March, 14, 2020 Looking Around

In Dumbo's embrace, where Brooklyn meets sky,

A symphony of stories, where dreams learn to fly.

Nestled beneath bridges, in shadow and light,

New York's heartbeat pulses, in day and in night.

Cobbled streets whisper tales of days gone by,

Where artists find solace 'neath a painted sky.

In warehouses reborn, creativity thrives,

As echoes of history dance in the archives.

From the waterfront's edge, where the river flows free,

To the skyline's ascent, where dreams dare to be.

In Dumbo's domain, where innovation's the norm,

The spirit of progress takes shape in each form.

Underneath the arches, where echoes persist,

Lies a tapestry of cultures, in harmony kissed.

From old-world traditions to modern-day flair,

In Dumbo, diversity weaves through the air.

Through bustling markets and cafes that gleam,

Where the aroma of coffee blends with the dream.

Here, time finds a rhythm, a pace of its own,

In Dumbo's expanse, where seeds of hope are sown.

So let us wander through streets paved with art,

Where every corner holds a piece of my heart.

In Dumbo, Brooklyn, where dreams take flight,

New York's magic dances in the day and the night.

#NewYork #Dumbo #Brooklyn

Pockets

When I was a little boy I was fascinated by pockets and not the kind you eat, mind you, but the ones found on pants, shirts, jackets, and even backpacks.

It all began when I received my very first jacket with pockets. My eyes widened with wonder as I discovered the little secret compartments that could hold all sorts of treasures. From shiny rocks to colorful marbles, from toy cars to action figures, I found endless possibilities in those pockets.

But soon, I realized that there were never enough pockets to hold everything I wanted to carry. So, armed with determination and a stapler, I set out to solve this problem.

I would rummage through old clothes and scrap fabric, collecting bits and pieces of material that I could repurpose. With nimble fingers and a creative mind, I began to staple extra pockets onto all my jackets.

Soon, it seemed like every inch of my jacket was covered in pockets of all shapes and sizes.

But I wasn't done yet. Oh no, I had big plans for my pockets.

Into those pockets, I stashed my trusty squirt guns for epic battles with imaginary foes. I tucked away my binoculars for bird-watching expeditions in the backyard. And of course, there were always a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches tucked away for when hunger struck during my outdoor adventures.

But pockets didn't just hold toys and snacks; they also held tools for exploration. My compass guided me through the dense woods behind the farmer's field in back of my house, while a flashlight illuminated hidden paths and mysterious caves.

With my pockets filled to the brim, I embarked on countless adventures, exploring every nook and cranny of my little corner of the world. Whether I was searching for buried treasure, tracking wild animals, or simply pretending to be a brave explorer, I was always prepared, thanks to my trusty pockets.

And as I grew older, I never lost my love for pockets. Though his jackets may have changed, my adventurous spirit remained the same. To this day, whenever I slip my hands into the pockets of my coat, I can't help but smile at the memories of my childhood adventures and the magic that those little fabric compartments held. So if you ever see me out and about, ask me what is in my pocket today…

Beauty In Brownness.

In the lush region of Izabal, Guatemala, nestled amidst the vibrant greenery, there existed a unique banana plant. Unlike its counterparts that sprouted from seeds, this banana was raised from a bulb, adding an extraordinary tale to its journey. Patiently nurtured for 9 to 12 months, it grew into a splendid fruit, basking under the warm Guatemalan sun.

When the time came, it was carefully harvested and packed into a cardboard box, alongside other bananas, destined for a long voyage. Its destination? Oregon, Wisconsin, a land far from the tropical embrace it was accustomed to. But before embarking on its 2779-mile journey, it was placed in hibernation, shielded by the cold embrace of storage, preserving its freshness for the expedition ahead.

The banana traversed miles upon miles, passing through the hands of over a dozen individuals along the way. Each touch, each transfer, a step closer to its ultimate fate.

Finally, the banana arrived in Oregon, awaiting its purpose amidst a sea of its yellow brethren. And then, one fateful morning, a woman's hand gently plucked it from the bunch. She saw something special in this banana, a connection perhaps, as she decided it would be her nourishment for the day.

But fate had another plan. The woman, in her kindness, placed the banana into her child's backpack, unknowingly setting the stage for an unexpected twist in its journey. When the child retrieved it and began to peel back its skin, they were met with a sight that seemed disappointing at first glance—brown patches adorned its surface.

Yet, what they didn't know was that this brown hue was not a mark of decay, but rather a sign of ripeness. As the banana ripened, it transformed, becoming sweeter, softer, and more aromatic with each passing moment. In fact, the brown hue was the very essence of its perfection, the culmination of its journey from Guatemala to Oregon.

Though, as life itself has many unexpected turns the child discarded the banana missing the savoring sweetness that awaited within. At that moment, the banana realized that its journey, with all its twists and turns, had led it to not fulfilling its purpose—to bring nourishment and joy to those who crossed its path, even if they didn't quite understand its brown beauty at first sight.

Abutilon Biltmore BallGown

In Oregon, Wisconsin, where nature's artistry lies,

There blooms a flower, a wonder to the eyes,

The Abutilon Biltmore BallGown, is named,

With tiger stripes and beauty untamed.

Amidst the fields, it gracefully sways,

A marvel from afar, a sight to amaze,

Its dangling lanterns, a radiant hue,

An orchestra of colors, a dream come true.

In gardens adorned with nature's delight,

This Chinese lantern dances day and night,

Its blooms, a symphony of shape and grace,

Captivating hearts, in every place.

Its petals whisper tales of distant lands,

Of China's mountains, where it firmly stands,

A treasure rare, a gem from the East,

In Wisconsin's embrace, it found its feast.

The gentle breeze, a partner in its dance,

As sunlight weaves through leaves, a trance,

It glows like fireflies on a summer's eve,

A spectacle of wonder, it does achieve.

Oh, Abutilon Biltmore BallGown, fair and bright,

Your tiger stripes fill the world with light,

In Oregon's embrace, you found your home.

Alex

In the realm where artistry unfolds,

Amidst colors and stories yet untold,

A canvas blooms, a masterpiece to be,

The birth of beauty, by Alex Haunty.

In whispered strokes, with gentle care,

A world awakens, a realm laid bare,

From humble brush, with dreams imbued,

"FlowerWorks" creates, an enchanting mood.

Behold the petals, like sun-kissed gold,

In vibrant hues, their tales unfold,

Each brushstroke dances, in harmony's embrace,

A symphony of nature, with elegance and grace.

Crimson roses, fiery and bold,

Symbolize passion, their tales unfold,

Their velvet touch, a tender plea,

To cherish love's embrace, eternally.

A symbol of innocence, bathed in soft light,

Its fragile petals, a delicate ballet,

Whispering serenity in each petal's sway.

A playful exuberance, forever at play,

Their carefree spirits, an ode to joy,

Inviting the heart to dance and enjoy.

With colors diverse, in a vibrant chase,

They speak of resilience, a spirit unbroken,

A symbol of HOPE, through trials unspoken.

Through "FlowerWorks," a tapestry divine,

Alex Haunty's soul, in each stroke, aligns,

With an artist's vision, his dreams unfurled,

A symphony of blossoms, an awe-inspiring world.

So, let us gaze upon this floral delight,

Let our spirits soar, take a moment's flight,

For in each brushstroke, a story blooms,

In "FlowerWorks," a masterpiece looms.

Tomato Sandwich

In a garden bathed in golden light,

Where laughter danced with colors bright,

Leona, my mother, and I, Frankie, side by side,

Picking tomatoes with love and pride.

Under the cloudless sky's warm embrace,

Her grace and care, a guiding embrace,

Leona's hands so gentle, so wise,

Nurtured the earth where love would rise.

With each pluck, a ruby gem was found,

Tomatoes ripe, without a flaw or sound,

Their fragrance filled the summer air,

As mother's love surrounded us there.

In this garden of memories sweet,

A bond between us was replete,

For in the soil, our roots entwined,

A family's love forever bind.

Back inside, the kitchen's warm glow,

Mom crafted a sandwich to bestow,

A feast of tomatoes, fresh and red,

With love, she spread the slices of bread.

In each bite, a taste of love's delight,

A moment cherished, shining bright,

Her hands, a gift of love's connection,

Filling my heart with deep affection.

At that moment, I felt so blessed,

A mother's love, a treasure chest,

For in the garden, we did bloom,

And in her care, my heart found room.

So here's to my mother, my guiding star,

Whose love and kindness will stretch afar,

And as we pick tomatoes with glee,

In my daughter's garden,

Where new memories begin.

I'll cherish the moments, past and present.

Windturbine Windmill

Amidst the fields, a windmill old,

Its creaking sails of tales untold.

A sentinel of days gone by,

It whispers secrets to the sky.

Beside it stands a turbine tall,

Sleek and modern, answering the call.

With blades that spin, they harness the breeze,

A dance of progress, with effortless ease.

Two icons of the time, they stand as one,

Past and future beneath the sun.

A windmill's charm, a turbine's might,

Together they weave a tale of flight.

Alter Ego

In sun's embrace, a dance of light,

A silhouette emerges, dark as night.

A faithful companion, where I go,

My shadow's tale, I'll seek to know.

Sunbeams meet my form with glee,

Stretching long, proud, and free.

A dance of angles, a play of space,

My shadow's presence, an elegant grace.

It mirrors my movements, mimics my play,

In the light of day, it's here to stay.

A companion in solitude, by my side,

In the realm of shadows, it does reside.

A reminder of the bond I share,

With light and darkness, a duo is rare.

My shadow's tale, a silent art,

Etched on the canvas of every heart.

Beneath Nature's Arches,

Beneath nature's arches, a world unfolds,

A realm of wonder, where stories are told.

Trees reach high, forming canopies grand,

Guiding the way with a gentle hand.

Sunlight filters through leaves above,

Casting shadows like whispers of love.

A tapestry woven of green and gold,

In nature's embrace, my spirit is bold.

Arches of branches, a rustic embrace,

Nature's cathedral, a sacred space.

With each step I take, a connection is found,

Walking through arches where beauty abounds.

The Bridge Less Traveled

There stood a walking bridge that seemed to shy away from the attention of travelers. Unlike the bustling highway nearby, this bridge was dappled with moss and adorned with climbing vines, its wooden planks worn smooth by the occasional footsteps that ventured upon it.

Legend had it that this bridge was a passage to a world of forgotten tales, where time moved at a different pace and whispers of forgotten dreams echoed through the air. Few knew of its existence, and even fewer dared to cross it. But one day, a curious wanderer named Grace embarked on a journey to find this bridge after hearing tales of its enchanting aura.

Grace’s steps were hesitant as she approached the bridge, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. She placed a foot on the first plank, and as if touched by magic, a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves around her, carrying with it the scent of wildflowers. With each step, the world around her transformed. The colors seemed richer in Grace’s eyes. The sounds more melodic, and time appeared to dance to a rhythm that only the bridge understood.

As Grace continued her journey across the bridge, she encountered moments frozen in time – a meadow where children played, a forgotten well with a whispered wish hanging in the air, and a tree with its roots intertwined with memories of generations past. She felt like an intruder in this world, an observer of stories that were never meant to be witnessed.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the land, Grace reached the other end of the bridge. A quaint village with cobblestone streets and cottages draped in ivy spread out before her. The villagers welcomed her with open arms, sharing stories of their lives, their hopes, and their connection to the bridge that had brought her to their world.

In the days that followed, Grace became a part of the village, weaving her own stories into the tapestry of the less-traveled bridge. She found friendship, love, and a sense of belonging she had never experienced before. Yet, she knew her time in this enchanting realm was limited.

With a heavy heart, Grace bid farewell to the village and the bridge, crossing back to her world. As her foot touched the familiar ground, she realized that the bridge had changed her forever. She carried with her the wisdom of forgotten tales and the magic of a world less traveled.

And so, Grace's own story became one that travelers would whisper about in hushed tones, as they contemplated the mysteries of the walking bridge that connected two worlds and wove destinies together in the most unexpected of ways.

In Brooklyn's heart

In Brooklyn's heart, DJ Matt K spins his art,

Beats like a river, igniting the start.

His turntables dance, his music takes flight,

From vinyl to rhythms, embracing the night.

In clubs and in alleys, his mixes enthrall,

A maestro of sound, holding souls in his thrall.

From Bedford-Stuyvesant to Williamsburg, echoes his fame,

Matt K's sonic journey, a passion aflame.

With skillful transitions, he weaves tales of sound,

A symphony of emotions, in every beat found.

Brooklyn's poet, on vinyl and stage,

DJ Matt K's magic, a musical sage.

#Brooklyn #NewYork #BedfordStuyvesant #DJ #Music

Inspired by Fred and Kate birdies

I often stop and talk with strangers, and today was no different. Today I got to meet Fred and Kate they are birdies some people call them bird watchers.

Kate did not make it into the photo, but Fred did.

Off the bike path where the sun kissed the sky,

Two birdies named Fred and Kate,

Waiting for a very special bird.

With feathers of colors, so vibrant and bold, they witnessed a story, forever to be told.

Kate the Great, they fondly called her, you see,

For her wisdom and grace in the sky's grand spree.

Fred, her dear heart , by her side did abide,

Together they soared, on this wondrous bird Discovery.

They gazed at the heavens, a canvas so wide,

As the birds of the world on their journey.

From north to the south, in a magnificent show,

A tapestry of life in a mesmerizing flow.

A spectacle of nature, a serenade.

They whispered tales of their dreams and their forever search for the Bird of their dreams.

Their hearts filled with wonder, a love without end.

As Fred and Kate rested, beneath the moon's light,

They knew in their hearts, this was a magical place.

For in the world of feathers and song so sweet,

Fred and Kate found a love that was truly complete.

In the migration of birds, they discovered their fate,

Forever entwined, Fred and Kate the Great.

And Now The Leafless Oak

Along a quiet bike path, there stood a remarkable oak tree. Unlike its neighboring trees on the other side of the bike path. This oak was peculiarly leafless, its branches barren even amid spring. But a secret set this tree apart from all the others—it possessed an extraordinary ability to produce its food through its sturdy, sinewy stems.

The bike path was home to countless creatures, from the chattering squirrels to the melodious songbirds. They often gathered beneath the leafless oak, seeking refuge from the scorching sun and gentle rain. They marveled at the tree's resilience and wondered how it managed to survive without the lush canopy of leaves that adorned its companions.

Deep within the oak's core, a complex network of veins and vessels worked tirelessly to perform a miracle each day. While other trees relied on their leaves to capture sunlight and convert it into life-sustaining energy, this oak had evolved a unique strategy. Its thick, woody stems were rich with chlorophyll, the green pigment responsible for photosynthesis.

As the sun's rays bathed the bike path, the leafless oak would stretch its gnarled branches toward the sky, exposing its naked stems to the light. Beneath the tree's bark, chlorophyll came alive, harnessing the sunlight's energy and transforming it into nourishment. It was as if the oak had its hidden garden within, where the magic of life unfolded in secret.

The bike path creatures, especially a wise old owl named Aditya, admired the oak's tenacity. Aditya often perched on the lowest branch of the leafless oak, sharing stories and wisdom with the curious critters that gathered below. He told them of the oak's remarkable journey, of how it had adapted to its unique circumstances, and how its leafless branches were a testament to nature's boundless creativity.

Seasons came and went, but the leafless oak a symbol of resilience and adaptability. In times of drought, it tapped into its deep roots to find water, sustaining itself when others withered away. During harsh winters, it provided shelter and warmth to the forest's inhabitants, offering a haven when the world outside was cold and unforgiving.

As the years passed, the leafless oak became a revered figure on the bike path, a living embodiment of nature's ingenuity. It taught the creatures of the area that even in the face of adversity, one could find a way to thrive and give back to the world. It was a reminder that beauty could exist in unconventional forms, that strength could be in the most unexpected places, and that life, like the leafless oak, could flourish through sheer determination and an unwavering connection to the source of all life, the SUN.

The Wind

The wind, a wanderer, forever roams,

Its purpose is hidden in nature's grand tome.

Why does it blow, this elemental might.

In whispers and breezes, its secrets take flight.

It blows to cool the scorching day,

Chasing the sun's relentless rays.

It ripples through fields, a gentle caress,

Bringing relief to nature's duress.

To carry seeds on silent wings,

Where new life sprouts, where beauty springs.

It scatters pollen, a vital role,

Ensuring life's cycles, a crucial goal.

To cleanse the air, to clear the sky,

Dispelling clouds, letting stars comply.

The wind's breath, a celestial brush,

Paints constellations, a cosmic hush.

To tell tales of lands it's wandered through,

From mountaintops to oceans blue.

In echoes of its journey's grace,

It whispers stories from place to place.

To herald storms with thunderous might,

A dance of elements in the dead of night.

The wind declares that change is near,

Awakening awe, and sometimes fear.

So, why the wind blows, we may not entirely know,

But in its mysteries, its endless flow,

It shapes our world, from high to low,

A force of nature, both friend and foe.

The Way We Lived

In the days of my youth, the way we lived,

In simpler times, our youth we'd give,

Living on #bolognasandwiches and

#BazookaBubblegum

Skipping stones Once, twice, thrice

We rode in pickups, wind in our hair,

No #bikehelmets or #sunscreen

not a worry, not a care.

No #waterbottles to carry on with.

On the tater totter's teeter-tottering beam,

Underneath the endless, sunlit gleam,

The asphalt was our safety net, so fine,

We laughed, we played, in days so benign.

Three-degree burns on that metal slide,

Yet with fearless hearts, we'd never hide,

We body-surfed down our staircase,

Adventures are boundless, in that special place.

On rooftops high, we'd gather, we'd dare,

Beneath the stars, with the cool night air,

No #airbags no #seatbelts we'd ride free,

With youthful spirits, we danced with glee.

We inhaled #secondhandsmoke, it's true,

A different world, the skies weren't so blue,

Sunburns etched stories on our skin,

In the golden summers, we'd revel in.

Mercury thermometers, our parents held,

Innocent times, where tales are seldom quelled,

Sports drinks from hoses, a thirst to appease,

In the backyard, under the ancient trees.

Siblings as babysitters, close and dear,

Station wagons, playpens, so crystal clear,

In the rear window, we'd lay our head,

In dreams of adventures, our hearts were fed.

Fathers let us drive, their trust we'd gain,

Cooking unsupervised, amidst the rain,

No fence around trampolines, we'd soar,

Innocence and freedom, forevermore.

No cell phones then to contact us afar,

We lived by the sun, the moon, each star,

At 10 PM, the TV's message would impart,

"Do you know where your children are?" in every heart.

In the tapestry of youth, these memories we weave,

In the way we lived, we laugh, and still believe,

Though times have changed, our spirits are strong,

These moments in our hearts, forever belong.

Roaming, surveying, exploring, discovering, Living, Learning, laughing…

What I Was Made For

I was made for more than fleeting days,

A purpose woven in mysterious ways,

In this grand tapestry of life's grand chore,

I'll find the reason I was made for.

To touch a heart with kindness, lend a hand,

To help a soul in need, to understand,

To spread a light where shadows tend to pour,

This is part of what I was made for.

To dream, to reach, to boldly strive,

To keep the flame of hope and faith alive,

To chase my passions to their very core,

This is something I was made for.

To love, to laugh, to mend and heal,

To comfort those who yearn, to truly feel,

To share in others' joy, their burdens, sore,

In compassion, I discover what I was made for.

To learn, to grow, to stumble and rise,

To see the world with ever-wondering eyes,

To find my purpose, explore, and explore,

This is the journey I was made for.

In moments of doubt, when skies are gray,

I'll remember the path that guides my way,

For in this life, a purpose I'll explore,

Discovering what I was truly made for.

Charles chips

In a quiet corner of our friendly street,

Lives Amy, with a heart so kind and sweet.

She gifted me a treasure from the past,

A tin of chips, a memory that will last.

One day, in her kitchen, I did see,

A tin of #Charleschips, nostalgic glee.

I shared my childhood tales with a sigh,

And in her eyes, a twinkle, by and by.

With warmth, the very next day she left the tin on my doorstep,

A gesture that just felt so pure and right.

It brought back the memories I cherish.

Now in my office, it finds its new home,

That tin of chips, no longer left alone.

It holds the taste of laughter, days gone by,

And Amy's kindness, like a clear blue sky.

With every crunch, a memory's recalled,

Of childhood dreams, adventures uninstalled.

A neighbor's act of love, so genuine,

Has made this simple tin a prized design.

So here's to Amy, with a heart so pure,

A neighbor's kindness, of this, I'm sure.

In simple gifts, the sweetest treasures hide,

And in her friendship, joy flows like a tide.

Thank you Amy Duerk


The Stolen Bike

In the heart of Brooklyn, where dreams intertwine,

A tale of a stolen bike, a moment unkind.

As I walked down the streets, my heart heavy with sorrow,

My trusty companion, gone by the morrow.

I whispered a spell to the stars up high,

To heal the wounds, to dry each tear's cry.

"O cosmic forces, lend your strength to me,

Rekindle my spirit, set my soul free."

Amidst the bustling city, no one seemed to see,

The tears on my cheeks, my heart's silent plea.

I walked alone, a broken soul in the mist of mourning.

I cast another spell, to mend the unseen pain,

To soothe my soul's weeping, to cleanse the stain.

"O universe, embrace my suffering cries,

Wrap me in your warmth, under starry skies."

Visible tears, I shed along the way,

In the city that never sleeps, where dreams sway.

No one asked why my heart had been broken,

As I journeyed through the morning rush, heartbroken and bent.

In the midst of chaos, I found my way home,

Through spells and tears, I was no longer alone.

For sometimes in silence, the heartache can mend,

And in the stillness of daylight, my soul found a friend.

Though my bike was stolen, and the city was blind,

In my heart, a resilience, like stars in the mind.

Brooklyn's friends embraced me.

I carried my pain, my tears, 'neath the Brooklyn sky.

The Last Lifeguard

The Last #Lifeguard Chair #story and photo by #FrankGCaruso as I wander the shore early this morning with my #daughter

Upon the shore, where waves and dreams collide,

Stood the last lifeguard chair, with fading pride.

Once a sentinel, towering tall and grand,

Now weathered and worn, like the shifting sand.

Perched above the surf, it stood so strong,

A place where lifeguards watched, all day long.

Its paint, once vibrant, now chipped and scarred,

A symbol of summers, both near and far.

From its lofty seat, it saw it all,

The laughter, the tears, the rise and fall.

Children's laughter, in the sun's warm embrace,

The joy of families, filling the space.

It witnessed lovers strolling hand in hand,

And solitary beachcombers, on the sand.

As tides rolled in and out, a ceaseless dance,

The lifeguard chair, in silent vigilance.

But seasons change, and time, it marches on,

And the lifeguard chair, its time was gone.

No longer needed, it faced the end,

As lifeguards moved on, around the bend.

Now it stands, a sentinel from the past,

A memory of summers, fading fast.

The last lifeguard chair, with stories to tell,

Of days when it stood, guarding well.

Though it may weather, and time may wear,

The lifeguard chair holds memories rare.

A silent witness to the lake and sun,

A symbol of summers, where memories are spun.

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