Run Like the Water 

The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem



Run like the water in the stream.

Seep through the pores of the earth, and find its darkest secrets,

But don’t run away from me.

Trust in me. 

Trust me like the waterbird trusts the tide. 

I will not let you fall beneath the waves when we set out to sea, 

But don’t float away from me.

Water will wash us clean of troubles, of fear, of insecurities. 

It will rinse our eyes free of tears after late night calls that distance miles apart, 

Or cool our boiling blood when the world will not listen to the peace we sing. 

Water will carry us through the trials of time.

Our love will be forever preserved in the crystal glaciers of the north, 

Or in the bellies of parched children on another shore.

Let it forever live on.
Without doubt,
Without drought.

Love me. 
You are my source of life. 



The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem

 We are the daydreamers.

A story kept in the pages of freshly printed books with glossy paper.

Protected from the brutal winds of the world while we are young

Given fairytales to drink like sweet tea

But told only to sip, not to swallow.

We are the daydreamers

Kicked out of our cloud castles when our fairy godmothers made holes in the pillowy, white safety nets we thought were our floors,

Scolded us,

Engraved, “G R O W  U P !” into the soft flesh of our delicate hearts,

And watched as we fell,

Landing face first onto a cement reality.
We are the daydreamers

Who still have hope for this miserable world.

The ones who think the sun smiles as it rises.

The ones who think skin is like silk 

And that true love exists outside of the fairytales we were raised upon.

The ones who get by on merely slivers of faith,

Like maybe Peter Pan really does wait patiently on the other side of some golden gate.
We are the daydreamers

But we have grown to accept our fates

Just as we have accepted the bitter taste

Of coffee at 5am. 

Renee Loves the Rain

The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem

She’d walk across the shards of our broken hearts to escape her mother, but what does that make me? A sister? A friend? A victim?

Someone who tosses and turns in the calm of the night because I could never say that vanity and pride are different, that one can be proud without being vain, with a flare in my eyes rather than paranoia because the ghost of who I used to be still sinks its fangs into the base of my neck.

But who am I, anyways?

I’m someone thrown to the curb on the streets of Queens, among the trash and unpaid cellphone bills because messages of, “You’re too busy,” stack up until finally one of them says, “Goodbye”.


The Elephant and the Donkey 

The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem

  The man sits above us

peering down like a predator

from his tower 

that none of us have been given the right equipment to climb. 
Some people admire this tower, 

ruby red in all its glory;

those who feel it represents their love,

their pride, 

their country. 

They are the ones who simply stand by

ignorant to the mere fact that the ground beneath our feet trembles more frequently. 

These are the people who put the vile man in the tower. 
They spit words at those who are blue, 

and those who scoff at the dirt on their shoes

under the influence of their vicarious boy-king because to them the color blue is anything but tranquility.

To them, it means a “nasty woman” fighting for a position such as his 

an effort he can strike down with icy words or dismiss by fanning bills from his pocketbook

because blue minds mean nothing to him.
But neither do red

unless it’s his own. 
But maybe the blue aren’t much better off 

Sticking their noses into the air and straightening their thrift-store ties  

Saying they’re lovers of equality, but  scolding their red neighbors, 

calling others uneducated when they have no desire to teach

and refuse to accept that they too have dirt on the soles of their shoes 

and maybe even palms of their hands 

from not washing them after making enough calls on an office telephone. 
In this world of red and blue,

I see little violet. 
I only see the man up in his tower 

watching us like we’re his mice 

who can never find the cheese in their dark cornered mazes. 

This Soiled World 

The Aftermath of New York: A Simple Poem

I once saw a robin 

light and fair upon the willow tree.  

She said the snow would come some day soon, 

and the earth would turn on me! 

I begged her pardon and shooed her away, 

as the willow began to weep 

of the pain in it’s knees and the soot in it’s eyes, 

but I offered no handkerchief. 

I once saw a pigeon 

drab and solemn on the concrete. 

He said our world would end some day soon,

and the earth would crumble beneath me!

I begged his forgiveness once I saw the smoke,

and the darkness had closed in.

The people sobbed, for they had done nothing wrong! 

But we all had carbon on our shins.