outside the ocean waves roared, and Jeanette heard their melody from her bedside.
the clock ticked a quarter to seven, but she’s was already late for work. water dripped off of Richard’s dresser. the bouquet of crimson roses fell over, but the vase wasn’t broken. “I’m leaving you,” was all he said as he packed his final bag.

the roar wasn’t the door slam, but the shatter of the glass frame on the nightstand. it  
was a photograph taken the first time she laid eyes on the horizon of the kite  beach. it wasn’t long after she remembered saying, “let’s just not go back,” a line she’d recite at her wedding reception.

she thought her dream of living in Cabarete with the love of her life left with the roar
of his plane. that was about sixteen years ago, but she’s still in love. her love was not the one she traveled to paradise with, but paradise itself.

You can only see the mountains,
from the fifth floor.
The post says, "no swimming,"
but the kids do it anyway.

He said she left a love at home,
"but I'll be back by the weekend."
We're all stuck years behind us,
and that seems to be the norm.

Snuggled close to the border,
but still in the home-state;
where the city is south of us,
so we go down, we go down.

"Hand over the glass,"
I wish someone said.
Weak stomach, broken heart,
sick for days alone.
If these nights are spent living,
I'd rather not live at all.

When the storm settles,
it's just the eye of the hurricane.

When you can't find happiness,
everyone else does.

solo piano and contemplation
songs in D minor to distract desolation
and turn it into poetry
bittersweet, solemn, raw emotion
encapsulated through rhetoric
into the sound waves, into the billows
a letter read aloud, a message in a bottle

with melancholy rigor,
and the finest of pledges to sentiment,
a vow to exhibition and art,
and commitment to fighting trespassers

but please, dear, don’t escape,
the woods of stability is for the wild
and those who are lifetime trained
so toast to passion, stay for the verse
delay the sojourn for the song and show
often rest is the answer to unsettling dreams

sip the grape vine, if you please,
but not forget the pen and paper by your bedside,
never neglect the manuscript,
not ever cease the creation

write away the man that left you,
destroy the character in your prose,
demolish the utopia he once yearned,
a poet’s fists are stronger than the fighter’s
for the writer’s battle continues beyond the ring

step out of the sorrow,
relay the violin’s lingering echo,
and one day the call outside will pause
for a tranquil summer day when you are not alone

the clock strikes 8:17
"the first book of the Old Testament?"
asks the professor

a temporary silence
until ten faint voices call out, "Genesis"
all off-beat in tempo

the professor scribbles on the board
as thunder roars from outside
"how fitting," he says

and if only everyone could understand
when I don't want to see the world
or the sunshine beating down on the floor

and if only everyone could feel
one another's pain, one another's gain
if we didn't see the heart transparently

I guess that wouldn't work
there's a reason for the things we are

thunder roaring in the sky,
what makes the gray clouds cry?
I think it's something in the air
but to be fair, I wouldn't dare
to blame it all on greed
as if every rose is a ****

The spring’s efflorescence,
the sunshine halcyon,
the withering rose fetching,
the ripple in the lake a talisman,
and the birdsong mellifluous,
is ephemeral,
yet quintessential.

Through wherewithal of it all,
we find ourselves pyrrhic,
because it passes like a scintilla,
but in our hearts, it’s eternal.

the pages are the frames
the words are the artwork
the publisher is the curator
the writer is the artist
the binding is the museum
the literature is the art

Who knew someone so strong,
could feel so weak?
How her thoughts scream so loud,
yet words soft when she speakers?

She’d only want the best,
she settles for much less.
What’s she to do when they’re all gone,
when there’s no one left to impress?

When her eyes water with tears,
she climbs under another girl’s arm.
Though she might hide from the world,
a penny’s fine as her lucky charm.

growing waves
from a glowing contraption

inhale the fruit
exhale the rings of desire

flow into me

from the fold
into the air

a cloud

the warmth of the innocent
a freeze of the sinner

a star

reach higher
let it pass

we are majestic
we are young
in a dimly lit hell

the sun is out
but it will set
to bring in the shadows
and the chaos that follows

Time is not a picture,
in the century of hell.

Can’t you write the fate,
if you know the crown?
Can’t you draw the kingdom,
if you know the son?

“Words, words, words,”
your face is melting.

He said write anything and everything
He said sing something new and something old
And he said go anywhere and everywhere,
any day and everyday

Because you're young
and free to live

There's something wrong
There's nothing right
I'm here to live
I'm here to fight
I'm here to love
I'm here to write

go to school
work hard
get a part-time job

graduate
get a better job
get a promotion

start a family
lose your job
loose benefits
starve
die

semantics
communication
of a playwright
of a speechwriter
of a poet
of a freelancer
of an author
of a journalist

to express
and to love

across the continent
just my disposable Kodak
and what's on my back

a bittersweet call
of Pomp and Circumstance
that echoes in the wind,
like a memory from a photograph.

soon the school band
will chant a Recessional song,
the brass ensemble roars
like an inspiring church choir.

today's hymn will become
tomorrow's nostalgia.
the teenage years filled with misery,
we will forget, in years.

but we'll remember the times
as if they were golden.

the stimulus inside
from the marvels around
filled with wanderlust
captured with my camera.

write, paint, sing
or play the violin
to create new lyrics
and a new melody.

the aerial inspiration
is everything I need.
others need a someone,
but I am my own muse.

whiskey breath,
cigar smoke.

thick rimmed glasses
over those green eyes.

an unlucky day
for a lucky fellow

Friday the 13th
was the date
my dad got struck by lighting

and lived.

behind the lens
is a solitary artist
with an adoration for style

won't accept money,
or an invitation for a drink,
only photographs

to capture the people
the society of New York
for the Sunday Times

one quaint apartment
with a single, loyal lover -
fashion

thoughts and lyrics
travel onto pages
by a poet, a writer,
author and a dreamer.

Manhattan, her home
in New England,
the land of ideas,
innovation and curio.

dream on, my muse,
for it turns to ambition.
live your visions.
write your contemplations.

Your thick rimmed glasses,
striped sweater, black peacoat,
and white SUV from '98.

It's been over a year,
and I thought I'd never want you back,
but now I see,
I can't find the perfect man,
because I can't have you.

I can't have your intellect,
or your dry humor,
in my life ever again.
Never.

The messages you don't answer.

The songs I will not play,
I cannot play,
that I would play.

we'll chase the highways,
and make the sunrise up for us,
on our way to Connecticut

foul grace,
play with tiny fortune.

goodbye sleep,
to picture the storm.

Bob Dylan's guitar strums lingering
shuffling through my bookcase
I discover old photographs,
I feel aren't quite that old

but they are, very much so
I cry,
my heart pleas
it must not have been this long,
but it has

and time will go,
the close never suspends,
I cry more,
until I realize
it is all in my mind,
time.

discussing and listening
"maybe next time, honey"

my rebuttal, I want to explain
that weeks turn to months
"no luck, no child of mine"

but instead, I reply
"it's okay, I'm not married anyway"

writing short stories and poetry,
painting the abstract out of nature,
composing in the key of F major,
listening to my favorite musicians,
drinking coffee when I first wake up,
switching to tea by the afternoon,
staying up for the late night hours,
reading all I can, when I can,
catching up on the news,
learning new things constantly,
practicing my instruments,
waiting for a man I can do it all with.

I’ve already shaped my life,
planned it as a single woman,
in my little Brooklyn apartment
with my Jersey degree.

But I’ll always want
an intellectual, creative, opinionated man
to come home to
to share my bed with
that knows how to dress, when to undress.

Every writer wants to write
But every writer is not everyone
We all want to be poetic,
and write about art and literature

But the critics will say
“You’re trying to hard”
and simply walk away

Little star
Are you Santa Clause?
Little star

He’s at the crime scene with the metro
Miami is his city of love
But his love is different,
different from what you’ll ever know

Blinded by drugless addiction
This is his code
This is how he behaves

He’ll find you in the night
No doubt he’ll catch you

Oh, he’s a mind reader
Stocking up on your latest news
He’s tonight’s headline
and no one has a clue
He’s a diamond in the rough
and a sparkle in my eye

Take me away to a place so far
Where north is south
Where left is right
Where I am you

In my bed,
I am falling into fantasy,
face down, plummeting
into my pillow.

I am dreaming to escape reality,
and escaping reality to dream
and contemplating,
brainstorming,
things I’ll forget by morning.

Writer, musician, painter,
singer, photographer, poet,
journalist. humanist, artist,
intellect, reader, advocate,

but somehow never enough
for the the uninvolved parents,
the relatives that only send cards,
the fair weather friends,
and the not-so-helpful critics,

but most importantly, you.

We are the fathers that couldn’t pay the rent,
the single mothers that can’t afford daycare,
the cancer patients that die instead of drown in debt,
the college drop-outs that couldn’t find loans,
the fry cooks that are overworked and underpaid,
the graduates that become homeless,
the musicians that want to be happy,
the daughters that sell themselves to eat,
the alcoholics that couldn’t find work,
the atheists that stopped believing,
the ex-husbands that were left for the CEO,
the minority that will never get a green card,
the sons that enlist to avoid the streets,
the homosexuals that can’t marry,
the intellectuals that know better.

We are the loves with broken hopes,
and the dreamers with no more faith.

We are the ninety-nine percent.

Walking in the city
Strolling down the streets
Marching to the beat
Of a different song

Upper West Side
I’m in Strawberry Fields
Singing Give Peace A Chance
In his own words,
In his own write
No instruments allowed
But I don’t care today
I don’t care

Somehow I’ve found a place where I’ve belong
Somehow I’ve found a life I see myself living
A life I can remember, a life with you

Downtown Wall Street
The crowd is chanting,
“We are the 99%,
and so are you!”

Well, so am I
So am I

Careful what you do, careful what you say
I’m living in a twisted reality
I can’t tell my dreams from life
And I don’t know what I’m worth

Beer cans in the bushes
Wildlife howls in the night
Not really why I’m here

Wednesday they’re tipsy,
Thursday they’re drunk,
Friday night they don’t know
Don’t know what you’ve been told
But by Saturday it’s already old

Frat parties, dorm rooms
Girls are drinking and boys are hoping
Hoping for a one night stand
I’m praying that I’m not the girl

Is it bad to want to be safe?
‘Cause it’s difficult to find a sober man
This isn’t the real world yet

There was a man,
and his name was Sunny
because he stared
at the sun
mindlessly.

The mountains aren’t calling my name
I hear the river is turning into wine
And this road will never end
Father, this world isn’t mine

Praise this ode to chaos,
Recite a prayer to fate
“Nothing can be done”
“Nothing can be done”

I’m a mortal and I’m a sinner
My heart is just about still
Kick off your boots, sit on your throne
Bury us in another landfill

Why won’t you come?
Give us something to believe
We’re patient and we’re waiting
But soon we’ll have to leave