Poetry
Poem to C.
By Ben Shaberman
Published in The Soliloquist, Fall 2026 issue
You think like I dream,
in little broken riddles,
senseless and fleeting, yet
obsessive, compelling.
Each moment for you
is a new adventure
where the pirate walks the plank
and pops out a hero
in a strange new ocean.
Maybe he’ll swim
and maybe he won’t.
Where are you now
(though your now is gone
in seconds)?
Even the bravest explorer
has a map, a compass,
a conquest.
Do you dream like I think,
in well-thought plans,
an eye on the distance,
confident,
found?
Ascension
by Ben Shaberman
Published in The Soliloquist, Fall 2026 issue
You sat alone, rumpled in an unfolded metal chair
Before a shrine of Tiparillo tips and toothpicks
Stuffed in the remains of a TV dinner
Fractured Fairytales in black and white
Flickered and rolled -- the horizontal unheld
Abandoned by your only lover, my mother
A journeyman forever stalled
Your fate seemingly sealed in dinge and dust
But a crowd emerged from the ether
(Or was it through your front door?)
As I gently hugged my pillow
Your agnostic saviors bearing
Conversation and compassion
A glorious wave of humanity
Flowing to you from my pre-dawn brain dump
Then slowly you rose above them
Standing at attention, looking up
No wings, no cape
Just Aviators and a smile
So light, full of light
Like an unfurling daisy
Through the roof, toward the heavens
Just where you always wanted to be
Just where you belonged
An Infinity of Galoshes
By Ben Shaberman
Published in Broken Tribe Review – 2024 volume 1
A haberdasher’s rhetorical plea
For his motherless lode
“Everything Must Go”
The scourge of wide poly neckwear
The curse of flared lapels
Boxes of boxcar boxer shorts
An infinity of galoshes
He’s thinking “What was I thinking?”
Never thinking it would come to this
His purge now wrapped
In a flimsy cloak of opportunity
If bold earth tones is your thing
Or the specter of a funereal deal
On the almost dead
Raises an eyebrow
Browsers, scavengers, loiterers
Will wander through
Like ghosts on the wing
Moving faster than the merchandise
In due time
Shelves will be cleared
Carpets rolled
Doors bolted
Forgiveness mattering not
In darkness and dust
For the haberdasher
Like all kings
Will be forsaken in the end
For pennies on the dollar
Manhattan, November 15
by Ben Shaberman
Published in NYC Poetry Magazine
Dawn comes with crashing waves of doubt.
A sliver of grey peeks through hotel curtains.
I blink. Where am I?
Small me in the messy metropolis.
Down, down, down.
Proverbial descent to the bottom.
To the long wail of a siren.
The cracking of concrete.
A scream unfolding into laughter.
Italians don't make pizzas anymore!
A giggling beard holds up a skyscraper.
I go up the fifties.
Through smoke and horns.
The prestidigitation of a whistling policeman.
I arrive at the southern end of the six-mile loop.
Refuge. The air of horse shit beckons.
I turn right. Counterclockwise.
Into a river of Gotham's corpuscles.
A steam engine of a runner.
I puff and creak forward.
Finding heat.
Finding breath.
Finding rhythm.
By East 97th, a steady pace.
Rolling over benevolent hills.
Sustenance. Solitude.
Harlem – the apex, awaits.
From a ridge on my right, a dog.
Respectably furred in brown, beige, and grey.
It hurries knowingly across the road ahead.
The animal glances at me. I feel its wild.
No, no, no — not a dog.
Coyote. Our eyes lock momentarily.
Like a god seeing itself in a mirror.
For the first time.
But bound to our journeys.
We are gone.
Returning down the West Side.
Back in the current of souls.
The Park lights up in sun.
Flutters and flurries in gold.
I am sailing. I am still.
Neither here nor there.