Sycamore floaters fill the park
and shadows grow long on the hill
as the sun sets on my peaceful oasis.
Dogs are being walked and chickens
are being watered.
The tweekers are on their
rigged up, gas powered bicycles, zipping through
the streets like squirrels in the ancient oak
tree guarding my corner of the block.
Everywhere I look I see fifteen million
emerald leaves shining back the truth to me.

She wore a silk yellow chiffon Cancan flare dress
With yellow ribbons in her hair
From the look of her brittle fingernails
And the way she held the hem of her mother’s skirt
I knew that she was a nervous one; with her watery eyes
Her mother kept up that old familiar fake smile
The nervous one keep repeating
“There a big fly under my dress;

I often wonder why the visitors
Never attends our churches
But would come calling on the neighbors in the afternoon

A stack of leaflets in one hand and a black sachet case in the other
I always thought of them as a demanding group of worshipers
My grandparents seem discontent
With their teaching; so to ease the charade
It came off like  Bible bashing

My nana would offer them a glass of lemonade
While my grandfather debate the lectures
They call themselves Jehovah Witness
"Hogwash  said Grandpa"

A Jehovah's Witness must walk the walk,
not just talk the talk.

I knew that it was always there, only about a block away
The Ocean
I could see the Single Ferry sailing with piles of wooden boxes
my colleague whisper to me
“Those are cadavers inside those crates: heading toward
Hart Island Potter’s field project
to the unknown graves.

The seagulls and the wild birds enjoy the ***** sandy
While taking in the early sunshine here in Coney Island

I remember a long time ago, when I had the sea fever
I would walk bare feet in the sand, and tossed small pebbles in the ocean
Rex my dog, would chase the seagulls and wild birds away
As he enjoy his morning walk with me

The cool breeze would massages my face and the hot sun
Would quickly dry up the salty vapors,
which made my soul rejoice each time we took that stroll
along the white sandy beaches on the Island of Bim

Seeing with the eyes of a poet’s is a gift
my thoughts, and  my unusual language,
The world sees  us poet and author as liabilities
A true emotional poet has a way of making you believe that the
“Sky is falling,
so he or she may suggests that you prop  up sky with the clouds
What’s in a word, besides noun and verbs and adjectives?
A poet’s heart, and they emotional torrent
So once again the sky is falling
While the rain turn to sleet ice pellets
A poet ways of seeing the beauty of it all
Through her work