Beans Collection, Robusta

Brooklyn Heights Promenade

Ah, the Promenade.

Not only did the river sparkle, the pavement shine, but foliage glittered in a sheer veil peppered with morning dew.  She walked past the outstanding relics whose branches, bare and brown, giggled at her footsteps.  The mist, in mirth, it mirrored the delight.

“Come write with me,” she beckoned to the proud old trees.

It gave her joy to capture the magical experience and embroider it onto a broader shroud of dreams.  That glorious summer morning, music danced with words, and words danced on pages.  A new romance evolved from the waltz of pen and paper.

At a distance, a massive bridge woke up as its veins increasingly filled with cars, joggers, pets, tourists, passersby—the lifeblood of the city.  As a new ensemble, the proud old masterpiece listened, tuned and began a new movement of sounds and stories.  A symphony developed that is Brooklyn, the county of proud old Kings—poignant, precious, perennial.


Dear Sir

Dear Sir,  I have no shame
As I meet a book’s end
Unable to turn around, back
Unable to go through this wall
I’m done for almost
Last grain of sense
A moon’s last breath
At last the daylight colors
My fingers inked
I have no shame; I draw
On concrete a letter
I may never send
But carry to my interment
A curious epitaph
Must they know why
You mark my soul deeply

Dear Sir, I have nothing else
No wealth of words
No wisdom of age
Save for a silly craving
To hold your gaze in mine
And see a sky beyond
Maybe hold your hand a while
To keep those tremors at bay
If winter eases you so
Take my heart, frozen, bold
Cream it, knead it, serve it cold
May the sun forget us
Ever no darkness hinders
The passage to your mind
In silence I grow fonder
From a distance, watch you
Hide not or dissipate
With the wind like a prayer
Lost to the choir of foliage
Or to fluttering twitters

Dear Sir, I have a wish
All I ask: you let me be
One day we will find us
If that, too, is but a dream
To sleep in your embrace
Not once but forever
Sign your name at least
Mark this slab of stone
Must you ask now
Let this moment not wither
Add to memories perennial
Sweet, ironic fantasy


2016 Mar 24