Where the ghost of ebbets fields
whispers echoes of yesterday
under the boardwalks of coney island
where the brownstones mark
the neighborhood, and
the accents define the boundary

where the people of color, no color, all colors
touching and making new colors
new world, old word, third world colliding
in a rainbow symphony of humanity

where dreams start, end, new stories, beginnings,
old stories, roots, tales, culture and myths
redefining, meshing and metamorphosis

the place of many languages
spoken over, within and part of English
creating new words, meaning and expansions

where American is found and
redefined in a cultural war
of collision and rebirth
effecting both old and new and
slowly moving towards a global
understanding of a new self

brookly is like the phoenix
in the destruction and rebirth
of the house of tomorrow
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Ramesh Rai 26 September 2013
Indeed a beautiful write. I love your ink.
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Ah, this takes me back to one of many of my NYC stomping grounds as a rowdy yet harmless teen in the late 70's Of course Ebbets was long gone...and the Mets had already won their 1st Championship some 8 years before I switched my turf from Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn. Now, some 35 years later, livin' in the burbs, just a reach or two from the Bronx & my New York Yankees...It is just like that ole' cliche, as it seems like only yesterday...An excellent write, Alfonso & as Bob Hope used to sing (off-key) when I was all of 12 years old...Thanks for the memories! outside and still not too far from
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