Anna, I read the news.
I want to believe it isn’t true.
Can such a fiery vixen hide within herself
A cold and undemocratic heart?
You collected secrets for Mother Russia
–Now, I want to stress “allegedly”.
Your beauty queen portrait–
Diamond tiara adorning your hair,
Speaks to a pristine lady.
Those innocent eyes could never have been party
To trading in American secrets.
They say you’re a spy;
I don’t mind.
Still, I’ll tell you all my secrets
If you stay with me tonight.

Oh Anna, you’re making headlines.
You stowed the sights in your briefcase,
Boarding the plane with intent
To sell arms to your hunter friends.
I think that’s interesting.
Maybe we can talk about it over dinner.
You’re a cute Latvian blonde,
With a petite nose and irresistibly adorable dimples.
I saw those Facebook profile photos-oh mama.
Maybe you’re a poison flower,
But I’d risk you putting some arsenic in my blintz
If you could look me in the eyes
And tell me I’m your man.
Even though you’re already married,
Please consider this poem as my proposal:
Tomorrow I’d like to take you to Brooklyn
So you can meet my mother.

AOL News: Anna Chapman
AOL News: Anna Fermanova

Snap of a ginger snap.
Twist of an Oreo cookie.
I’m not guilty.

Photo by Natasha (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/78/Happy_Cookie_Friday.PNG)

Black and white malted pigeon
Stepping unsteadily down the street,
Doesn’t seem to mind the queue
Awaiting the B82 towards Starrett City.
For a moment, he stops and stands,
Observing the Kings Highway train trestle
Spitting out dozens of pairs of feet
From its mouth, more spilling out every minute.
What a strange breed, he thinks to himself.
They stand still, without any purpose
Then disappear into large moving trees.

The pigeon resumes
His confident pecking of fruit peels
Near the overflowing garbage bin.
He claims ownership and knows it will go uncontested–
Everyone else on the sidewalk is only interested in borrowing time.
They look straight ahead
Or at the pure blue above
Instead of pointing their elongated beaks down,
Where the items of real value are just waiting to be discovered.

The autumn leaves,
Crumpled in bunches
On the pavement by the house.
A mosaic of the neighbor’s rooted tree,
Pale pinks, auburns and violets
–Cracked and dried paint on blacktop canvas.

As an adult, it’s hard not to think
The foliage is more
Nuisance than anything
Sweet or sincere.
Aging,
We begin to accept
The naiveté and the futility of sweeping
Remnants of the season
Into extra thick, black plastic Glad Bags.
Very soon another coating
Will drop down and take their place,
Inevitable,
Like garden vines in the backyard,
Making bold and repeated attempt
To rise through the soil and
Claim ownership of the wooden fence.

I walked through those pale autumn leaves today,
The warmth of the sun on my back.
Brief consideration went
To jump, or possibly to trample.
Instead,
Not wanting to ruin the image,
I simply smiled
And hopped the steps back inside.

a blip on the radar
and there you are.

An endless line of vehicles zoom on through while
The Brooklyn Faithful are waiting for the arrival of MTA buses.

UPS delivery trucks en masse, flying “V” formation while
Semis are duking it out with passenger cars for the right of way.

The Four D’s, Dunkin Donuts and the Domino’s Delivery stand
The breakfast, lunch and dinner fuel of the commuter crowd.

Next to the Gulf refill station
And it’s oh-so addictive gasoline-infused air,

Past the bend in the road lives the apartment building
Whose name is missing the second “E” in the word “Empress”.

It is an empty space, like the graveyard attached to the church.
It has moved and resurfaced to the elegant sign for Emigrant Savings Bank.

I continue to walk on while the sun bears its grip down,
The letters in the signage dripping sweat onto the cracked pavement.

The official web page for Brooklyn, New York’s Ari Berenstein, featuring his poetry, columns (coming soon) and e-books (coming soon).