Marching Bands of Manhattan

If I could open my arms

and span the length of the isle of Manhattan

I'd bring it to where you are

making a lake of the East River and Hudson

If I could open my mouth

wide enough for a marching band to march out

they would make your name sing

and bend through alleys and bounce off all the buildings

I wish we could open our eyes

to see in all directions at the same time

oh what a beautiful view

if you were never aware of what was around you

and it is true what you said

that I live like a hermit in my own head

but when the sun shines again

I'll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in

Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole

just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound

but while you debate half empty and half full

it slowly rises... your love is gonna drown

Your love is gonna drown

your love is gonna...

They Stood

My sister and her very significant other came to New York this weekend.  As the temperature rose and heated the concrete slabs of the city and warmed the chilled bricks of Brooklyn, the volume of tourists and locals alike followed suit.  EVERYBODY was outside this weekend.  Our shoulders blazing and quickly reddening, the three of us gave the Big Apple a good how's-your-father.  

The two lovebirds stood in my kitchen, touching the designed metal ceilings and rummaging around for snacks.  They stood at the fence at the promenade, overlooking the East River for a Friday night sunset and jumping through the long rays of light as my camera clicked.  They stood shooting darts at the board at Angry Wades, laughing with Antonio, the stinky Italian who repeated the undeniable fact that "Family is everything!"  They stood 80 feet above the East River, on a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge, dodging bicyclists and water sellers.  They stood at my desk at Scholastic, smiling at the colors and chatting with the large stuffed Clifford.  They stood on the skywalk above Ground Zero, and talked with a fire fighter who showed them pictures of that fated day.  They stood on the "packed" subway, watching the crazies that I have long ago gotten used to.  They stood in Columbus Circle, snapping upward shots of Trump Tower and saying "no thanks" to the blaze-eyed rickshaw drivers.  They stood in the middle of Central Park, among about one million others.  They stood in front of the Dakota, where we quietly mourned the loss of a legend and learned that Yoko Ono still resides there!  They stood on Pier 17, adjusting their ISO's just right for the perfect picture of bright bridge lights against black sea and sky.  They stood in the middle of Times Square, their eyes eating the lights and colors, their noses catching every odd smell.  They stood at the top of the Times Square Mariott, toasting to the Bright Lights and the Big City.  They stood with arms around each other on the cobblestone streets near the Brooklyn Flea, and soaked in their last rays of New York sun at the Empire State Park.  

Soon, I hope, sometime in the future, they will stand, together, in front of all of us, sliding rings onto fingers and tossing bouquets into my waiting hands...

Neftali Reyes

It has just come to my attention that the most widely-read poet of the 20th century, Neftali Reyes, had a most difficult childhood.  Fascinated by nature, emotion, and humanity, the young boy was weak in the eyes of his father.  His father wanted him to be a doctor or a lawyer.  He made his son swim through massive waves in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Chile in order to strengthen his muscles.  He burned countless notebooks that his son spent hours filling in backyard bonfires.  He never approved of his son's passion.  Eventually, Neftali Reyes went to University and changed his name to Pablo Neruda so that his father would never be shamed by him, and would never know that he was actually writing, and would write, for the rest of his tremendous life.

...Let us look for secret things

somewhere in the world,

on the blue shores of silence,

or where the storm has passed,

rampaging like a train.

There the faint signs are left,

coins of time and water,

debris, celestial ash

and the irreplaceable rapture 

of sharing in the labour

of solitude and the sand...

~On the Blue Shores of Silence, Poems of the Sea~ Pablo Neruda