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