This pink pen & this pink poem, are born without being on mainland;

this piece's words, and now their home, still written in remorseless sand.

On beaches like these, markers are found; and  at Gibraltar's point it's somehow wound...

...up, so that these words of mine, carefully crafted, maycleverly shine:

May's final beams of copper light,
scintillate, their dancing,
till the water meets the night.

in the city for a few days,
the madness even intensified,
as the United Nations privileged,
dine, wine and pontificate their
global prejudices, and review their fav
expensed account, French restaurant's
contribution to global relations warming

so the inveterate veterans of this congestion+++,
take to sidewalks with gusto, for motorized
transport is suboptimal, and its hot 'n sticky,
humid and putrid as garbage collection gets
suspended....

which leads to my bonus source of inspiration,
walking among the pro's I hear, cannot help but
overhear, for din of shouting is de rigeur, snatches
of sidewalk intimacies. which cannot go unheard!

and must be taken as given

kid, kid you not, what you may overhear is
plots of lover revenge, deathbed confessions,
why she is sleepingwith her boyfriends brother,
(better lover) but the brother, the older, better jobber,
has the oolala
moola-la!

here, is where, I tell you, that ****** these tidbits
from their lips, and weave and spun for the fun,
into a tapestry Whitman worthy, he too walked the
broadways, the loading docks, admired the feathered
peacocks of Fifth Ave., turning it into great poetry

but a single line of dialogue rings loudest in my memory,
it was a silence that suspended the grime and rhyme of
all the surrounding noisy distractions, when she hears the
man, say matter of factly, the second opinion confirmed the
diagnosis, and yes, the cancer had spread, and options now,
very limited...

the woman. stumbles a step, and says nothing, but grasps
his upper arm, slow soft, bring ing up higher and higher,
till it almost impedes the man stride, and he looks upon her
face with kind eyes, and winces~grimaces~as sympathetic
as possible
a wispy smile, for he is acknowledging that she, will bear the
brunt, the in coming cold front, while he rides the storm, for
as long as itis permitted…

though the streets are crowded,
I believe I am the-only one, proximate
enough, to be the sole witness of said
tapestry's exchange, and I am, blooded,
chest concaving, my temples beat a throbbing
beating, and the swirl, of ebb and flow of
pedestrian's goings, separate me from them,
as they plunge ahead, but the've turn left, and all I see
as they dream away from-me, is the-arm, her arm,,
squeezing his, as if that lock, could somehow prevent
a storm, hurricane, tornado, the tidal wave that is
now engulfing them…and then the gone… and I am left
bereft, for there is no poetry to quote, must go un spoke,
and crawl to a vest pocket garden bench,
slumped
and stumped
this thing why me,
was I the one chosen for this knowing, and the
answer comes quick, this a warning reminder,
to find her, woman,
mine, and clutch her arm-too tight,
and utter words to her nonsensical,
but that comfort me, in an
inexplicable wordless way…

My mind is spinning in the river of thoughts
Swimming around
trying not to drown
Trying to survive
while everything else overflows
in just a second

Everything is calm
is what I say to myself and others
But behind the island are clouds of grey
And an angry sea
A sad sea
A place that does not know how to act

I liked the island
It is a safe space
One I imagined to be safe
But at a time the island cannot love and protect
If I don’t learn to take cover
I build the house
But it just breaks down because of the storm

I like the island
but the storm is more mine
More than the island will ever be

More than you will ever be

A river, my river, I am the river.
A river, water that goes with the flow.
A river, a calm flow most of the time.
A river, now in a time of life that overflows.

The calm river, gone
not coming back as it was
but as a new river it went somewhere.

An island, a calm place
a stopping point.
The rivers stopping point.
An island, a place to learn
a place to evolve and come back better than ever.
But even an island can’t stop a storm from happening,
emotions from escaping.

A storm, a disoriented place where everything is dark.
A storm, a cry
just a girl.

A person, a safe place until the storm happens.
Even beauty can’t safe the sea.
The sea can never be saved.
It can only safe herself
And after some time
come back anew
as a calm river.

It’s a cyclus, happening over and over again
until the island disappears.
Until it’s fully gone.
But an island never disappears.
it might not be an island anymore
but it’s still there with me every step of the way.
This time it follows the flow,
evolves along the way until I don’t need him any more.

And then I go my own way,
to find that island.
As a calm river, getting ready for the upcoming storm.
As a girl, preparing to hate my mind.
But its nature, its human.
It will happen many times all over again.
And thats alright.

is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity,  with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…

tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer

it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance  on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…


7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025

During Covid by Sherman Alexie


In large numbers, the wild
rabbits arrived in our

neighborhood and have
multiplied. I see one or two

every time that I exit
our home. Once, on a walk,

my wife and I found
a baby rabbit, incompetently

hidden or abandoned
or perhaps its mother

had been taken by a serial-
killer cat—every cat

is a serial killer. There
was nothing we could do

for that baby. Animal
rescue wouldn't come

for one baby barely bigger
than a thumb and we

didn't have the time
or expertise necessary

to care for it. And, frankly,
we didn't have enough

compassion—some might
call it codependence.

There are dozens
of wild rabbits

in the neighborhood,
maybe hundreds. One

death wasn't a threat
to any population.

The next day, I walked
by the place where

we'd seen that baby.
It was gone, taken away

by something. I sighed.
I said a little prayer

for that poor thing
and then went about

the rest of my day.
But, four years later,

I still think about that
baby. It remains a part

of my life as a reminder
of the many times when

I've made cold decisions
in this cold world—

of the many times when
each of us choose

cruelty over kindness
and curse instead of bless.

Sherman Alexie

I’m not thrilled of open water
I always liked my feet on dry land.
But the days are getting hotter,
I’ll have to deal with my toes in sand.

Dreams got me thinking of a sun
so hot it could toast my skin.
Stick a fork in me and call me done,
and let the feast begin.

Sometimes I think and sometimes I wish
that I had the courage to just jump ship,
and pray that the sirens
would guide me to the islands.
The water’s fine to take a dip,
do I have the courage to jump ship?
I’ll be searching for the sirens,
hoping I can still find them.

I get pulled in with currents of my emotion,
I gave up swimming as soon as it started.
Because who in this world can fight the ocean,
when it wants you to be departed?

Dreams got me thinking of palm trees,
leafs so big they create a world of shade.
Feeling of a nice summer breeze
cutting me up like a razor blade.

Sometimes I hope the fabric of reality will rip,
and that I gain the courage to just jump ship,
and pray that the sirens
would guide me to the islands.
Teeth are shaking just like my lip
do I have the courage to jump ship?
I’ll be searching for the sirens
hoping I can still find them.

I want to live amongst the waves shining
like gold paint,
but I’ll only ever find my silver lining
if I become an angel or a saint.
Yet I’ll hope that the sirens
can take my demons and blind them.