Waking to the melodies of a chorus of birds. Visioning the  leafs on the trees dancing merely to the beat.
  April showers falling from the heavens above,   touching the unearthed seedlings preparing for their bloom.
Springtime is almost here.
May arriving bringing the sunshine to dry the moistened ground, as each seeding awakes by the morning dew, their limbs stretching through the soil , like a baby chick pecking the shell, they are brought to life.
There is so much beauty a city never sees, like the enchanted flies of the southern country with glowing fairy-like wings. Let's not forget the whipperwill singing in the old oak trees or the katiedids that hide in their shell. The crickets joining as their legs play violin as the bull frogs play base with there deep vocal sounds, if you sit quietly you may likely hear, the howling of  a pack of coyotes so far from you but sound so near.
Springtime in the south is heaven on Earth , no hustle or bustle or lights from the cities to interfere.
I can't imagine springtime anywhere but here.

They call us Madrasis
Incarcerated Buddhas
Not Cholas nor the Devadasis
But agglomerated Cheras.
Who knew the Pandyas, anyway?

They call us Archetypes
On Iridescent Thalis
Of Sambars and rice cakes in thin stripes
Slurping on leafy banana like malis.
Who knew the God’s Own Country anyway?

They call us Annas
Sandalwood Veerappans
Lemon for Evil at four annas
Skirting Lungi blooms and Hairy Chappans*
Where is Madras anyway!

I pick
her flower
that our
furnace wouldn't
inhibit May
with her
caveat that
this winter
really corners
any merchant
cavities allure    
then made
sweet dear
wine in
Hawaiian orbit
in days
of yore

South Florida
if you were a body part,
you’d be an armpit.

You’d be a bulged vein
on the side of a forehead
forever locked in a scowl
behind sunglasses.

You speak the language of horns
middle name, finger
blood type, combustible

You're a melting ***
that's boiled over the lid
sweating salt water at the brows
eyes red as the brake lights
in the maddening brightness,
you’re torrential daylight
heating nerves like greenhouse gasses
waiting for a reason to explode.

You’re a tropical motilov cocktail
no one can afford
2 parts anger, 1 part stupidity
full of yourself in a souvenir glass with a toothpick umbrella
You're all image

You’re all talk: the curse words
breaking out the mouths
of the angry line mob at Starbucks in the morning
You’re the indifferent silence
in the arena at the Heat games leaving early,
showing up late
due to the distance
from Brickell to Hialeah,
West Palm to Pompano
the gap between the entitled and the under-paid
a skyline of condos in a third world country
You’ve always been foreign to me.

You’re winterless, no chill
you attract only hurricanes
and tourists,
shoving anything that isn’t profitable
out of the way like post-storm debris
into the backyards of the Liberty City projects,
onto a landfill off the side of the Turnpike
Hide it beneath Bermuda grass,
line it with palm trees
if only conceal your cold blooded nature:
I see you.
You are overrun with iguanas,
blood-******* mosquitos
hot-headed New York drivers
not afraid to get hit

You get yours, Soflo
and you'll go as low
as the flat roofs of your duplexes
and the wages that can barely pay the rent to get it
latitude as attitude
temper as temperature
if you were a body part
I swear you’re an *******

south of the brain, one hour
in all directions,
I’d find you.
You’d impose your way
onto my flight to the Philippines,
to Seattle, to Raleigh
You’d follow me like excess baggage,
like gravity,
bringing me back when asked where I'm from:

That area north of Miami, I’d say
(the suburbs, but whatever, we are hard in our own way)
I'd show you off on their map
like some badge of grit,
certificate of aggression
I know how to break a sweat
walk brisk, drive evasive
ride storms in my sleep
I know you, I’d say,
“He’s a friend of mine.”
and I’d watch them light up
and remember
the postcards you've sent them
of the sunrise,
welcoming brown immigrants
onto white sand beaches
You were foreign to us
yet raised us as your own
in the furnace of your summers
iron on iron, the forger striking
softness into swords
built for survival
I'm made of you

my South Floridian temper
cools down
in your ocean breeze

if you were a body part,
you'd be a part of me
a socked foot in an And1 sandal
pressed to the gas pedal
as my drive takes me north
of your borders, far from home

I see you
in the rear view mirror,
tail-gating
like a sports car on the exit ramp
the color of the sun.

South Civil war
Another cold-blooded war,
Again the North succeeded,
Above the expectations,
Of our Founding Fathers.
We are called the “South”,
Even though we are
Supposed to be apart of this nation,
And yet our pride got the best of U.S.
Because there is no I in U.S.
And no “liberty and justice for all”,
In the cold shackles of war.
With death hanging in the air,
And riding on every bullet,
With the merciless slaughter of human life,
And no remorse behind it.
And even to this modern day,
Our blood that is shared
With our civil war ancestors,
Resents the choices made.
To be put in the shoes of a ***** slave,
In this darkened time of war,
With the harsh casualties in their everyday life
And their energy being put to use against their will.

Dewy sunrise red
Cool breeze over warm air, rain
Autumn in the South