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Sidewalks Drunk With Salt

My tears are falling

in New York City, 

and the people walking

under it know so. 

They look up to the clouds

above their heads

and say,

“These are the tears

of one who once said,

‘This is home.’”

And the sidewalks drink

the trickles of salt,

never once erasing

my footprints

from the asphalt,

never once forgetting

my steps

that danced on it daily

without fail,

without halt. 

As they slide

down the windowpanes,

watering 

what remains

of my touch

in the towers, flowers, 

every passing hour,

in the smiles and laughter

of those who scour

for love

under the tearful shower. 

Sidewalks Drunk With Salt

August 30, 2021

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A Scent That Flavours the Air

It’s just a whisper now,

a scent that flavours the air

when it rains.

No more echoes,

just a distant sound;

an old phrase

that catches on

in passing.

I greet the Jasmines

in the morning,

light of heart,

rid of the heavy thorns

of roses;

no deep red petals

to drown my senses. 

I am free. 

Free to take the Lily

on its dare,

if it finds me. 

A Scent That Flavours the Air

July 5, 2021

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Sonnet VII

Never have the stars looked so pale and plain;

I haven’t half the heart to look up.

My heart will not sing the same notes again

As once it did from the mountain tops.

Love’s low sweet breeze does not come this way twice;

What fool am I to seek it in this place?

And in its place, the wind of love’s demise

Comes sweeping its confectionery ways

Off to distant lowlands and the seas,

Consumed by creatures big and terrible

And wash to shore to the roots of the trees;

Not in my hands are they ever to fall. 

   High and low, wherever fate doth brings me,

   I will not see love’s face, if it kills me. 

Sonnet VII

May 13, 2021

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Midnight

I dreamed a beautiful scene

tonight; 

cradling you in my arms, 

showering your face

with little kisses. 

You asked why I wept

and hushed me before I could

whisper my fear;

you said you’re here. 

And I felt myself break into pieces 

as I stood

to turn on the light,

and picked up the pen.

Midnight

April 5, 2021

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Sonnet VI

Then came the day I decided I would

Stop writing of drunken love and passions;

Then came the day I learned that I could

Trade the high of infatuation

For a union of the placid kind

Not the brief intense turbulent affair,

Not the addiction of the frantic mind

But a lasting connection that dares

Let go of such a chase life-derailing

And choose content in love’s sweet silence

Over that which burns in flames but passing

For there is better joy in its absence.

    So do I throw my foolish fancies away

    And set my heart to see that fateful day. 

Sonnet VI

March 23, 2021

I’m writing this as my sixth sonnet because I decided to scrap some of the earlier ones. I’m allowed to do that, right? Anyway, it’s my body of work so I guess I can.

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A Wrong-ness in the Waning Moon

There’s a wrong-ness in the air

that would neither settle

nor move along.

It brought vague questions

and cold sweats that tingle

my feet;

the sky is pale

and the dog is howling;

the wrong-ness,

artless and raw.

A waning moon showed. 

It is now dark out.

Fangs in the sky

start to dance,

gnawing at my gut. 

The hour on the clock

is wrong.

So was the color of my sweat

that I have just washed

down the drain. 

The only thing right

is the certainty 

that this wrongness exists.

But I must not come find

where it rests

for I have gone that way before. 

And the only end

I would meet

on that path

is more wrongness.

Yet it rattles my bones,

like they’re wind chimes

out in an approaching storm. 

A Wrong-ness in the Waning Moon

March 8, 2021

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Start the Coffee

Start the coffee,

Let the morning brew

As the carafe collects

Every hot drop

Of thought in your mind;

Shape it into a cup

Of comfort

That there is yet another day

To be slurped

While it’s warm. 

Taste the ground

From which the tree of its 

Beans came;

You decide

How to play the game. 

Draw the curtains;

There’s no longer a reason

To hide. 

Time moves

In your favor;

This is the hour

To take back the stolen years.

You’ve clocked out the darkness

In your sleep;

Wake up from the dream. 

The rays on your window

Say hello,

You’ve stepped out

Of the shadow

And into tomorrow. 

Wash your face of the stains

Of tears

And your mouth of the bitter taste

Of loss;

There is sweetness

To be found

In a fresh pot. 

Smell the steam of hope,

Let it boil away the failures

Of yesterday;

You will hear

The music of the roaring brew

As it extracts every truth

If you would just

Start the coffee. 

Start the Coffee

February 8, 2021

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Tell Me of Rainbows and Second Chances

Tell me again 

How there’ll be a thousand

More sunrises

For I forget what it’s like

To bathe in their rays. 

Remind of the colors 

Of rainbows

That I can no longer name

For I have lost their shape, their tinctures

In my mind;

How there’ll be another flame

In the heart that’s been extinguished,

How it will burst again

With fancies and butterflies

And warmth. 

Show me a preview

Of a story

Where lovers keep their promises

And vagrants find their way;

Where the broken-hearted

Feel another’s kiss,

Where the lonely find company. 

Tell me of a future

Where the fallen seize

A second chance. 

Read me the fortune

Of the ill-fated

In which their stars align. 

Tell me again

That the world is kind. 

Tell Me of Rainbows and Second Chances

January 11, 2021

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A Rendezvous in New York City

And one night I returned

to the long avenue

lit with nervous stars

and talking cardboards;

I walked down the puddle-less lane

for it was once again, summer

and it hasn’t rained…

yet. 

In the square, we were met

by the scintillating stares

of moving statues

and dancing towers.

And I walked like a tourist

to the nearby corner

for a slice of the old pie

sold by the dollar. 

In the morning, 

they were all gone

save for the splendour

of the shops

and the scent

of overpriced coffee

in the counter. 

And on 59th, I saw my friends

on their way to Chelsea.

We caught the blue train

that was late again

and back I went

to the street

numbered 53

to sit and ponder 

in my favorite library. 

Might this be the dream 

I take out

from my sleepy head

into reality?

To meet again my fantasy

of melting with

and among

the colorful people,

their flags, their histories;

in the sweltering,

boiling

fragrant pot

that is the magic

of New York City.

A Rendezvous in New York City

December 16, 2020

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Rose Valley

The valley is silent

Save for the shuffling

Of red roses, 

Gently kissed

By the sweet breeze

Of my child-like longing. 

And soft, soft, 

They whisper

Your careful words;

Closely, I listen.

They say from the hilltops,

Somewhere near the shuls, 

They hear you singing

Amidst the roar

Of the nearby falls. 

And somewhere, a note

From the mellow tunes,

Speaks of a name

You so oft used

To call me. 

In the hush

Of the approaching noon,

Their scent caresses 

My being.

I see them dancing

To my strides,

All abloom; their petals, 

Washed

With the pink-red

Of your lips’ touch. 

Rose Valley

October 8, 2020