Below are some examples of my poetry. Some of my non-fiction can be found in the column I wrote, Voice of the Children, for Tipping Points Magazine.
One Blue Sock
Somehow at sometime,
One blue sock
Ended up at his mother's,
One blue sock
Ended up here.
Neither she nor I
Willing to converse
For the trade.
Now he walks around
With mismatched feet.
Trauma Leads to Trauma
Trauma leads to trauma,
How to make it stop?
Hide away from momma,
Run away from pop.
An enduring case,
Of a blow for a blow.
A generational pace,
Passed along with a woe.
A slap on the face,
Is all you'll need to know.
Because discipline leads,
To lessons learned.
And indulgence breeds,
If not dutifully earned.
And nothing heeds,
More than furies burned.
And passes another year,
Living only to survive.
But not pity of my fear,
Or my depression dive.
For patterns of the tear,
I will pass on and revive.
So my children will say:
Hide away from momma,
Run away from pop.
Trauma leads to trauma,
How to make it stop?
The Great Surfer
I fill my pockets
with dragons,
that live between the pebbles
and petals I left there.
They fly out of my pockets
whenever I smile
or the sun shines
and when it is cloudy too.
I have more confidence,
I have more potential
than any lawyer or doctor
I build things grander
than all the carpenters of the world.
I sing into microphones
made from balls of string.
And the world listens.
I can count up to fifteen or so,
and I'm only three and three quarters.
But my mind sees to infinity.
I jump fearlessly off cliffs,
onto the rocky pillows of my bed below.
I organize the animals of the forest,
for feasts I prepare,
of strawberry shortcake on blocks.
I cut my own hair without a mirror.
I am strong.
I am strong enough to openly cry,
when I am upset.
And to seek the arms I know support me,
when I am in need.
And when I am at the beach,
I see the surfers who adore me.
For I am the Great Surfer;
I named myself.
Among the waves I meditate my next move.
The Ballad Of Admiral's Row
The softer I speak,
The gentler they grow,
I kiss a young cheek,
Fervent minds I do sow.
Rotating week to week,
Life lived to and fro,
Past buildings that creak,
To their mother's we go.
Rituals we seek,
So Time we might know,
But wrecking balls wreak
Ancient structures to woe.
A building a week,
Downed blow by a blow,
The future is bleak
For Admiral's Row.
--
Developer's force
Fate in a fumble,
Upon our wheeled horse
Down Flushing we rumble.
We change daily course
Past buildings that crumble,
Hold high our remorse
By specters who mumble.
The weather turns coarse,
Past Navy Yard's jumble
Youth born from divorce
Singular man's humble.
--
“Lay us to our rest,”
Whispered in despair,
The rotted walls suggest,
For there are ghosts in the air.
In working man's vest,
“Advancement,” declare,
My children watched best
As long they could stare.
As we all had guessed,
Bulldozer did tear
Modernity's quest
With massacre's flare.
The Admiral's nest,
Built with mariner care,
The laborer's messed
Funeral trumpets did blare.
No bills to post lest,
The construction walls bear
The onlooker's protest
Simply scribbled, “Unfair!”
--
The wind turns to gust,
The light starts to fade,
As we cycle past
The West Indian Parade.
Plumb Beaches at dusk,
Last sand dunes are bade,
Ship anchors do rust,
Tidal farewells be made.
High hopes they are thrust,
To scales to be weighed,
As dreams turn to dust
And summertime's laid.
--
The harvest collected,
Windows now boarded
Our time is reflected
On bounties all hoarded.
The hearth is subjected
To things that war did
Foundations neglected,
And youth's faith contorted.
No scaffolds inspected
No lovers were courted
But families infected
They're rifted, not sorted.
--
Though pass did the week
And blast went the blow,
Though the future is bleak
Back on Admiral's Row.
Beside an old creek
Does a seed grow,
To bind up the meek
From vines that heal woe
Has a secret to speak,
“Youth hear me, lo!
I heal all the weak,
So, shed your sorrow.”
“From mountain top peak,
To sound of the crow,
If Truth that you seek,
Bide me and know.”
--
And from that one seed,
Born from Mother's womb,
There came a good deed,
A hope singing tune.
No longer with greed,
Souls rest in their tomb
So stated the creed,
On a harvest moon.
The children are freed
Now they may croon
The Admiral's feed
Restored I'll be soon.
