I saw Ground Zero and me.

 

In silent night, as blizzard raged on New York State, I was busted stealing bread from a bakery. Across frozen river, I saw a symbol of freedom obscured by snow. It made me recollect being one of many gems in the crown of higher education. It was springtime when our sixth grade English teacher took her children on a field trip to Ellis Island.

 

On a clear day, like a song goes, you can see forever.

 

I didn’t know how to ask for help after head injuries.

 

I saw recovered dreams are few to fight legions of nightmares in sleepless city.  Pride and anger were enemies on the better angel of my nature.

 

I found a job off the grid to keep from getting exhausted from hunger. It paid 50 dollars for garbage removal from Wall Street to The West Side and on and on for hours in frozen air that doubled workload of heavy bags to be lifted, thrown and crushed.

 

I caught my second wind in the background of a gift given by France to this country. I realized the name of the garbage truck was the same as a queen of Spain that gave currency to an Italian navigator to find a new reality called America

 

I found poetry in the garbage business to help people out of poverty.

 

It pays the rent for being here.    

 

Http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

I saw Ground Zero and me.

 

In silent night, as blizzard raged on New York State, I was busted stealing bread from a bakery. Across frozen river, I saw a symbol of freedom obscured by snow. It made me recollect being one of many gems in the crown of higher education. It was springtime when our sixth grade English teacher took her children on a field trip to Ellis Island.

 

On a clear day, like a song goes, you can see forever.

 

I didn’t know how to ask for help after head injuries.

 

I saw recovered dreams are few to fight legions of nightmares in sleepless city.  Pride and anger were enemies on the better angel of my nature.

 

I found a job off the grid to keep from getting exhausted from hunger. It paid 50 dollars for garbage removal from Wall Street to The West Side and on and on for hours in frozen air that doubled workload of heavy bags to be lifted, thrown and crushed.

 

I caught my second wind in the background of a gift given by France to this country. I realized the name of the garbage truck was the same as a queen of Spain that gave currency to an Italian navigator to find a new reality called America

 

I found poetry in the garbage business to help people out of poverty.

 

It pays the rent for being here.    

 

Http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

 

It’s déjà vu late in the night. It’s difficult to keep my eyes open.

 

I’m bleeding out words. I have close up this account.

 

I died in 1993 after the bombing of the WTC.

 

I was held down on the floors of higher education and beaten on the back of my head. I had much to live for in the moment I met a painter who wanted to marry me. Her love made me feel like a tourist on a honeymoon in a city I saw through her bright spirit.

 

Her birthday is 9/11.

 

 Before final explosion took away memories, I experienced a phenomenon of reliving life in a blink of an eye.  I’m a schoolboy again who carried Ann Frank in his arms while shadows of burnt-out buildings and bullies fell over us in The South Bronx of America.

 

 I found A Winkle In Time.

 

I read The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury who also wrote Fahrenheit 451.

 

I loved reading at night in my bunk bed near cloud white ceiling.

 

I loved bringing to life King Arthur and his knights because the end of a righteous realm was scary to my idealistic childhood. Be a man for God’s sake.  Get a life, I was told, before it’s too late. Stop crying over what could have been and grow up already.

 

I learned everyone has his or her time to tell a story.

 

I’m not telling my story in a New York minute to you as much as I have to rehearse what to say before God and angels or extraterrestrials or to my own self be true.

 

It was time to let go of my homelessness and move away a winter of inhumanity.

 

I was sick of staring at the silent funeral parlor across an empty street. 

 

I was weary of waiting for miracle to change history for the best.

 

The End begins a memory of a bedroom and fireflies of Saint Mary’s Park, a former home of a Founding Father who wrote the words We, The People.

 

I’m home with family. I’m home in my Wonder Years.

 

There’s my pillow.

 

Time to sleep.

 

”May God bless everyone of you on the good green Earth” said an astronaut across all distances of time and space to future readers. Thank you for bringing us to life to tell our stories to children of all ages at libraries in centuries to come. From the boy I was in Camelot once upon a time, good will and peace to all on Earth.

 

Good night among mysterious fireflies.

 

Murals For Ourselves In The South Bronx of America by Daniel Angel Aponte

 

In memory of my little brother, Alvin, and children taken before their time

 

Dreams are never forgotten in The City That Never Sleeps.

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

 

Copyrighted 2014

 

Arigato to Grave of The Fireflies

 

I remember grief.

I have a dream of the city that never sleeps

 

It’s déjà vu late in the night. It’s difficult to keep my eyes open.

 

I’m bleeding out words. I have close up this account.

 

I died in 1993 after the bombing of the WTC.

 

I was held down on the floors of higher education and beaten on the back of my head. I had much to live for in the moment I met a painter who wanted to marry me. Her love made me feel like a tourist on a honeymoon in a city I saw through her bright spirit.

 

Her birthday is 9/11.

 

 Before final explosion took away memories, I experienced a phenomenon of reliving life in a blink of an eye.  I’m a schoolboy again who carried Ann Frank in his arms while shadows of burnt-out buildings and bullies fell over us in The South Bronx of America.

 

 I found A Winkle In Time.

 

I read The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury who also wrote Fahrenheit 451.

 

I loved reading at night in my bunk bed near cloud white ceiling.

 

I loved bringing to life King Arthur and his knights because the end of a righteous realm was scary to my idealistic childhood. Be a man for God’s sake.  Get a life, I was told, before it’s too late. Stop crying over what could have been and grow up already.

 

I learned everyone has his or her time to tell a story.

 

I’m not telling my story in a New York minute to you as much as I have to rehearse what to say before God and angels or extraterrestrials or to my own self be true.

 

It was time to let go of my homelessness and move away a winter of inhumanity.

 

I was sick of staring at the silent funeral parlor across an empty street. 

 

I was weary of waiting for miracle to change history for the best.

 

The End begins a memory of a bedroom and fireflies of Saint Mary’s Park, a former home of a Founding Father who wrote the words We, The People.

 

I’m home with family. I’m home in my Wonder Years.

 

There’s my pillow.

 

Time to sleep.

 

”May God bless everyone of you on the good green Earth” said an astronaut across all distances of time and space to future readers. Thank you for bringing us to life to tell our stories to children of all ages at libraries in centuries to come. From the boy I was in Camelot once upon a time, good will and peace to all on Earth.

 

Good night among mysterious fireflies.

 

Murals For Ourselves In The South Bronx of America by Daniel Angel Aponte

 

In memory of my little brother, Alvin, and children taken before their time

 

Dreams are never forgotten in The City That Never Sleeps.

 

http://poetfolio.blogspot.com

 

Copyrighted 2014

 

Arigato to Grave of The Fireflies

 

I remember grief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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