By Tom H. Brooks 3


Autumn leaves
of golden-orange and brown
tumbling down desolate avenues
that go nowhere-
decrepit and crumbling
at the edge of time-
mournful horn of the ghost ship
haunting cry of the unseen bird
flies buzzing in dirty alleys
cicadas singing in hissing underbrush…
high noon
the fields
are green and yellow fire
the sky
is a deep and limitless
turquoise blue.
Jet planes crawl
through the vast emptiness
at the edge
of windblown salt marshes
gulls glide on a cool
howling breeze.
A lone raven
a cryptic squawk
hidden mysteries.
The world groans
with the sounds of industry
the land is tired
the air is heavy
the sky is weighed down
under a load of invisible filth.
The waters are rising ominously
ghosts are all around us-
the air grows slowly colder
and the world grows meaner…
oppressed and angry-
yes, the waters will rise…
the purifying waters will
drown us all in our own ignorance…
I sit here in Staten Island,
at the edge of the world,
contemplating these things,
in the autumn of my life…



(written WAY before that so-called “Hurricane Sandy” superstorm slammed the East Coast and Staten Island…)




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