Five more than ordinary pieces of art became launchpads for me to give them credit through the verse form.

This is the nature of humanity finding much creative outlet through real life figures in the latter three examples and fictionalized crystallization in the former two. All hit the bull’s eye. In arresting portraits of all, there can be no bias or neutrality. There can only be an acknowledgment of reality.

Here they are, mostly among the crop of latest features while the final bow is for an HBO movie that I finally had the chance to seek and appreciate wholeheartedly.



To run over……
pressure points
big city blues.

Oh, to run over
the cost and denominations of ambitions.
A home to go to
A child to tend
and protect
A classified society to take control of
yet not an end of the sea to reconcile with.

Men in uniform
executives in cubicles
glaring faces towering over
with determined grace.
becoming two cuss words.

She buys her guilt
her blood soaked soul
with the hush of millions.
Another is bought over by grief
and an errant town
that calls her out for her underprivileged precedent.

The one,
hit and run over,
is asked for her sputtering share
of blame,
of her midnight ride.
plastered over with zealotry.

A why
that culls this once and for all
as an amoral festival
of guilt and shame.
In a city that never sleeps,
dreams are influenced by who takes
the greatest share
and sleepwalks through it all,
without so much
as a mark on the cheek
or a hole in the heart.

Most of us here
return to an unholy horizon.
To be run over….
by humilities
pressure points
and wounded grace.



Why were you there
to seek him out,
LOVE being in his pores.
Didn’t you know
he was your doomed partner
in this sea of eviction
and divided loyalties?

You were far too young
and guileless
without an estimation
of the way men
crush the world
with far too ready egos.
They nurture only these
along the path of self-destruction.
Unsparing to
Mother figures.

why didn’t you know
that your chorus was being detuned
and made to fit a more sordid face
of New York?
Land of the dreamers
Hard Workers
monopolised by a borough
tapping its feet among the damned.

So dance as you may
sing your hearts away to glory
as only you do
there will be rosaries
and funereal processions
to mark the end of an era
and jollity’s yearning cry
will be the last note.

At last,
there will be
a time and place
to make this the memorial
for muses
to the mud.



Give her a room of her own
without drawing her curtains

Give her only her crown
as a homebody
for that’s where she resides
with the twinkling sprites of spirits,
with her two beloveds.
Her sons.

But men and women are wont
to hunt innocence
and proscribe a ghost story
for someone like her.
She is in the hallways
tearing down her noose of pearls
and tears
and a structure
meek and languishing in apathy
like her childhood home.

how woebegone then
that you had to create
yourself in the image of a fallen bird
and rescue your two boys
from hunting season.

Freedom was yours.
Only time ticked by.
For that Christmas,
you didn’t crack
but built yourself up
to not become another

And history repeats itself.



Torn at the seams
I’m every woman.

I still go for the word of God
for His hand hardly trembles
for those shunned as ‘different’
in this world.

What if despite all my years
and rainbow tears,
He had written it for me
to be a shepherd
for all my kindred
and hold them tight
with my infectious pulse?

So I share the miracle of survival
and use my glitter to
let my eyes sparkle
with the ultimate word
laugh as the others may
at what they only see
and never hear: the voice of good souls.



Little Edie,
tell us
how you managed
without the luxury,
the tokens
and relics of your surname.

How did you smile
with such bright effervescence
when your abode had become
if nothing
but a jungle
run over by squalor
and the unimaginable
power of poverty?

I think
I have seen good fortunes die too,
Big Edie,
and a certain peculiarity
sets in when the old times
and chimes of a prosperous
echo far away
on the beach.

Make no mistake
Go with the name
and let us in
to know that you both
lived to tell the tale.

You two,
like peerless skylarks,
sitting in the marsh
within paradise,
show the world
that times change.


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