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Poetry

The Storm

No one scolds the beach when the waves are angry When they froth with rage and foam with fury When they gnash …

September 1st

Twisting, wringing, Plummeting to the earth With no parachute I’ll land on my feet (I always do, though my knees crumble from …

Sometimes I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing In a city As I pass a hidden forest And the smell The sweet, fecund …

Undertow

i can feel it rising the ocean of bilious emptiness sweeping away my peace i thought i’d built on rock it’s these …

By the Lake

beside water’s lap she bows her head alone with herself and her dreams suspended in an afternoon hazy summer sun sighing in …

Homelessness

A breath of family did I feel While hours passed within that meal. The glow of friendship, soft and deep, Into night’s …

Giddy shrieks drift through my window

On a musty river of moonlit air

Its damp nostalgia recalling

Capture the Flag at midnight

On the dew-drenched lawn

A charged haze of freedom

On a cloudy night of teenage summer

→ July 23, 2014

Eighth Avenue at midnight

is a murky sea of smoke and rouge,

on which the battered hulls and tattered sails of the impoverished

struggle to stay afloat,

the jagged rocks below the waves,

more stubborn than steadfast.

A grey cloud tries to rise higher in the mire of fatigue

and fails.

→ October 2, 2013