Some days

The hardest part

Is just showing up

Rolling out of bed

And starting

Forging ahead

When the eyes want to fall back

To sleep

The body asks for rests

Preparations must be made


Of laying

In bed



Back and Forth

Leaving the city

Back and forth

Working for our dream

Letting go of what is in between

The city grew us up

In much-needed ways

Now we feel that

We must get away

Steep rent and subtle

Increase in food

All that is need for it

To come undone

What if we held on

But held back

From our dreams

Giving up for the city things

The One Spot

The one spot

A table in reservation

Not one close to the door

Where the wind blows

One on the other side

Where it’s warm all day

That’s the spot coveted

In New York City

Away from the door

On a cold winters day

Walk into the cafe

And hope

For a nice spot

A Good Day

Do you think it will be a good one

The man leans in

To his friend

Hoping for a positive message back

That will be sent

On a cold day in New York City

What makes a good day

What makes a bad day

On the streets of Manhattan

Looking up at the tall buildings

While the people keep passing

I think it will be a good one

With sunshine and charity

Let’s hope for a good one


A Head Start

I didn’t want to get going

It was a humid morning in house

Frigid out

The clatter of opening stores

With freight trucks whipping by

The cold has a different feel before

The sun

It settles a little deeper

As the day opens up

The world does as well

I have seen in my own eyes

These early New York City mornings

When all feels off

Yet it is perfectly right


Head Down

Hopes and dreams

Pretty distant things

As in one moment

Creeps away

With speedy wings

How should I proceed

When the headlines


All is headed down

Across the world

A giant frown

I guess I will just

Keep a brisk pace

And keep my own head down

The Other Guy

Not a football type

Not a sportsman

Or a marksman

Not a fleet-footed runner

Not a Hercules


But not to much

I’m the other guy

A craftsman of words

Tied up in outlandish hopes

Of artistic fancies

Guess I would rather be

Walking than dancing