Think of yourself
As wonderful

Place your dreams
In the middle
And grow
Day by day

Lower a bucket
Into a well spring of hope
And draw deeply
So that in your final hour
You will be ready to journey
Into new adventures
Free from regret

Some things
Mean everything

Like being loved
For who you are
By those you love

Hear ye!
Hear ye!
Oh how I love concrete poetry!
Itching to write and sculpt and mould.
Twiddle my thumbs as I thought to myself silently.
Reckon I'd render my musings in italics and in bold!

Hear ye!
Hear ye!
30 days of concrete, wouldn't you fancy?!
These poems, they come in various shapes.
Would you consider them "poetic eye candy"?
If I fashioned poems to look like grapes!

Hear ye!
Hear ye!
Awashed with excitement!
I can't wait to share!
Fantastical, delicious and ultimately succulent!
A wonderful spread of such wordy fare!

Hear ye!
Hear ye!*
When is this... GREAT BIG AFFAIR?
On the morrow, I'll dish out the first serving!
Do tune in if you so do care...
30 days of concrete! The shape fest is beginning!

my cousin liked to have breakfast
at an open air café, with his fiancée, on Fridays
the owner knew she loved French breads, having
been schooled at the Sorbonne  

the bakery made them at his behest    
he would tell his staff to keep one for her
and to bring a bag when served;
she always saved half for later  

rush hour was madder than usual  
that night, until the bombs blasted
and brought the synovial silence that comes
in the wake of wondering, what
has happened?    

the sirens screamed soon enough
and my cousin smelled the smoke  
cordite, yes, but burnt baklava,
Maamoul as well  

his fiancée came to him that night  
watched and waited to hear if anyone they knew  
was lost, their hands clasped tight, breaths shallow,
in the languid hush after the city slowed
to its mournful rest  

the sun rose, the skies clear, crisp, to their surprise,
and they went to the café, where the owner apologized
for the wicked, wicked world, and for not having baguettes
after the bakery died

Will you come with me?
One day, my dear, maybe next year.
Now come with me?
Dear, maybe next year.
Eli, come with me?
Right now, my dear?
Let's leave this moment, yes?
Ultimately we can't my dear.
Say why cant't we leave?
T**he time is just not right my dear.

I met him, a week short
of being a teen, his number one-three celebrated
on Labor Day that year

his father wanted him to understand
how the "A" word would impact his life
in a peopled world

I agreed, and soon
he explained tachyons, photons,
and other “on”s I can't recall, in my
twenty months as his "healer"

he needed no catcher in the rye
to keep him from falling off the cliff
for edges did not apply to him

not in his world of curved
space and time, quantum quarks, and
pleasing cosmic rhyme

when it came to the bend
in time when we were to say goodbye
he could not understand we would not
meet again, though he was leaving
city and state

for him, minutes, hours, days
were shapes and sounds I could not hear--no
I would never come near, seeing beyond
Newton's silly spheres

but he could escape
the gruesome grip of gravity
without blinking an eye

my final entry in his file,
was the "A" word he would need
fear: Adult, not Autistic

Not many will find absolute solace
beneath his truly marble stone
encased in
weather ridden
Chunks of ash
waiting for someone to pick it up and blow it into the wind

the stone shines when polished
and shines when thrown against the coral
it shatters what it contacts
and everyone blames the stone.

He stood during nights away from home
stood outside and petitioned strangers for a laugh
“I’m lonely” he says honestly
as they scurry past he sees pink
and sea foam blue
desiring to compress the color into statue.

Grief. sorrow. sadness. and pain
Living life with such disdain

You never looked even for my breath
Then you say you can't believe my death

Alright. It Doesn't matter anyway
Not like, I was ever getting away

Me. Yeah, The one in the back, I'm laying flat
Put a bullet through my head, sound of a gat

Why am I detained in a life I didn't chose, whose
idea was it, force me to live, I'm singing the blues,

Here's news, get off my back and let me swing, without,
a wing or anything stopping me from dying

Now you sing, the words that come from sorrow
As everyone like me sit on death's row

Get up and act, take it into your own hands
GO! Stand, take a hand even if it's not planned

Let my story be a lesson, pressin', into your mind
And make it a thing, do not allow anyone be blind

We can stop it, together, forever
Do not ever think otherwise, Never!