New Jersey

at Ben Franklin bridge’s height

one can see halfway across New Jersey

a land so flat and so green

it almost looks like paradise

and although salvation

lies far beyond this state

it’s good to feel that way

every now and then

to feel at the height

of a bridge to see the scattered

skeletons of Camden skyscrapers

to know beyond are farms and pines

suburban colonies

graphed developments

at first with natural names

Collingswood, Haddonfield, Cherry Hill

then unnatural names, townships

called by the names of colonizers

villages bearing names of lost tribes

exterminated people still roam

the barren pines, while cars collide

on highways stretched over unmarked graves

until finally the Atlantic Ocean arrives

a massive highway itself, littered with bones

of humans in chains, of slaves, of migrants

an inferno of water crushing bodies

centuries in transit

on the way to hell in life

en route to paradise in death

wherever that may be

Open to Submissions

I started a new poetry journal that’s open to submissions.

Outcast Poetry: Open to Submissions

Song of Eire

 
The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.

I stand at the cliff
and look across
the wide Atlantic
to see a steel monolith rise.

The depths of the ocean
can no longer conceal
the pain that I carry
in knowing past and future loss.

I sit by the crystal Shannon
and feel the wildflowers
break beneath my weight
to become a bushel of waste.

The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.

The lush fields once crossed
by the free Finn McCool
and his band of poet-warriors
have been crushed by machines.

The old woman of Ireland
calls me home to fight for liberty,
but her sons reject me, a mere American,
and I comply to colony life.

I fly back to New York
with a hole in my chest
longing for the identity
of my starving ancestors.

The low water of the Liffey
runs through my mind.
The high cry of the flute
sings in my heart.

loss

the day after
mother’s death
I find myself cringe
at any noise similar
to a painful moan
a sigh, a laugh,
a seagull’s cry-
all strike a chord
deep within
my tangled heartstrings twang
out of tune and longing
for the perfect pitch
of the past

infrastructure

the Ben Franklin Bridge
will hang here
for centuries
long past
when the Delaware River
will dry up
sucked into
un-breathe-able air
and becoming
a barren gulch
covered in wreckage
car tires and metal junk
sticking out of the dirt
the bridge will sag
under heavy heat
as wealthy cyborgs
look down while flying
over abandoned Philadelphia
a quaint object
to them – a bridge
the city will be foreign
and obsolete