Missing the trains, cars, and 3 AM bars. Excitement of the city, and the ache brought a pity. Of wanderlust she had once held in her hands and taken for granted. The adventure she had left there still overflowing in her heart. She had forgotten to appreciate the crowded avenues and beeping buses. The soft, gentle green grass of Central Park. The quiet and timid clink of silver spoons in coffee and tea shops. She missed the old rickety benches full of history and graffiti. The rough paved streets lined up with taxis. The food trucks overflowing with various smells calling your name. Even missing the loud taps of heels as businesswomen rushed passed her, to catch a meeting, a lunch date, a train. She realized what she thought she didn't want, was all she really needed. She thought she needed quiet and she thought she needed serene, but we all begin to realize nothing is what it seems. She knew what she needed to do, and she knew she would do it alone.  She would pack to go far, and get in a car,  going back to New York.... Her real home.

this is how i travel,
with a paperback clung to
my chest, fingers wrapped 'round
like birthday gift ribbons

i sail on the syllables,
the music they make.
how many homes i have,
nestled in the spaces
between paragraphs and phrases.
each chapter an
island
where i'm somebody
else

this is how i learn,
how i journey -
between pages
and tales.

do not come to
find me

He was the castaway thrown ashore, hurt and injured,
She was the island that nurtured him till he was cured,
He signaled an approaching ship to take him away,
While she waited for the waves to bring someone who'd, for once, stay.

Not too long ago but the wisdom still alluded me
And not be Frank, I was never one for the Ocean and sand.
So the salt in my lungs, your gaze into my eyes was new to me.
Scared but not enough to tell you, I took your hand.

(The waves felt good on my coarse skin.)

No TVs there, it was Remote.
The locals wagered on a pair of dice.
Coladas with two cubes a pair of ice.
I was living in, and you are my Paradise.
Everything I wanted and more, but still not willing to sacrifice

(I rebel, I rebel)

All that was asked was reciprocation.
She said” Boy just say my name, that’s all I want”
“ Show me joules. Life, Love, and Dedication.”
Told her “ stop trippin” She said ”why you front?”

(Time Passed)

All that was asked was reciprocation.
But society’s serpent wouldn’t let me. ( Boys aren’t supposed to feel)
Eve’s whisper led me to condemnation. ( No room for my pride)
Wiped the Salt water from my eyes “Just don’t forget me.” ( she apathetically pointed at the door)

The rain fell

… I’ll never forget raindrops I felt, that night I plead with you
Same raindrops I felt that first night that I kissed you.
And I cannot lie and say that I don’t miss you.
…That I don’t miss my paradise.

But – sometimes stories don’t end the way you want’m to right?

(Lost Happiness, Lingering Pain)

I miss you

Right hand to god, Left hand holding the remains of my heart.

An island somewhere
The only place with delicacy so rare
Found only by luck, Most would consider me stuck
But I'm living joyously in my delusional haze
No longer counting days
Since I lost ten through twenty
There is happiness in my veins
Believe, I have plenty.
The hunger is perfectly numb
What shall I dine on next
Perhaps a thumb.

On this island in the sky..
Above all of the stars..
I sing a song to the moons that glow..
A song about what might be below..

The sky islands are home..
Always have been..
They say that there is nothing below..
But I believe there is truly something there I hope.

That is until one night a beam of light shined..
It pointed from down under..
Toward our sky islands above..
They looked to us with wonder..

Some of us were amazed.
While some of us were scared..
Is this something good or something bad..
Perhaps there is a reason we never knew of the people below our sky land..

Off lone island bay,
Outlander waves are praying,
Curly in their white caps.

Cars and lorries are creeping
Into a village still sleeping,
Coming in from nowhere.

Stones have things to voice,
There are stars of rock fish
Deep in bays with the moon.

Beyond night dream are lochs,
Darks and colds of longings,
Mountains old as confusion.

Birds chime their mouth musics,
Churlishly sent over moorlands,
All questions ring unanswered.

On broke beaches are notions
Of days strung to faraways
And sands bleached ancestral.

Off lone island bay,
Simple comings, waves, goings,
After sly moon, sun has its say.

every human being is an island.
so little on the surface
compared to the wonder beneath.
we present only what we wish others to know,
the superficiality consuming humanity.
nobody will ever know what is truly inside
and this is okay
according to society.

but i say **** society.
true contentment resides within our heart
and we must let others reach inside
and with their love guide
us up to the surface
so that our island represents
all of us.
and not just the façade.

The Atlantic Ocean and I sigh
in unison against the shoreline
of Amagansett Beach
and as she inhales;
she drags the land above below,
one grain of sand at a time.

In a few generations
she will have devoured this entire beach,
eventually the whole Island
and with it the multi-million dollar estates
which decorate its topology
like an effigy to human vanity.

I would say never before in history
has there been so few with so much
who have done so little
but that would denote
some kind of significance
and they are hardly worth noting.