The Magical Flute

A Seed was buried in dirt.

It was insignificant, on the fringe and awkward.

Other plants sprung from the ground.

Growing flowers of yellow hues, Kelly green leaves and exotic vegetables.

The little seed was still buried in dirt.

Then came torrential rain and the seed disappeared.

A magical rainbow accompanied the seed as it grew into a modest plant.

As seasons passed, the plant was pregnant with lemons.

The growth spur continued.

Soon, the plant towered over all the vegetation and lemons wouldn’t stop dropping.

As years passed, people died.

People were born & the plant kept growing with more lemons

Soon, the modest seed morphed itself into a bean stock, towering over the village.

It hid the village from the sun and caused sunny days to fade into black.

The bean stock stood still, not even heavy winds could make it dance.

One day, it heard the sounds of magical flute.

It finally wanted to dance with the rhythm.

Thanks to the mesmerizing flute, the bean stock revealed sunny days again.

A Lullaby And Snowstorm

Traffic horns and yellow cabs flooding Central Park South.

Steam rolling from a power plant. It paints a scenic landscape on East Fourteenth Street.

Fur coats rushing through the frenetic pace of Grand Central Station.

The Upper East Side retaining quaintness as it slowly fades into a steel and glass world.

Pigeons flocking to gourmet bread crumbs on a bitterly cold East Village morning.

The car horns, loud conversations and sirens collide with inner peace.

Snow falling! It creates slush, floods the sidewalks, reeking havoc & developing quirky memories.

Welcome back to the city, where boredom comes to die.

Ketchup In The Eyes

Frustration lies in a thin bottle of ketchup.

The agony to drench French-fries in a tomato-y heaven.

Only drops of watery ketchup fall from the fogged in bottle.

In a perfect land, ketchup would fall like water from a fountain.

It would replace the mighty rivers and ocean.

Tomatoes must then grow in abundance to keep the land lush.

Bringing the potato to its knees.

The Leaves Of Central Park

Gold leaves, brown leaves, fiery red leaves

buried in snow, covered in dirt.

Sun shining over a pristine lake, sledding the impossible terrain.

Red leaves, gold leaves, dirt covered brown leaves

floating through the sky.

Looking for a home in the wind.

Brown leaves, red leaves, solid gold leaves wondering in New York.

Flying toward the pavement, but eventually falling into green grass.

Traffic Jam Of The Poetic Mind

Haiku, narrative, soliloquies make my heart pound with beautifully illustrated words. Poetry is therapy for the grid locked brain. This is a form of writing which is expressive and all around fun. Like most interesting experiences in life, I fell into poetry rather than seeking it out.

As a high school student, my mom grounded me for a month. Due to a bad report card, I could not watch TV or listen to music. Home became a four-wall hellhole. In order break free, I had to rely on my own creativity to substitute for cool tunes. During that time, we were studying poetry in school.

During my month confinement, I discovered the Harlem renaissance through Langston Hughes’ eloquent words. The Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and Maya Angelou’s poetry opened up my senses like spicy Indian curry on a rainy London night. Not only, did I admire many poets I also wanted to write my own poetry.

Growing up in a very traditional American home, I had a curiosity about the world outside my own community. It inspired my poetry. I wrote about Paris, Cubism, cigarette smoking, the Mediterranean and even homoerotic thoughts. I kept all my poetry quietly hidden in a three whole notebook with a Versace advertisement as the cover.

My goal was to share my poetry. I went to my first open mic night in college. The poets were grand. It was in the basement of this old independent coffee house. In the middle of summer, it was a gathering place for humidity and intense heat along with free thinkers.

However, poetry served as an exodus for the uncomfortable conditions. The poets were very talented and even performed free-style rap and songs they wrote, which intensified the poetic experience.

They were a tough act to follow up, but I gave it a shot. I went up on stage and was schvitizing (sweating) under the bright spot light. The crowd had faded into the darkness.

The first couple seconds of my story of rhymes was intimidating, but then I warmed up to the idea and soon my confidence grew. I made it through my first poetry reading. The audience applauded as I whipped the sweat off my brow.

From then on I continued with poetry readings. The open mic stages of obscure basements felt as cozy as my modest New York apartment.

As I grew older, I also expanded my appreciation for poets, reading the works of Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath and Gertrude Stein. The four wall confinement I experienced as a youth brought a revival of creative thinking. Therefore bringing my mind from traffic jammed Fifth Avenue to a speedy Downtown 4 express train.

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