Scatting Cat

Black cat clad in green scats 

as he scampers in no hurry 

along the moss laden trail. 


He turns around a bend in the path, 

casts one last lingering glance –

his yellow eye sparks

as he turns.  


Never to be seen. 

Never to be heard from. 



His return I conjure, 

a sauntry strut, 

back in my direction. 

Rhythm and scats 

precedes his entry into view. 


Alas, it won’t be so. 

What ever happened?

To that green clad black cat. 

GD ’19


Willow Tree


Under Willow Tree lies she

In plain sight. 

Her eye spies a boy 

fishing for the radioactive 

catch of the day (!)

to peddle on the streets 

while Mom hides 

behind Oak Tree, 

spying in plain sight. 


Alone we crave. 

Finding nooks to breathe 

in the dull grey that beeps and squeals, 

high-pitched squeaks rustle behind her;

another pulse spying on she – 

animal rustling? 

It’s the fearful boy 

with a styrofoam cup 

hanging from the end of his line. 


Tears blurred by the weeping leaves. 

GD ’19


Shih Tzu Vogue


Rattling cacophony sugar coats the air.

Each brick layered in imperfect symmetry, 

like the jazz saxophonist upstairs. 


I whisper into the broken night, 

and it wails back at me. 

It curses me violently, 



I am undeterred. 


Above all else, 

it is fiercely loyal.  

Each crevice a juxtaposition 

of grit and glory. 


I turn right, eyes of despair meet mine; 

I turn left, a Shih Tzu has rain boots on. 


A jungle so concrete 

swallows laughter and human misery. 

I am enveloped in dust, no – 

It’s ashes of those 

so loyal, so shattered. 

GD ’19

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Eve’s Big Apple

Grime evolves, you know?

At first, it’s dust…

… like a powdered donut,

if not gobbled up it could fly away.

Then it becomes g r i t.

Endurance prevails at this stage.

It’s no Everest Peak, but HELL if I’d climb it!

You get the picture.

Timeless, evolutionary grime coats the walls of our great- great- great- grandfather’s bricks.

I can’t imagine the first settler in NYC.

Could he even fathom that his broom closet has now become a kitchen?

If Godliness is cleanliness, there is no God here, in the Big Apple.

(Pre-grime pictured)

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In Case You Ask

In case you ask. 

I want to trace the trail
of constellations that pepper your eyes
and dust [star]-dust
into the crevices of your soul;
the same crevice
I want to crawl into
To never emerge.
For there, shines sheer shivering brilliance,
a love unparalleled:
friendship, proportion, and faith.
Not a love that overthrows life,
or riots the heart;
but instead a map
built with stardust
revealing infinite paths
to the amber glow of this,
[whatever this is],
GD ’16

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New York, Nu Yolk.

A hush of marmalade ashh reaches;
rooftops swaddled in Steam’s grasp tremble terra-cotta tears

of [salt ‘n vinegar] chips
tumbling, with conviction, to an untimely


They watch, shingles shivering, breathing
life unto New York’s souls.

They, who watch wistfully, subliminally
remind of sea-faring mothers;
once forgotten.

She rides, floating, among the feathers of our birds;
fused upon decadence: the street-zel’s crown jewel.

Her legacy, culture if you will, emanates
in the alleys of her relentless rodents;
her mascot knows, sees, feels,


Her breath is the aroma of displaced decadencies,
perhaps this week’s trend, or my bleeding paper that holds

the scales upon which she resides.

“What’s for dinner?” they breathe…

“Home,” she replies.



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Ode to avocado

Shelled and eviscerated they lay
two shriveled avocado skins,
basking in the afterglow of devour.

Bequeathed nectar nourishes,
their job here is done.

Decadence envelopes my every whim as I sit
sun-slashed and shed reality’s
cruel desires.
A sharp intake of clarity reveals a truth long forgotten.

Decreed thee, Sir Adirondack:
Only the[e] sea holds the key
to my heart.

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Shame me
With your beady,

Slice me
With your shaming

Your gift is bountiful,
Mine remains

Lobotomized nuisance
Are we.

Thus we hollowly
Serve, your beadiness
With the sweat
Of our unrequited

Perishing an anguished
At the hands
Of our predecessors’

We lay flat,
Breathing shallowly.
A despairing song
Echoes in the hollowness
Of our minds
Reverberating weakly,
Muffled by the
Of your beady gaze.


I spy: Feminist Magazine: Let’s Talk About It

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Stafford Springs, muse: Emily Deford

Stafford Springs, muse: Emily Deford


Sometimes, the fire growls.
Glowing embers-
dull grey coats a sleepy spirit.
Live, fill everything and float…

Elated spirits come at a cost unbeknownst to no man it seems.
The weight of the world crushes,
filling spaces with gravel and sand.

Succumbing, floating-fleetingly
A memory vanished?
Why must it be that way!

Bare feet slap concrete in a glassy haste.
Clinking clavicles chime to the tune of a chilling reality.

Life: (n) a prescribed trajectory mindlessly fulfilling its fated assembly line.

Dreams of innovation cloud a dusty reality.
She weeps, for at midnight,
her carriage will sprout
and her mirage will have
in each

GD 2015

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Chameleon Man


Alexandre Farto a.k.a. Vhils (London)

Chameleon Man 

There was once a little boy who had many extraordinary powers.
When he was younger, he could change colors to blend in to his background.
It was a game he used to play.
Blend in to pretend.

“I’m a camouflaged soldier! Nobody can find me here. I’m safe from:
and fights.
I can look up
at the bottom of my bed
and know,

he can’t get me here.”

GD 3.15.14 student teaching 

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Saffron Skies


Vineyard Race August 2014

Saffron Skies

Crusted and dream drunk

rise the eyes to ride

none other than those saffron skies.

Aubergine silks pool at the edge of the world

to serve the drowsy tomorrowers,

blanketing a distant land

in what inevitably will be

one more yin and yang night.

Her angels wake wet and wild

on the cold cobblestones,

facing a reality just dreamt away.

She sits still and vigilant,

with eyes of flame and a brow only one man could ever see.

Saffron skies warn of storm

to land lock the salty miners.

Once more the auberjine veil lifts

to reveal a dirty truth.

So we pray to Allah,

it ‘tis but a dream.

Morocco 2014


Read and chow on delectable North African food – http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/collection/tagine

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Parisian Panic

Lovers frolick at the Lover's Bridge aside a dreamer. Only a few months later the Parisians fell out of love and began the removal of the padlocks, what does this mean for those lovers who locked their eternity into the city of love?

Lovers frolick at the Lover’s Bridge aside a dreamer. Only a few months later the Parisians fell out of love and began the removal of the padlocks, what does this mean for those lovers who locked their eternity into the city of love?

…I stepped off the metro at precisely 7:06am after a night of dire solitude and weak knees. The nine hour bus ride from London to Calais to Paris left me unconscious at passport control. All histrionics aside, I refused hospitalization and this is an insight into how my 12 hours in Paris went… 

The Recipe

… The very first thing I saw was an artisan market across La Seine. I saw a beautiful woman with hair glossy black, like a raven’s reaching down her back, laughing lips of rouge created a little ‘O’ and brought me forward. Surrounding her were piles of beautiful macaroons in every color imaginable. Thus my feast began, my favorite? Hazelnut chocolate macaroon… oh my…

Click here to find this delicious recipe created by Lindsey Ruel http://www.yummly.com/recipe/external/Chocolate-Hazelnut-Macarons-629776

  1. 3/4 cup almond flour, sifted
  2. 1 cup powdered sugar
  3. 2 egg whites, room temperature
  4. pinch of cream of tartar
  5. 1/4 cup granulated sugar
  6. 1 tsp hazelnut extract
  7. brown gel food coloring
  8. chocolate hazelnut spread for filling
The Poem 
… After a truly incredible day of Parisian unseasonable sunshine, nouveaux amis, locks of love, Van Gogh, Claude Monet, Pablo Picasso, Miss Mona, and an ached heart I sat outside L’Orangerie and watched the sun kiss Paris goodnight. What ensued blew my circuits and I watched, eyes dazzled by the lights of the Tour Eiffel, as another watched and preyed upon me..
The Sky Is Not Blue, But Black.

Silently sits the cynical old man

Calculating the cost and inconvenience

Of those dazzling lights swimming on the Eiffel Tower.

Glitter pulses by the billion as

Lights dance across the surface in waves of diamonds.

It’s lovers twirling to a heartbeat,

It’s dancers clutched in concentration,

It’s speed, agility, and mostly: allure.

My young eyes are charmed, in this city of light and love.

When he speaks he says:

“Nothing is as it seems,

The world is disillusioned.”

So in a haze we rushed to Pompidou.


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