Here is a poem of mine that was originally published in Colorado University's literary journal, Square One. I lived in NYC 5 years and it is my tribute after 9/11. Formatting was tricky, but essentially, this should appear as two columns.

City


In the cold quiet finger tip toe along the lifeline
of a moonless midnight stopping short too soon
You visit me. a lost black glove
Your streets are pressed into my feet kicked aside
like a message who had a hand in it?
wedged into a fist. This death
Round and round laying bare the foundation
needles on my soul the collective heart
play your sounds in people pouring
wax concentric circles: across the pavement
stilettos scrape cement in step
bells and horns and laughter shoulder to shoulder
like breaking glass dodging
screaming bag lady a million eyes darting
fights for her corner. scanning the sky
Irrevocable charisma searching for guideposts –
beast and diamond diva crushed signs,
assailant and saint forging a road
mood depending across the steps
or my place at the right time of ghosts
of crescendo that hover
inviting hearts to dine like an echo of falling bodies.
at your banquet. Jump to your death!
Descent: Run for your life!
hanging from a subway bar White sheath
my chest is smashed for the broken sword
against a stranger’s back glistening gone
rush hour soaked under the steady stream
rocking of a fire hose
caterpillar rising in memory
catapulted cloud of stench
surging, submerged larger than life
in the veins the will
straining at the turns longing to turn blood into wine
groaning kneeling at the feet of
scraping steel sparks time into understanding
the lunge irreversible truth
biting at the straightaway the battering, smattering
Emerging pieces of what remains; your
gush of air streets carve a map upon my feet
cutting winter smell urging me forward
bury my hands a little deeper like a mantra
pockets of light like a muscle
tracing a path too close to call it
safe.

Jennifer Svendsen Delaney

During the summer, other than early morning hours, it is hard for me to get any writing done because I'm interrupted by my 12 year old daughter for one reason or another. She's fairly independent but still requires attention, especially just when I am on a roll, completely immersed in writing a story or poem. Today she has a friend over and I am amazed at how much more I am accomplishing. The girls began with a slip and slide, then out came the soap and finally they found an inflatable chair that dulled the impact and took them a lot farther faster. I even managed to slip in a summer nap - one of those delicious face down snoozes across the chenille bedspread, with a breeze from the fan sweeping across my body. Of course I was awakened only 20 minutes into it. "Mom? Mom? Where are the potato chips?"