Love, Time & Death

Central Park

It’s New York,

of course,

where lives do happen,

cross through Central Park,

onto 7th until we find ourselves,

sitting on a bench,

wondering where everyone is coming from,

hoping that we might find peace.

 

We keep looking in their eyes,

sometimes the notice is true,

others,

they walk by searching themselves

for some resting point,

a place they can call home.

 

He is that man alone in a world,

where everything exists,

and he’ll ride his bicycle all hours of the night,

because he can,

he can maneuver through the masses,

and always,

he can still eat his dinner alone.

 

She might be that woman living different roles,

walking through the park,

with a certain flair,

an attraction to the masses,

yet, in her mind,

no one really notices,

because she has felt alone.

 

I took the day off today

because I needed rest,

seems that has been a necessary event,

while the world continues to glow around me,

I center my eyes upon tears,

for it seems they are always near,

waiting for some answer,

a reason to suggest there is purpose,

even when nothing seems to matter,

only time continues to measure.

 

When that moment called me,

I stood before an audience,

Strangers all of them so cold,

the bitter icy winds of discontentment,

without notice walked away,

while my body wondered about time,

the descent, how far, how chilled, how quickly.

Then she became the moment,

amongst many beyond that walkway …

 

she is love.

Searching In Manhattan

Though it is that place I wish to be,

I’m lost inside my own travesty.

As well I seek solace amongst masses

hide within a world of classes.

 

Such is imagery of teeming lives

caught inside streaming archives.

Where alone a face in the crowd

somehow is always allowed.

 

I once read a master speak satire

He’d suggested how he might retire.

A brilliant life so seemed is the giver

they fished him out of the East river.

 

Even while hidden among archetype

our lives matter far beyond those type

who caress the mystique of scrutiny,

always a cry out loud for security.

 

I would if the streets would allow release

On Bleecker street, begin to find my peace.

Fourteen Years

Hard to imagine just yesterday,

and no days further.

I could stand here and pretend this whole thing away,

but somewhere, my deep conscience,

my soul is rattled,

I cannot imagine knowing anything today,

without memory,

without a glass mausoleum in my eyes,

I cannot go forward,

and not recall the day,

my life changed while other lives,

were completely removed.

I remember standing alone,

waiting for tears,

not my own,

they were readily apparent,

I just wanted to cry with another

human soul.

On 9/11 we became a story,

yet we were the less immediate,

we were the onlookers in disbelief,

we were able to return home,

hold our children,

know we were the mom & dad,

the dancer, the politician, the accountant,

the baker, the seamstress, the stock broker,

the philanthropist, the gardener, the lawyer,

the maintenance worker, the copy man,

the executive secretary,

the executive’s secretary,

the executive secretaries,

the fireman, the rabbi, the priest,

the fucking thousands of onlookers,

that suddenly fell through the frame of our world,

and the planet watched,

as real lives burned for the sake of

nothing.