let's make
a tiny little place
a quiet shady spot
under a
striped umbrella
for you and me
to watch
the world go by

i.

The day he lost her to a fallen world
He promised to be satisfied with life
His love came from above abundantly
Commissioned to give back put others first

One day the Sturm und Drang hit city streets
He viewed upon his high apartment floor
Then after business hours his neighbors parked
He witnessed many soaked from pouring rain

Instinctively he grabbed umbrella case
He pulled it from the scabbard to withdraw
His saber in right hand, ran down the stairs
Now opened sheltered fabric for the folks

The people parked now waited one by one
Because the gent had hurried them inside
He got the last one in so safe and dry
The people clapped, bade “thanks, umbrella man”

ii

Weeks later:

He heard the honking horn across the street
A straggler struggles out of vehicle
Looks like a neighbor, hadn't seen before
He gets her out of pouring rain, she smiles

This man who was as masculine as can be
Had felt his legs go weak; her pretty face
She saw his handsome face, aglow; proclaimed -
“Am pleased to meet our famed Umbrella Man”
______________

Glossary

Sturm und Drang:  noun -  turmoil, storm and stress, violent disturbance and disorder

PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi

Oh dear
oh darling me
how did I come to be
so completely
stuck
under this ridiculous umbrella
of ideas, plans and everything
the world throws
like bricks
and stones and sticks
that crack my bones
dissolve my morals
and break my heart
   my
        little
               beating
heart
I can only scream so loud
and can only listen so close
but one of us is going to have to
try
      harder
because I'm losing
all thoughts that strike a heart string
to my tears
my fears
and my storm is still too steady
for me
to
    put
          away
                   the
umbrella

I left an umbrella at the bus stop
The umbrella was yellow and grey
It had broad stripes on either sides
It was used during rain and a sunny day

The umbrella was left alone,
Along came a dog with a bone
And in the ardent summers of may
Beside the umbrella it lay;

A day later, A man came with his wife
She looked at the umbrella and thought it was pretty nice
They waited for the bus to arrive,
But the umbrella lay still at the side

It was one day when I came back again
And saw the umbrella held it's place,
It's handle was broke and filled with grease
It was filled with holes, yet stood with ease
It fell on the ground
When it was pushed by my little niece
My umbrella was abandoned again,
It had gone weary and with rusty chains.

Sitting in my chair,
Staring out my window,
As drops of rain fall outside.
I see you standing there,
Water pouring, drenching tears.
I want to give you my umbrella,
But I am locked inside.

Anger, is the steaming red on her face
refusal creates in an instance;
jealousy is foaming green
profusion of colors in motion
takes this dance for them to upward
and downward turns,
or a sudden dissolution---
an intense ****** in unison.
Even in darkness he  can see the
spasmodic ebbing waves
sleep is the banana plantation
where night wears translucent green
"nobody would see us here"
she whispers in his ears,
as if they are thieving ***,eyeing
the yellow banana she likes, to play with

Purple is the psychedelic color
smeared on horizon when
dreams repeatedly fly down
like night bats and happen
the way mind designs
we don't want to leave the scene
of the dream even when we know well
that the show for us is now over
we just want to hang around
like the dog,  in the place
it  got a juicy bone.

Yellow is the banana song
that's heard as wave after wave,
by the blind bat squadron
that roams with raw aggression,
for raids above the plantations
Unripe bananas show green fingers
to say "NO! we aren't ripe"
like coy underage virgins.

Then, they ripen, go yellow
some even bright red, inviting
who is blue here is the sky
and those bats who got
the bananas still raw green

Night decents on the banana land
as the white umbrella of sun
is snatched by the dark maiden.
Black is the bat's wing extending
and folding like lust, umbrella and the like.

He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent,
on the banana trunk slithering down,
as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky
and she slithering over him.

night opens
her black umbrella
full of falling stars
as we gather
underneath the
night umbrella

Dear Talia,


Acid rain has never felt so warm. We ran home today from the Rail Trail, underneath an umbrella, that you called a Monet and that I called home.

Before that, I sat in a cafe, using my heartbeats as a way to count the passing seconds. I frequently got up and left to go occupy myself. Honestly, I got up to try to remedy my anxiety.

Beyond reasonable punctuality, I was forty, give or take, minutes early. I don't know why I was early; I guess I just was really excited to see you.

When I did leave the cafe, I would always be on a mission to improve our day anyway I could.

At first, I bought a notebook and two cranberry juices. I wanted to write you poetry in the cafe, before you arrived. I started writing but nothing worth showing spilled onto the paper.

I wrote you this poem:

There is nothing that calms me like you do.
There is no one that smiles like you do.
I could find escape in your eyes, and home in your hands.
If you could understand me, like how I understand you.
There is no one like you.

The next time I left, I went to buy bread. I thought it was a good idea if we could feed the ducks, together.

The lady who sold me the bread looked like her dreams were passed onto me. She looked at me with hope, and realistic expectations.

When I went back to the cafe, you still weren't there. I was expecting you in a few minutes, so I was okay. I had horrible anxiety because I thought you would never come, despite your not having to be there until three minutes and however remaining seconds. I have a horrible fear of abandonment and it ignores all rational thought.

So I sat down and I wrote you another poem, hoping that you would surprise me while I was writing it.

I wrote this poem:

I love you.
And it's okay,
you don't have to love me.
It's my love and I want you to have it.

An hour passed and you still weren't there. It was okay because I thought something more important came up. I just wanted you to be happy.

Another twenty minutes passed and I decided to leave. My head sunk down to the ground, as I jaywalked across a street of inconsistent traffic. Then, I found the sidewalk. I was walking, not really paying attention to anything, when I found you. My god, your peripheral vision is bad, but you really do see me.

I was happy to see you.

I wanted to say, "I love you," but I didn't want to lose you.

You were wearing this top that looked like it was painted in cream, and you were exhausted from walking miles to see me. You profusely apologized for being late, and I profusely apologized for not checking my messages.

****, I really do love you. At first, I was stepping down stairs, and then I fell so hard onto the asphalt that had your face confidently drawn on with assorted chalks.

Your name flickers in every light, and your voice settles in my eardrums.

We walked down to the Rail Trail, and I felt like how I imagined those would feel after being baptized. You don't realize how lucky I feel to be walking next to you, talking to you, and knowing that you are on the Earth, and that we are in the same place, the same moment.

I got to hold the umbrella.

My mouth tasted like cheddar and sour cream ruffles, and my hands had trouble circulating blood, and my heart was circulating too much, too fast.

Your eyes were fountains trapped behind emerald.

I love you. I love you. And I love you. I thought all of this between every word that we exchanged, and every glance. I think you love me, too, but it's hard to tell sometimes. You don't have to, but sometimes I imagine that you do, and it's wonderful to imagine such things.

I'm afraid that I'll have to go to a mental hospital. If you were to leave me, I'd understand. I would just want you to be happy, Talia. I hope you wouldn't, though. I guess I'll find out in June.

Despite being reasonably unstable, I feel like the sanest person in a room, sometimes. I was sitting in my living room and I thought about us feeding the ducks, and I heard everyone else talking. I don't understand the point in alcohol and alcohol related stories, when there are ducks and feeding-the-ducks-with-someone-you-love related stories. I don't understand this town, sometimes. Maybe I don't understand how messed up I am, and how everyone is normal.

The mother ducks, and the children, were not there whenever we arrived. We fed the males and it was fun. I like it when you smile. Frequently, we talked about how unfair it was to the females that they would be deprived of our bread. I think things are unfair for females, no matter the species.

We tossed slices and half-slices of bread like safety nets. If our bread can make them live longer, then it'll be worth it. Is that too dramatic of a thought to have?

After looking at the sky, you and I both knew what would happen. It was to be a downpour of everything that would **** you and I, if collected into a cement hole in the ground, approximately six to twelve feet deep. I felt safe, though. I always feel safe with you.

We hunched underneath the umbrella, and scampered across downtown. Your feet were getting wet because of your sandals, and our clothes were sticking to our bodies like how we were sticking to each other. We laughed and spoke French underneath the umbrella, in the pouring rain.

You wore one of my shirts, once we were in my room, and I looked at you and knew that it was true.

Your nose had little cuts, underneath, from our kissing. Apparently, my stubble scratched your skin. I can feel you after we kiss, too, but in a different way.  I can feel you anywhere I go.

I watched you walk up the side of the road, and I turned around to retrace my steps back home, despite just watching my home walk up the side of the road.



Yours Always,

Josh

I have always been the umbrella type:
Cloudy, with a chance of dying.
Water is petrifying—
When it rains, I listen to sad music and enjoy the view
Hoping I never have to venture out to you
Because I have no idea where you’ll flood into
And then I’ll have to peel away my dress you seeped right through
And nakedness is frightening and sitting in the shower
--shivering--
is not very inviting.
In fact, it’s very unpleasant when you’re by nature private
And have a hundred empty places to keep quiet
Covered and compliant.
Getting wet is terrible when you’ve spent forever piecing together
A paper-mache umbrella to cover
Your cracks.
Storms are not my style, I’m still trying to dry
From the tears I was born crying.
I was born cloudy with a chance of dying
Cloudy with a chance of never even trying
And when you’re born with a heavy heart
the last thing you need is to get
drenched.
Wringing yourself out is just a defense
It’s common sense--
--to never lose sight of the shore
SO, this is why I hide from the downpour
Under dusty cotton covers
And don’t ever even wonder
What it would be like
To be dragged in your wake
It’s not like I’m safe from you anyway.
I wasn’t built on stilts
I’m not a flood-proof gate,
I’m a rusty fire-escape that only reaches halfway
down
And I don’t want you waiting at the bottom and begging me to jump but of course you are,
You always are
But even though I know you’d catch me
You are scary and I’d rather jump to concrete because at least it looks like solid ground
And when I go down, I comfort myself with the 100 percent chance that at least
I won’t drown.

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.

WATER BOUNCING OFF MY UMBRELLA,
ALL I CAN SEE IS DARK CLOUDS MOVING IN
SCENTS OF FRESH GRASS, GIVES A LASTING AROMA
ALONG THE SHORE I CAN SEE THE LIGHTHOUSE
SEAGULLS SEARCHING FOR FOOD
I WALK ALONG THE BEACH
SUMMER AIR AWAKENS MY SOUL
BEAUTY OF NATURE AT MY SIDE
UNDER AN UMBRELLA
GAZING ACROSS THE WAY
BEAUTIFUL TREES WITH A SCENT OF PINE
BOATS OUT IN THE WATER
ALL KINDS OF PEOPLE
HUMMINGBIRDS SUROUND  MY PORCH
IT LOOKS LIKE A SUBWAY , MORE THAN A
DOZEN GOING IN AND OUT OF THE FEEDERS
BLESSED I AM FOR THIS  SCENIC VIEW
PEACEFUL FEELINGS ALWAYS
LOTS OF INSPIRATION HERE IN THESE WOODS
UNDER AN UMBRELLA

my world seems to be under your umbrella
after you've decided to paint it black
your black umbrella prevents light from entering
just like how I can't feel the heat from the earth

the world became pitch-dark and sometimes,
hopefully grey
your umbrella casts a gloomy shade on the ground
just like how
my world seems to be under your umbrella

cold and clammy in the midst of the downpour
the wind howls and growls
ironically, the landscape is still
motionless and deadly quiet just like
the death of my senses and
my inability to feel the heat from the earth

Like those who've lived neath the umbrella
And ne'er learnt to hate the rain
So those who've been safe together
Are keen to build with pain

If they had met the eyes
Of a man holding a machine gun
That would have been the demise
Of the destruction they seek for the sake of fun.

Don't wave your flags and say to me
The state is old and pointless
I've lived with comfort happily
Why do you want to destroy this?

Anarchy is the seed of the fools
Who're born and bred beneath
The umbrella of states and their 'tools'
Their rage their comforts bequeath.

From a distance,
the incessant chant of monsoon from south west,
sounds like an old witch practising her craft,
she is all evil and dark, one would think,
the overcast sky her sinister cloak.

But intruder under my umbrella, she is playful,
I watch this coy maiden, I desired from afar,
now she walks with me step to matching step,
tries to entice me with her soft tunes,
tender cool fingers, rubbing my cheeks,
her lover's touch unmistakable, passionate, eager
I shiver, she wants me to get in to her arms, cuddle.

I throw away my umbrella,
in boyish rumbunctiousness,  run to her
her hands moving fast tickle me, pinch
then a sudden embrace, making me squirm
with deep pleasure I dreamt in wakeful nights.
The joy of life that  the water and receptive earth evoke,
loud green glee around,  in me creates goosebumps,
in my dreams she comes to me
and tells the secrets of
nights I long for my love and me alone.
Rain, the seductress, taught me
the passions of living and loving
she,  awakened the spirit that seeps deep in to the
core of my being.

**When I lay awake in monsoon nights,
across my window she tangoes
in fierce passion with the wind,
that keeps me excited till I get absorbed
in to a dream that has love as its theme.

I’m your favorite kind of rain
That goes down a drain slowly like I can
Mimic your movements
Simply by asking you how you feel

Now, it doesn’t rain your favorite all the time
Most of the time I get this extra burden
But you’re my umbrella that’s keeping me dry
From stress, anger and despair
Pouring out from a raincloud called,  “Thing’s I don’t want to face today”

Let it pour
I know you’ll cover me from my problems
As long as I hold you up from yours

On the black canvas
Carve the thunders
Streaks of neon glow,
The drums the heaven beats
On their way to the earth
Rend the air apart,
The ground in ******* anticipation
Vibrates in a rediscovered titillation,
The soil waits holding its breath
In the last climactic lull
Before it’s released from the pain,
Unmindful, I open my umbrella
In the season’s first rain!

You have been with me from the start soft
Hard, never bothered which one you were
When I was young at heart.

I used to pull you my second brain, little soft
Then long and hard,as I grew, you grew with  
Me a friend that never left. Only in the cold I
Wondered where you are.

The years did pass and hair you grew, where
Once I had pulled, now you just went hard.
Embarrassed I was as always hard around
The girls, some laughed while others played
With it spitting at them when excitedly hard.

Age moved on my friend for life still with me
Still getting hard but when I wanted you no
More embarrassment on my face at random hard.

My second brain, getting wasted each day, never
Unclean as cheesy smell I do not want as girls would
Run a far.

We played in the wetness we have come so far letting
The children out in the damp park. My wife screamed
Harder deeper my god your big I love your hardness
Up me and the children were excited out of the umbrella
They went a bit to far.

You have been with me through the soft and the
Hard, got me in trouble, now three children later
I must end your spitting but you can still go hard.

***** your my friend to the end when we had no
One a palm and a video was are night in, then softly
You went as to sleep in my palm, from the beginning
Through the soft and the hard.

spolier: sitting on a windowsill, holding an umbrella; it's raining and i'm smoking a cigarette.

i never thought i'd be doing this,
trying to have a drinking
session,
   while it's ******* testicles
         and umbilical chords from
the ninth heaven...
      went to the supermarket,
  came back looking as if i had a shower...
oh believe me, umbrellas are
under-rated when it comes
to the warm rains of summer...
   i remember running barefoot
in the "communist dystopia"
            one summer (with my aunt)...
we spent the next day feverish,
  but hey... when you're trying to count
raindrops,
and you're barefoot...
         the day of fever doesn't really
lodge itself into the bank account
of memory...
   aunt? yeah, she's barely older than
me...
     my grandmother's brother
  had his kids slightly later...
   was a keen enthusiast of the army...
the standard "university" of the core
was 4 years, he decided to do an eighter...
my father?
     sure, standard procedure...
  but he served into the regiment that fired
blanks... but got close to
the 1no. comrade on parades, state funerals...
they always took the tall
  and handsome ones for such roles...
to be honest... i wish there was a conscription
in place in england...
      i'd enforce conscription if i ever
could hold the sway...
       university is a bog,
   just like the current president termed
washington...
    it's a *bog...        
              oh right,
   that's different from swamp...
sure sure, fair enough -
    it's a szambo / shambles /
    that pit where excrement is collected...
anyway,
   so i'm trying to have a session
and it's ******* down on one side of my
****** attire, leaning out of the window...
my cigarette is getting soaked,
   i'm getting soaked,
   and i'm not a happy camper in the least...
i never thought i'd do this,
  ****** walks without an umbrella
to the supermarket and back...
   and what does he do?
    he rushes downstairs, picks up an
umbrella,
              and... yep...
   sits on the windowsill
                          with an umbrella...
who the **** would use an umbrella
  "indoors"?
    slavic supersition states that it's
                a bad omen to:
(a) put shoes on a table
   and
                  (b) unfold an umbrella
                            indoors.
mind you, the umbrella i'm holding is
sticking outside my window...
             and yes, i agree,
         it should just be called a mushroom.

p.s.
   why is it that, in the 20th century
  people were looking for a führer,
having done so, have turned
                           to looking for a vater?

The sky was dark, and the rain pounded quickly against the fabric.
The world seemed depressed.
But 
In that moment under my umbrella,
I found complete and utter joy. 
I was soaked. but my smile was gigantic. 
I saw a puddle and jumped in,,
The wind kicked umbrellas inside out, and people struggled to hold on. They were upset at first, but then they started to smile. It was contagious.
Laughter filled my ears and it was a perfect moment out of one that was supposed to be miserable.

Sometimes I feel like an upturned umbrella,
Serving no purpose in the heavy rains .
Filling up with water,
Like emotions I can't let go of.

I feel bad for myself,
As I see the other umbrellas being embraced.
Why do I lie on the ground,
My insides drenched with pain?
Do I have holes
That I am thrown away?

And then someone picked me up
And I felt an immense joy.
My insides were dried and my holes fixed
And someone held me up again.

That moment realization,
Like lightning struck.
I just needed someone to see the good in me
I needed someone, to be me.

And spreading colours another
Umbrella popped into place.
Saving my saviour,
with my grace.

Finally being what I was meant to be,
As I looked up at the sky.
And the thanked the bright lightning,
For giving meaning to an umbrella's life.