Tag Archives: The New Yorker

Scribble of a Stranger

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Scribble of a stranger

No more similar than an unknown danger

Glistening on a November afternoon

The acoustics pronounced now

And fill the room

The wrong approach with the wrong tenor

On a Sunday evening I sent her

The notes of my love

Gentle free falling dove

Now in a moments reflection

Over the fence

Where the homeless used to live

A new breed of life rises up from the dark

Victorious in its wailings

Building new wings for sailing

The ingredients have baked to perfection

Or rather imperfection

While I uncover more hope than I realized

Through the eyes of a bird I now realize

Push on when the push is almost out

That is when it is needed most

Recall the Way Out

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If I could only recall the way out

The way in was much more difficult

But the easiest seems now whimsical

Overbearing

The thicket of bushes on the left

When we entered

The gargoyle on the right

We passed some rock walls as well

Or maybe not

But somehow

We ended up here

Lost and wandering

Altogether hopeless romantics

Stuck in a world of antics

Critics

Hopeful

Deadbeats

How did we end up here again

Should we start over

Not an option altogether

We had better hope the sun will rise in the east

Set in the west

That will be our best bet

To find our way out

Dairy Chief

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The Dairy Chief doesn’t need any changes

Not looking for the next big development

Milking the cows somehow is just a bit irrelevant

A steward of the land with no need for innovation

No tariffs needed

Not too much frustration

It is implicit what his intentions are

Waking in the early morning hours

Tending the field and his cows

Bold yet not to be undone somehow

In the hostile words

He could give one less cow lick

Waking in the morning to babies colic ways

The dairy farmer just keeps moving on

It’s the sweet farm song

 

The Streets of Pollution

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When the shift comes

When the good has come undone

Rung out of the feelings

Absurd little dealings

Of high dollar agreements

Gentrification and public ceilings

I have become the problem

No longer a solution

Another chimney

On the streets of pollution

My feelings have crackled

Dried up like timber

Burst into flames

Under the opposite

Season to winter

My hopes wither

From giant logs on a river

To little more than a small sliver

The exchanges of gold and silver

Have yielded a new type sinner

With higher debts

And higher fevers

To push up rents

And out the believers

So now maybe I am the problem

I am not quite sure how it shifted

From pushing keys

In the seat I am sitting

Now to the lords of rent

Coming down hard

In a city unfit for a family and yard

So I will move on

To new opportunities and games

For somewhere else I may be the solution

To help clean up

The new streets of pollution

The Possession of Fluent Success

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The unknown path of success

Teeters as much in my hands

As it does at rest

It balances not with my abilities

Talents or goodwill

It will find a line curved

Sloped sideways

And up a hill

The great challenge is to wait

Undisturbed

Knowing that I am

Unacquainted with the ways of success

It must pass from my hands

Through the eyes of onlookers

Into ears and slowly through hearts

Then it must make it way

Back out through the mouth

To adhere to other ears

Drumming to the sound of what is new success

These ears must then determine if my notes

Pass their discernment test

For which at this point

I have no possession of fluent success

It is now in the air we breathe

The sights we see

It is out there tucked away

Against the mess

Somehow

I can not define

What is success

A Night in Brooklyn

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“I will FUCKING KILL YOU”

The words bellow from the belly

Of the loosely dressed man

On Manhattan Ave

Across from Manhattan Inn

Enough vigor and resolute

To carry the words to my own

Windowsill

I crept to the window

The man seemed unwell

Ill

I couldn’t make it out the clear

Words strung about a 100 bill

–

“Why don’t you come over here”

“See who the real man is”

The street lights illuminate his

Contorted face

I pull back from the window screen

He glances in my direction

As he walks towards Manhattan Ave.

And Nassau intersection

–

I am fully engaged at this point

This rage within this man

Has the whole neighborhood up at

2 AM

–

Cars rumble past blurring

What was said

What was heard

I could only faintly here but a word

All this rage and anger

Over a C note

On that note I better get back to bed

–

Whatever he had said

It was life in the form of entertainment

I am not upset from the loss of sleep

Just tired

Whatever kept that man up

Had really shook him

On just another night

In Brooklyn