiff;

Giving a whole ‘nother meaning

To “stiff upper lip.”

Stop underneath the shining lights,

Raise my face and smile;

Thank you New York,

Both for your cold places

And the ones that relieve for a while.



A couple of numbers stick with me:

86, 343 –

Don’t know why these numbers I always see,

But the latter is 7 to the power of 3.

I am not seeking divination;

No number can ever provide salvation;

It’s just a simple observation

Of pattern, as well as multiplication.


Who Will Blaze the Frosty Trail?

What do I do with myself?

It isn’t easy to say –

I’ve lived only a little while;

None of my hairs are grey.

I haven’t seen many loved ones pass,

Nor has there been one gone before me

To trail blaze the wilderness ahead,

Clear footprints graciously forming.

Good King Wenceslas had a good page

Who tread in his footsteps boldly

It seems my King has left His footsteps too,

But it feels I am looked upon coldly –

While I was busy

Not knowing what I knew,

Gusts of thick snow

Swiftly over the footprints blew.