I push the button,
3
2
1
The jaws of the train clunk as its mouth opens,
the 9am crowd surging through its hollow body,
eying up the row of sickly plastic benches.
The wheels tighten, I loosen my tie,
off to the office, I sigh,
as I pull out today’s ‘New York Times’.

My eyes drift towards the woman across from me.
A fragrance of citrus and strawberry drifts off her shoulder
as she plumps her pout in the screen of her smartphone.
A bead of sweat poised on her collarbone
glitters like the diamantes on her nails.

We slow,
screeching against the rusted tracks
before the machine-lady hybrid speaks:
‘East-
a split second pause
-Sixty Seven Street’.
No one gets off, so we simply sit
beneath the sizzle of electric bulbs,
their garish light numbed by ***** glass
that cradles the bodies of last week’s flies.

Like an aged rattlesnake, the train creaks and hisses through the tunnel.
I’m attacked by a river of thick black hair
belonging to an olive-skinned woman who yaps into her cellphone:
‘no, no, quiero ver Times Square!’
I close my eyes and listen as her tongue rolls and dives
taking a bite of my bagel from Starbucks.

‘East-
anticipation
-Seventy Two Street’.
Although preoccupied with different thoughts,
expressions
destinations
the bodies on the carriage drift and sway with the motion of the train,
as it stops
and starts once more.

Two children in uniforms twirl around the carriage,
their laughter more electric
than the current that bristles below our feet.
A man
tickled by the dreadlock that sweeps over his face,
looks on with jeans so baggy
his legs melt into the seat.
The Jamaican flag blares from his t-shirt.

Next to him, a man bakes in a moth-eaten waistcoat
clutching a wallet with quivering fingers.
I follow his gaze to a picture of a woman
black and white with coffee stained edges.
His wrinkles deepen as he smiles at his
wife?
alive?
I notice glittery pools of the past forming in his eyes,
perhaps not.

‘East-
my stop
-Seventy Nine Street’.
As I glance down at the platform’s monotonous shades of concrete,
and brush the dust from my grey tweed suit,
I think to myself
how colourful Upper-East Side is.
I shall never stop travelling on the 9am subway to Seventh Avenue.
Without it,
how boring my life would be.
Without it,
I wouldn’t be me.

A parrot, clothed in a robe of red,
sits and stares and admires the view;
A canvas of blue, untainted by cloud,
illuminated by life below.
A slight breeze bends the droplet shaped leaves
to stick out their noses and praise the sky,
some point fingers towards the parrot,
preoccupied with the scene.
Slender green snakes engulf the plants,
that take their slumber on the jungle bed,
while pointed leaves,
stiff and straight,
stand like cardboard props.
A monkey perches under a fruit crowned bush,
it’s brother watching in scorn.
Tempted like Eve, he plucks an orange from the tree
and cradles its belly, swollen and ripe.
Below,
a leafy cage swallows those who disobey,
observed by the guard in his uniform of blue.
Above, pink flowers
held up by tangled arms,
soak up the last of the dying flames,
as the sun is extinguished by the canopy.
Tropical torches flicker blue and white
playing hide and seek within dense undergrowth,
while the parrot still sits and admires the view,
amongst changing shades of green.

Where are the children today?
They were playing in the fields just yesterday.
‘Where are they now?’ you say,
it seems they have gone somewhere else to play.

A deafening silence fills the air,
the soundtrack to a parent’s nightmare.
Maybe this is just a dream,
you didn’t even hear them scream.

The wind wails, pushing the swing,
maybe it’s trying to tell you something.
No little ones can be seen today
as the sky turns grey from the smell of decay.

Could it be everything you ever feared?
Perhaps they have just disappeared.
Maybe they’ll return for a story before bed
or maybe their clothes are stained with red.

The sun is rising but the birds don’t sing,
the absence of children is a peculiar thing.
So, where are the children today?
Maybe they have gone somewhere else to stay.

You hear about me,
you wait for me,
you prepare for me below,
while I sit silently and brew in the heavens above.
Innocently I start as scattered clouds smudged across the sky,
as I calmly exhale over the land.
But with each breath I fill up with frustration.
Frustration turns to anger,
anger becomes rage,
and before you know it a tantrum is born.
I batter,
I consume,
I cough out my rage.
I strip your trees bare and scream at your cat,
howling with laughter at the mess I have made.
I charge through the streets
stealing life to strengthen my own.
Tears are washed away with salted rain
you think your pain
will make me stop?
Bodies of trees lie across the roads,
hollow shells of used-to-be homes
poke their heads from the water,
scared to see the damage I have caused.
Exhaling once more I return to the sky
where I will sit and sulk
but never die.

He has a bench in Central Park,
a step on Seventh Avenue,
a corner on Broadway.
But home is a feeling rather than a location,
something those who have a lock and key and
a mortgage fee will never understand.
The gatekeepers tell him
‘That bench is for people to sit on’,
so he grabs his sleeping bag with beat up weathered hands,
and leaves the park,
realising ‘people’ is another category in which he does not belong.
Autumn is here
so winter is near.
A chance to rush to snowy mountains with Chanel scarves
to escape ‘dreary’ lives.
He takes his vacation
from park to doorway,
views aren’t as nice but it dulls the bite.
As night drapes over Manhattan, he zig zags between expressionless crowds,
invisible
like an unread word.
He seeks a corner just off Broadway (the bright lights numb his loneliness).
In soiled clothes and old scuffed shoes,
he sits on newspaper wrinkled by other hands
and watches passers-by with bloodshot eyes,
bills burning in their pockets.
A man with shoes shinier than dreams
soils his corner with a *** of spit.
He wonders,
do I belong everywhere, or nowhere at all?
And he pulls out his guitar and begins to sing,
October cough thick with illness,
‘They say
the neon lights are always bright
on Broadway’.

Two worlds meet as crystal waters dance to shore, tickling powdered sand with fingers of foam. The sound evokes calming sensations, perhaps revelations, before falling silent as the wave retreats. A sailing boat strokes the surface, whistling with the wind as it carves patterns, unaware of what lies beneath. Even the sun looks on in awe, as its rays gently caress the quilt of blue, congratulating its infinity. The land above, so blissfully unaware, sits and inhales salt stained air.

Beneath the clouded sky of blue, lies the ocean’s treasure chest, a beauty born of rock and sand. It offers a glimpse into its world, for the inquisitive, stuck on land. Fish of every sort dash amongst confused hues of greens and blues, gulping salt water as if it were scarce. Angelfish dart around like horizontal fireworks, while seahorses surf the foamy riptide. The sun’s rays explore the thick meadows of seagrass, that sway in slow motion to the breeze of the current. Coral castles cemented in the sand curiously poke their turrets out of the water, causing waves to trip and fall and spill their froth. This is the ocean’s natural aquarium, yet mankind still invade the shallows with camera lenses and alert senses, attempting to prove they can figure it out.  

The sea becomes weary, tired of showing off. With its final yawn, it exhales out one last chunk of rock before it falls into a deep, cold slumber. The fresh palette of turquoise has faded into shades of murky blue as the ocean’s belly is revealed. The sun, now desperately trying to reach its rays towards darkened depths, is now just a golden haze, unable to offer any warmth. On one side stands a wall of coral, tarnished with colour, hypnotising life so it does not stray. The other offers an unconscious abyss, frightening to the wary, tempting to the brave.

The deep proves uncharitable to navigation, yet it’s muffled moans still encourage exploration. Faint whispers echo and fade, carried by indecisive currents. Now too deep for the day’s light to intrude, creatures below must brighten their own paths; fish with fangs carry glowing white pearls from their heads, while faceless ***** drag strings of electricity from their pulsing pink bodies. A lone whale glides by in her watery flight, her haunting lullaby becoming lost in the great Somewhere, accompanying the secrets that stay sealed beneath the blue.

Manhattan bathes in lilac-stained dawn,
patiently waiting for a new day to form.
Skyscrapers tickled by the flicker of confused lights
on
or
off?
Night
or
day?
they wonder
whilst light meets dark,
nodding heads
as they pass each other by.
Taxis creep around corners,
collecting the last of the night raiders,
breath sour and eyes wine-weakened,
allergic to morning light.
Cars groan and begin to carve today’s trails
exhaust pipes snoring
as they huff out polluted clouds into smokeless sky.
The 6.a.m. sun crowns The Empire State Building,
and glazes a million windows like honey-roasted ham.
Chrysler squints,
May’s rays bounce off her bronze-blushed walls.
Sleepless wanderers now sleepy crowds,
wine bottles now coffee cups.
Pigeons flutter between dragging feet,
pecking pavements,
catching the odd petal from the honey-blossoms
that stand like angels amongst grey steel.
A sea of suits cluster at the crossing,
people politely covering yawns
as they wait for the green man to give them instruction,
unsure whether the button has even been pushed.

The occupant sips wine,
*** burning fingers,
her only company
are the cockroaches
that sanctuary in the wallpaper
which peels like sunburn.
Faded linoleum floor
ceiling drips
mirror cracked
blank face staring back.
She sits alone,
grown children flown
like her husband.
Stereo whines from her night stand
‘I have a prince who is waiting
and a kingdom downtown’,
as she gazes through the window
(cracked with cold)
through weepy condensation,
hair knotted with stress
not long enough to let down
for the nobody who waits outside.
Clothes hang like ghosts
suspended from lines,
police cars shriek,
dogs without leashes rumage
through last nights meal.
She toasts to the moon,
lonely like her.
Unnoticed,
outshone
by blaring lights.
She pours another glass,
as the moon tucks in its trailing robe,
dreading the dawn that begins to break.

The buildings of Upper East Side swell with exhaust fumes
and the roads sweat foul-smelling tar,
while Central Park drips green and magenta,
as friends **** on strawberries
beneath the last of the summer sun.
Butterflies chase children,
children chase kites,
dodging marigolds
that suffocate between blades of grass.
Bird song and police siren compete for centre stage,
and clammy suited men seek shades of green on their lunch break
escaping their lives between midday and one.

In the sky
rafts of white cloud crafts the arrival of autumn,
the park drinks the last of September’s rays.
Maples blush as October lures in the park with a lullaby.
Once-glycerined green leaves
burned by a summer sun
form parachutes that glide
left  
        to
               right
and spill like coloured pencil shavings.
Warm currents retreat the advancing brisk amber sunsets,
submerging the park in an oily gold blur.
Clouds, swans, boats,
all float upwards
as Autumn peacefully carries Summer to its end.

High in the sky,
The sour rays scorch the drifting sand
which rubs raw against the lonely stretch of land.
It watches over this abandoned place
and listens to the splintering screams of the wind
which whirls the dust into the brown skies.
Lizards scuttle across the rocks that slowly cook
beneath the beams,
while snakes slide through the dry lakes
that shimmer and gleam in this hazy dream.
Time ticks.
The evening sun trudges across the sky
and the tall stones of sand extinguish the flames
until pale grey turns to deep blue.
Stars scatter the sky like tossed diamond dust
while the moon tiptoes up, like a thief stealing the warmth,
breathing and freezing the burnt rocks below.
The owl cracks the cold with its call
and the Desert is alight with a fresh glow,
until the sun returns to defrost the night once more.

My home is the axis.
I am everywhere at once
but still I am lost.
I can show you the world
but you will experience nothing.
Sometimes I worry that I will be forgotten
as I am simply a starting point
for greater things ahead.
I wish I could travel in another direction.
These circles are tiring.
I radiate knowledge from my plump ***-belly,
but inside,
I know far less than you.
I accommodate the whole world,
but my shell still fits in your hands.
I lodge the scorching swelter of the deserts,
but I only feel warmth between your palms.
I breathe the icy air of Antarctica,
but the only snow that bothers me
is the grey blanket that sits on my surfaces
when you are gone for a while.
My home is simply the axis.
I wander all the places  
but still I am no where to be found.

The ground beneath trembles in fear
as people realise the attack is near.
No time to pack they run towards land
fear in their eyes, a child in each hand.

The ocean drags back revealing the reef
while onlookers watch in disbelief.
A wall of white horses gallop ashore,
eager to destroy what was there before.

Screams drowned out by the roar of the beast,
charging ahead, hungry to feast.
The wave reaches out with a cold heavy hand
and snatches the palm trees from the sand.

This hand born by the stomach of the sea,
bulked by plates, coughed out, set free.
A bully of a giant fed with dread,
a tall curved spine and white froth on its head.

As the wave devours the town,
its once blue belly turns murky brown.
The further it travels the more it hunches,
snatching rooftops and throwing punches.

Where the wave passed through a carpet now lies,
lingering devastation and distant cries.
Amongst lost lives bodies are found,
homes destroyed, spirits drowned.

In Grandma’s garden,
the sun has swum to the middle of the sky,
and sits amongst smudges of white.
Relaxing, its breathes heat onto the grass,
which bathes until it is crisp.
A warm breeze caresses the treetops,
their leaves gently swaying to the rhythm of July.
As the evening draws in,
the sun floats down like a deflated balloon,
and the moon rises proudly to welcome the night,
where crickets begin to chirp and chatter,
under its pearly white light.
The pebbles on the deck start to cool
after cooking in the rays of the fourteen-hour day.
The rest of the garden is patient and still
as it waits for the sun to greet it again.

In Grandma’s garden,
the sun is running late to rise,
cautiously poking its head into cloud-stained skies.
The trees, desperate for their sap not to slow,
are set alight by rebellious leaves before they undress.
A shower of crisp brown parachutes fall,
a carpet of copper awaiting them all.
Night sends up her pale crescent moon,
breathing in the smell of decay.
It spills a chilly mist over the garden,
a spell to send nature fast asleep,
getting harder each day from which to wake.

In Grandma’s garden,
the sun has overslept.
The robin’s eight o’clock call drags it from its slumber
as it trudges through the thick cloud plastered above.
Skeletons of trees stand lonely,
no leaves to cover their timbered bones.
They reach up towards the faded sun,
hiding within sombre grey skies.
Droplets of dew dangle from the grass like crystal baubles,
and before you know it, the sun is yawning once more.
The night arrives,
its icy breath crisping the grass.
The wind whistles a sheet of frost onto the garden,
as nature is left to shiver and shake.

The sun rises curiously today,
welcomed by Grandma’s garden,
proudly clothed in a robe of green.
It no longer wakes in a lonely silence,
but is instead greeted by a chorus of new life.  
Bitter frost is replaced with a sweet dew,
and the soil is free to breath once more.
Drowsy flowers yawn as they come to attention,
their heads soaking up the sun’s new-born rays.
The old oak whistles to the wind’s new tune,
making the daffodils stand-up and swoon.
The sun kisses the clouds as it begins to pour,
tears of joy for Grandma’s garden,
alive and flourishing once more.