New York City Seranade

 

My kind of town

 

That hot electric  s c e n t

Coming up from Penn

The hustling jumble along Broadway

Recomposing the city

In the viewfinder of my camera

Buying New York poets

In the Strand

 

Scouting for gargoyles and hearing

Five languages in the space of a block

In incomplete snippets

Of passion, frustration, and sad resignation

 

The genius crazies keeping it unreal

Water sellers on Brooklyn Bridge

“Ice cold fer a dollah”

The sublime chaos

The tragedian absurdities

The assholian arrogance

This is my city now

 

 

Try and take it from me.

 

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Words and images are my own.

 

©2017

Saving Grace

 

 

The hunter and the ring (of paler skin)

 

She played the game just right

Laughed out loud at all his jokes

No matter how stupid or

Off colour

Leaned in closer when he spoke

Her smile anticipating his next brilliant

Point

Telling him wordlessly

Just how fascinating he was

 

The hand resting on his thigh while she listened

Undividedly

Was perhaps belabouring things

Just a little

But the stakes were high

And there was no way

She was going home to that bastard tonight

 

He kept staring at her finger as he plied her with

Booze

That telltale band of paler skin where she’d

Slipped her chain (just for the night)

It made her a little queasy with shame

If she was honest with herself

But in the end

She let him take her back to his

And have her just

The same

 

The next day at the office

He told all the boys about the

Married cooch he’d bagged last night

Feeling proud and enviable

As if it were he

Who’d done the stalking.

 

 

 

©2017

Fits and Starts

 

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Threads 2

 

Every life is just the brightest thread

Those moments you choose to remember

Not truth

But a version

An acceptable delusion

You unpick the dark moments

In the winding narrative

And sew together a life you can live with

Holding on to only that which

You can bear to keep

 

The rest you sink

Into the murky depths

Only rarely acknowledged

Left mostly unexamined

The not quite memories

An unsettling dream where

You don’t even recognise yourself

 

That’s how you make it through the days

Holding tight to that golden thread

Closely stitched

Guided by a sharp needle

through a field of midnight blue.

 

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2017