So warm with subtle life.
Rolling desert hills and splotches of green.
I loved your plains.
Oh, the tanned beauty.

But I, from the north east,
could never predict the drought.
For seasons don't change in the desert,
and rain rarely falls upon the plains.

I was going through the terms.
All the snow, and changing of leaves.
You watched with great admiration.
And your dry surface cracked.
And I knew you could never freeze.

Down below, in the little mountain town
By the river the splits the east and west
I, heading out the door realize I'm far away
Sentiment hits at the liquor store
As hills once dead and brown
Have been reborn into lush greens
Realizing how much time has past
When I skipped through towns
Like a stone fighting to sink or swim
Things are different now, down below
In this little mountain town.

See the river coursing through the hills
Listen to it, hold your breath, stand still
Rapid, pumping like the blood in your veins
Whispering stories of love, joy, tears, pride and pain

Smoked and burnt out, black rock and white snow
A masterpiece as old as time, and the years certainly do show
Crumbling at the touch, old wrinlked face
Closer to the stars, alluring devine grace

Hand in hand they walk this path, ever since the beginning of time
One always humming, the other silently by his side
Old friend, how long has it been? Yes, so long, too long
So I'll stand firm and listen carefully until you finish yours song.

Shropshire the outback of hives and mires
A birthplace of industrial revolution
Built with ***** iron and bricks
submerged in the depths of the water beds

Shropshire the strength in the metal structure
A cast of firm shields and fields
The greenery of contrasting yellowy yields
A mirage of hills sat on pillar heights

The breeze so fresh as sun prints on the canal
The warmth so intense as the bird hums in the nests
Labour artisans and metalsmith at the heart of coalbrook dale
Bricks aisles of pathways along the river
Bordered by vintage delicacies of the magnificent nature

Over the sprawling hill
With labored breath
I burst over the top
The sun has beat me though


It’s bright yet cold rays
Illuminate the morning scene
Hardly breaking to skirt around trees
And clearing the diamonds of dew.


The emerald valleys and pale peaks
Seem to shiver
As the dawn chases away
The chill of the night.


I smile as the soft colors
Though not as vibrant as dusk
Gradually fade away
And the birds begin their songs


Their songs echo
Through the endless yet grounding
Green hills and valleys
Of  Saratoga Park.


They seem like a tribute
A monument
To the cost of freedom
Here fought for.


A thump is heard
As I collapse on to the damp earth
With the futile attempt
To absorb the serenity.

I walk around my neighborhood with my sister
We wear white mask and black coats with hoods
There’s never anyone in the neighborhood
She said
"It's too quiet."

Yet you could hear the sink left on
From houses people forgot they had
Maybe they lost their house keys

"Did you know that before that house was bought, there were squatters ?"
"How do you know?"
"I know because they were teens like me, but they ran out of luck.”
“They had no money, did they?”
“No money for what? Oh, they had money, but not enough.”
“Enough for what?”

I said “Making dreams come true in reality.”

I remember telling my mom what I wanted to do for others in life
Once I got done she asked me
“But what do you want for yourself?”
I said
“To be known.”
She said
“What if your not known like singers, dancers and actors?”

See I hadn't thought that far.

Maybe that's why they became squatters
In a house with broken blinds
There was not a place for them

My sister said
“Maybe their dreams slipped through a crack in the floor of their old house.”
Of the house in which they prayed for things to get better.
Paid light and water bills
And barely made it
She asked if they were lovers
“If they were, I wouldn't know. I doubt it.”

We wipe the condensation from the insides of our mask
With the ends of our sleeves and adjust our hoods
As they adjust their blinds to the outside world.

Wind whirling around prairie fence-posts,
a few weeks after winter’s last frost
was melted away,
replaced by white flowers that whipped
and flipped in spring’s fresh breath.
Like waves frothing in an ocean bay,
the fine, flirty song of a Meadowlark
is willed into the world,
and frolics through the windy hills.