Now An Anthem to a Different Generation

I have a habit of flicking my ashes obsessively
when I smoke.

“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust”
goes the phrase.
“We’d hate to beat you but we must, we must!”
my mother would follow with a joyful chant
when we were little.

We city smokers know of a sadness
that burns deadlier than the tip
of this cigarette,
sucking itself to non-existence on
this fire
     escape,
sizzling softly, quick,
almost unnoticed,
like a drying ocean.

Out my window
the cars rush down Eastern Parkway,
and young folks laugh
drunk, defiant
on this one more Saturday night.

We’ve all become
survivors.

“Play The Dead!” they said,
not play
dead.

I flick with anxiety,
beat my dust against the wind,
where answers tend to blow
if you’re a dreamer.

And the still summer
air whispers to me:
“we’d hate to beat you,
but we must,
       we must.”

Healing Is

Plunging 

Into cold water,

Shocking and electric
   At first

The confusion 

Of a world
In transition
The body
Recognizing
The mind
Recognizing
Space
Finding
Harmony. 

Healing is
A flower feeling
Sun
Extending
Wings
Trusting
Growth.

Healing is
Patient,
The first crack
Of an eggshell,
The slight slit
Of a cocoon, 

Wiggling of toes
   In the morning. 

Healing is
Natural
Salt water
To the wound, 

Breeze braiding hair,
Shells buried
In sand unburied
By small hands. 

Healing is

Gentle, 

A shaft of splintered
Sunlight
Out my kitchen window. 

Is
Lovely

Like her kisses
Before bed. 

gypsywrites

Do not tell me to smile

I will not take to it kindly, 
for I will have already been feeling kind, 
and deeply inclined to greet you with smiles
if you had wanted to talk. 

You see, I react organically, 
And will most likely never take kindly to 
entitled demands.
I like to smile willingly, and more so 
unconsciously, 
But I'll never take kindly when asked on command

Do not tell me to smile. 
It is not my fault you only see with two eyes, 
only see faces as features, 
and don't know how to recognize
when a woman smiles from within.
(Some can sense it from miles)

Do not tell me to smile
before you've thought of asking me
how my day has been, 
if it's almost over, or if it'll begin 
just now. 

Do not tell me to smile 
because sometimes I will not have smiles 
to give you.
Sometimes I'll only have one reserved
for when my love walks through the door.
(Sometimes I don't have one for her either) 

You see,
I do not smile as a chore, 
and I have just started to refrain 
from smiling at that person that tells me to smile, 
yet does not know my name. 

gypsywrites

Theres no grass outside for shoe boxes

The storm, assertive and insistent, 
will have covered all tracks made 
for their arrival, 
and I will have worked ten hours, 
getting home too late 
to celebrate. 

And will they know, 
as they drag and trudge, slow
against the burning wind, 
the blades of snow, 
past the pines and abandoned garlands, 
now homeless and laying outside in surrender,
like intrusive guests, 
that I still remember 
with a joyous heart that still rings
in my chest,
to leave water our for the camels? 

gypsywrites

First Snow

Not all things are storms. The first snow comes in soft, like a first kiss, and with it the bliss of a lonely morning, the nostalgic evening. Premature snowflakes tremble unhurriedly, settling on windowsills like a tired cat. Before the slosh, the slips, the shovel, there is the resolute dignity of silence, and the habitual sigh of acceptance, as the city stares out the window, that there is Beauty in beginnings. 

gypsywrites

She had the world on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't spell it out; she didn't try enough. And so life merely tasted her, like the sea licks the shore, but always retreats. 

(To live passionately is important)

gypsywrites

Trying to understand her was like trying to understand Mother Nature, with all of her Beauty, her kindness, and her ability to destroy. Science had only raised theories; tracking her moves led to unreliable predictions at most. But he had to love her, he thought, and he had to protect her, because she was sensitive, and could hurt deep. And when she hurt, he hurt deeper, like the punctured wound of a thousand battles. He had to care for her, because despite of her violence, her irrationality, she gave him life. 

gypsywrites