Elegy of the River and the Sea

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

In grief, our tears taste different,

our ways of mourning unique.

You weep; I compose elegies.

My brother, high on marijuana,

the island battered by hurricane Beryl.

As the sea crashes upon the land,

seaweed lashes out like demons.

Are we prepared for this?

To whom it may concern,

do not call me early in the morning.

I am not yet awake for words.

Give me time to sip my coffee,

to savor the warmth of intimacy.

Let me read “Good Morning, Sunshine.”

For life and death are one,

like the river and the sea.

My daily poem whispers:

"Leave me alone in the morning

with my thoughts."

My mother outlived my father.

I aspire to outlive the sparrows.

In God, I entrust my life.

Lillian’s Echo

In the dayroom’s dim embrace, Lillian sat—a survivor etched in time. The air clung to stories, whispered secrets, and the lingering scent of suffering. She, the one-character legend, spun her tales—prose blabber, raw and unfiltered.

Born into the system’s cold arms, Lillian emerged as an adult onto Brooklyn’s unforgiving streets. There, she tasted the bitter brew of inhumanity—the kind that seeps into bones, leaving scars unseen.

Abortions etched memories on her soul. Each child, born or unborn, imprinted on her heart. Tears flowed freely among the day roomers, their lives force-fed with drugs until the final breath. Neglect and abuse danced in shadows, haunting their fragile existence.

Lillian’s own children—thirteen souls conceived in the crucible of ****. Some lost to the system, others to her desperate choices. Abortion, a relentless companion, etched its refrain: “You will never forget.”

Ms. Smaldone, wise and weathered, shared her truth. Money, she warned, was no legacy for offspring. Instead, travel—imbibe life’s nectar before the curtain falls. Merril Lynch riches crumbled when sickness struck, and family greed devoured her nest egg.

Lillian listened, her eyes reflecting pain. She vowed to seize life’s moments, to honor the lost and the forsaken. Four west day roomers, souls adrift, yearned for salvation. May they rest in peace, their echoes woven into Lillian’s prose.

Echoes of Solitude

An old man, unpopular and weathered,
Sketches cartoon characters of his childhood tormentors.
Their names, like bitter echoes, resound in his memories.
“Those *******!” he mutters, lips trembling.

He refrains from tears, fearing their taste—
A blend of loose cells from his mother and father.
Weeks pass, and Eugene, his friend, remains absent.
Hospitalized, perhaps, for an unknown pain.

The dayroom chats, oh, how he misses them!
Eugene’s face would light up when they spoke
Of Aunt Harriet’s cookies and Uncle Jack’s fishing trips.
Just the two of them, sharing moments by the lake.

But his parents? Ah, they were different.
His father’s advice: “******* to ease the pressure.”
His mother’s counsel: “Run from the bullies.”
And the therapist? “You’ll amount to nothing,” they said.

He harbored resentment, wishing he’d never been born.
Shunned, scorned—a life marked by isolation.
Yet poetry became his refuge, a soft spot in his heart.
I gifted him my favorite pen, urging him to write.

Empathy, my duty, compels me to tell stories—
To amplify voices silenced by circumstance.
For in the ink-stained verses, we find solace.
Dark n Beautiful, your words resonate.

Written by Dark n Beautiful. 🖋️

“Embrace and Release”

In the quiet of night, I pondered—
the art of severing ties, like pruning a tree.
The weakest links, once tightly bound,
now set free, like a maiden’s unclasped bra.

2024 dawns, a canvas for transformation.
Covid’s grip loosens, and clarity emerges.
Meltdowns yield to focus, tears to savings.
My *** life, like New York’s winter, chills.

Raw verses spill forth, unfiltered and true.
Yet my smile softens toward strangers,
and I find myself liking humanity anew.
Trust remains distant, a horizon to reach.

Biblical tales echo vulnerability—
the weaker devoured by the strong.
Have I surrendered my worth for fleeting moments?
No tears stain my words; they remain silent.

As I gaze upward, pondering thoughts,
my brain’s triad—forebrain, midbrain, hindbrain—
collaborates, yet sometimes drifts apart.
Do I know myself anymore? Today, I listen.

Goodbye, old lover; hello, new friends.
Life’s tides carry me forward,
and I embrace the journey, raw and unafraid.
May vulnerability be my strength, not my undoing.

In the quiet of night, I write—
my thoughts like petals unfurling,
each line a delicate bloom,
a testament to my soul’s yearning.

The Internet Night Stalker,
a phantom of pixels and prose,
called me a “dessert rose,”
a succulent, low-maintenance pose.

But my poems reach beyond,
touching lands unseen,
thousands of eyes reading,
their hearts echoing my theme.

*** and disgust intertwine,
a dance of desire and disdain,
while politicians chase power,
leaving happiness in their wake, a stain.

And so I set my words free,
like a wild ***** swimming the sea,
for what this world needs now,
is love, sweet love, unchained and free.

On a chilly December day in Manhattan, I had just finished a job interview. Despite my frustration from two years of job searching, I thanked the almighty for another day. As I walked down 54th Street, I noticed a long queue stretching from here to Halifax. Curiosity got the better of me, and I joined the line without knowing what awaited me.

A white lady with a clipboard emerged from the building, escorting a few people at a time. When it was my turn, she scrutinized me from head to toe and instructed me to follow her. In a room, she handed out a test sheet, giving us only twenty minutes to complete it. The sheet contained around 40 questions, including math problems and vocabulary sentences. I finished it in less than 20 minutes, wondering what would come next.

After waiting again, she returned and said, “We’re hiring for Macy’s department stores across the city. What hours can you work, Miss Lander?” I hesitated and replied, “Morning shifts.” She assured me that I had aced the test and then dropped the bombshell: “You’ll be better off in the shoe department—not clothing or beauty, but shoes.”

With a forced smile, I thanked her. Who knew that a cold day and a mysterious queue would lead me to the shoe department at Macy’s? Life has its surprises, doesn’t it? 😄

Running Alone

Within a crowded world, I lived my life alone.
Some dreams were fulfilled in unexpected ways.
Often, I believed I’d found my true calling,
yet reality unfolded differently.

I existed in the sheltered confines of my truth—
the road, the pain, the silent games of survival
in a sometimes hateful America.
Disappointment etched on faces,
three years to secure a decent job,
odds and ends to make ends meet.

I recall an agency assignment:
a two-year-old toddler without ears.
Her white parents, handed a challenge,
failed to change their ways.
When lunchtime arrived, they said,
“Step outside to eat; we’re Jewish.”
I listened, smiled, and walked away,
never to return.

Racism, pain, and low expectations—
I vowed that no white person would feel
what I felt that day. I quit the agency,
guided by my grandfather’s wisdom.
Sanity demanded distance from those
who’d deny my humanity.

And so, I moved forward,
my black hands never again touching
that white baby.
For I had lived my life alone,
seen it, and flushed it from my mind.

In this world of bigots,
I stood firm, resilient, and unyielding.
A bigot, intolerant of differing beliefs,
could not break my spirit.