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Moving on….

To my beloved readers: I am not going to continue to contribute more to this blog. I will not be taking it down, so feel free to browse back through all 1177 poems, but my third blog is a much more rewarding site for m. I get an average of 500 views a day there and seldom get more than about 150 views A WEEK from this one. And that would be a big week.

So, please come see all my future contributions at and search my name: Brent Kincaid. You will find nearly 400 there, and up until today, they are the same as the poems posted here since Valentine’s Day of 2014.

I am extremely grateful for your viewership thus far and hope you will come see my stuff on

Brent Kincaid




This was taken about halfway up the block on the east side of Broadway, between 79th and 80th Street. It's at the north end of the "Filene's Basement" store on the corner, and it's a place where I've often seen homeless people holding up a sign that asks for assistance... With very rare exceptions, I haven't photographed these homeless people; it seems to me that they're in a very defensive situation, and I don't want to take advantage of their situation. But something unusual was happening here: the two women (who were actually cooperating, and acting in tandem, despite the rather negative demeanor of the woman on the left) were giving several parcels of food to the young homeless man on the right. I don't know if the women were bringing food from their own kitchen, or whether they had brought it from a nearby restaurant. But it was obviously a conscious, deliberate activity, and one they had thousght about for some time... What was particularly interesting was that they didn't dwell, didn't try to have a conversation with the young man;they gave him they food they had brought, and promptly walked away. As they left, I noticed the young man peering into his bag (the one you see on the ground beside him in this picture) to get a better sense of the delicious meal these two kind women had brought him... ********************** This is part of an evolving photo-project, which will probably continue throughout the summer of 2008, and perhaps beyond: a random collection of "interesting" people in a broad stretch of the Upper West Side of Manhattan -- between 72nd Street and 104th Street, especially along Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue. I don't like to intrude on people's privacy, so I normally use a telephoto lens in order to photograph them while they're still 50-100 feet away from me; but that means I have to continue focusing my attention on the people and activities half a block away, rather than on what's right in front of me. I've also learned that, in many cases, the opportunities for an interesting picture are very fleeting -- literally a matter of a couple of seconds, before the person(s) in question move on, turn away, or stop doing whatever was interesting.  So I've learned to keep the camera switched on (which contradicts my traditional urge to conserve battery power), and not worry so much about zooming in for a perfectly-framed picture ... after all, once the digital image is uploaded to my computer, it's pretty trivial to crop out the parts unrelated to the main subject. For the most part, I've deliberately avoided photographing bums, drunks, drunks, and crazy people. There are a few of them around, and they would certainly create some dramatic pictures; but they generally don't want to be photographed, and I don't want to feel like I'm taking advantage of them. I'm still looking for opportunities to take some "sympathetic" pictures of such people, which might inspire others to reach out and help them. We'll see how it goes ... The only other thing I've noticed, thus far, is that while there are lots of interesting people to photograph, there are far, far, *far* more people who are *not* so interesting. They're probably fine people, and they might even be more interesting than the ones I've photographed ... but there was just nothing memorable about them.

Why do I see angels
That no one else can see?
They look like people
Just like you and like me.
They are everywhere
I have ever chanced to go.
They work their magic secretly
So nobody else can know.

I see them helping people
With subtle acts of kindness
And don’t seem to suffer from
What is a common blindness.
They don’t look for rewards
Or the sound of public applause.
They share with generosity
And quietly work at their cause.

They don’t have wings
But they are angels nonetheless.
They fit the titled perfectly.
We really don’t have to guess.
I’m beginning to think
Maybe I should not even try
To figure this one out
For me to understand why.

Why do I see angels
That no one else can see?
They look like people
Just like you and like me.
They are everywhere
I have ever chanced to go.
They work their magic secretly
So nobody else can know.


Whistling Daddy

I want to learn to whistle
Like my daddy did.
I wanted to learn it since
I was a little kid
You know, you put two fingers
Just inside your lips.
No, not the whole fingers
Just the very tips.

With that kind of whistle
I could stop a fight
Or call a taxi to me
On a rainy night.
I could whistle while applauding
Let performers know
Whatever they were doing
I enjoyed it so.

It works well during sports
Like a referee’s call.
The way I whistle nobody
Would hear it at all.
If I had a doggie I could call him
Then I whistle really loud
And he would come running
I would be so proud.

And of course I could tell
Somebody walking by
That they were pretty hot and
They had caught my eye.
But if I try to do that now,
They have to be
Not further than a couple
Of feet from me.

You’ve heard that kind of whistle
In shows on your TV.
I wish that kind of whistle
Could come from me.
So, I wish I could whistle
Like my daddy could.
Maybe someday I will learn.
Knock on wood.


Kid with handcuffs on hands

Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.
Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.

If your children are prisoners
And raised to have no voice
They grow up untutored
In how to make a choice.
If questioning is not allowed
How will they ever learn?
This is how we teach them
That frozen fire can burn.

Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.

If saying no is tantamount
To picking up a weapon
Then sooner or later
Their rebellion will deafen.
The children cannot exist
In a world that makes them whole
If they are raised and treated
As if they had no soul.

Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.

So ask yourself some questions
About what you were taught.
Some family traditions are
Better abandoned and fought.
Is there any act a child can do
That needs a slap across the face?
If not then there may be
No hope for love in our race.

Frozen fire
Never said a word
Muted choir
Always seen and never heard.
Don’t react
The control is not subliminal.
Trained in guilt
And treated like a criminal.



They badgered me, berated me.
They beat me and they hated me.
They seemed to want me to die
Too soon, then, so did I.

I was different, and that was the reason.
Too many saw that as a form of treason.

I had to adhere to the boundaries
That were set for us artificially
They had no reference to reality;
More to some kind of elite tyranny.

And, I still find it horribly strange
That very little has changed.
The rules are still very much
Incredibly socially out of touch.

Strive to be elite or be beaten
And ultimately, almost literally eaten
By the swarm of mindless fools
That go on defending the rules

That allow children to be thugs
And, come to school to sell drugs;
That let the criminals escape
And, turn a blind eye to rape
And abuse and battering
But keep the bullshit clattering
At PTA, school board and council meetings
More concerned with politics
Than the real-time subjects
Such as kids afraid of attending
Because the battlefield is never ending.


Eternal Queen

There was an elegant sissy, from New York City
Or maybe Rome or New Orleans.
He was a spectacular fag, but didn’t do drag at all;
Falling somewhere in between that category
Of glorious ladies and men of the day.
A queen with no throne nor entourage scene,
Camouflaging himself in skin-tight trousers,
Spectacular coats and jackets,
Packets of sachet in his pockets
To give him a scent of an unusual gent.
As if he had a choice in the matter.

He had a delicate way with his manner,
His hands and his eyes touching gracefully
As if not to disturb the dust on the mind,
Often very unkind, he used his tongue slicing
And dicing those who offended his senses
When such dared to step on his train
Invisibly dragging behind him, around him
Keeping his visitors at bay, a few feet away
Like proper subjects, courtiers to his grace
His face locked in a grin; hiding all within
The secrets protected by laden witticisms
Criticisms if you misbehave, saving smiles;
Handing out compliments like cookies.

There was always a waving of hands,
The arms caught in the wind like cornstalks.
For a moment. Then catching, ending like feathers
Settling together, resting as if cradling a baby
One hip thrown out, the head to one side
As if listening; hearing a devil’s good joke,
Smoking a constant cigarette, the ends never wet
Laying the tip on the lip like a kiss
His face slightly lifted so the smoke will drift
Away from his half-lidded cynical eyes.

The talk could be varied, of Tom, Dick or Harry
He would call women men and vice versa
Saying, Robert is a bitch woman is she.
He then waiting your laughter, hesitating
Seldom laughing himself, having said it all
Heard it all, done it all, had them all

No fertile male soil left unspoiled by his touch
Just entirely too much for one man to handle,
No woman to compare, he lived alone somewhere
Coming to the bars each night, a familiar sight
Drinking, but not seeming drunk,
Never sunk so low that he staggered,
Still swaggered after hours at the trough
Not so much as a slur or a cough.

He knew all the jokes that could be made
From a seemingly innocent mistake
Taking a word here and there and trading
Raising a regal eyebrow, somehow changing
Restating the meaning leaning it toward the crotch
Watching the listener’s face, sensing the disgrace;
Granting himself the luxury of the infrequent howl
His majesty could keen like an un-oiled machine
Setting his victim’s nerves and gooseflesh to snap
Giving his udderless chest a slap, he would go on
Make more of the jest, leave his victim no rest
And the mourners to offer their apologies.
Words such as that are not for ladies
Such as this infamous old queen.

The old spirit held on after the body was near gone
Propelling it nightly to appear on the scene.
Mean children would taunt him, just as he taught them
And waving their arms like cornstalks, cackle like hens
And tease him again, then resume cruising the men
Hurting the once regal spirit more with their disdain
Than beating him, or cheating him; ignoring him,
They dealt him a blow he never could abide
That fear he kept inside, all those years, the tears,
Still left un-cried, after he died, in his room somewhere.
He has left to be shared, the way he fluffed his hair,
The off-color joke, spoken in a strange lady’s voice
Something like a boy’s, not like a man’s;
That flutter of the hands and the stance
Still copied today, by the splinter-group gays
That straight people think we all are
Is all that remains of a star once seen;
The seldom lamented, well-imitated, eternal queen.




Sitting in my fifty six Chevy
The top down and feeling good.
I love driving in the city
Like I never believed I would.
Girls and guys scope my car
And they wish they had one.
It has a few primer spots but
The car is far from a bad one.

I love my fifty six Chevy
The best one ever made.
Three speeds, six cylinders
Ford never made the grade!

The don’t make them now
They way that they used to.
They’re not made of solid steel
Like the older classic used do.
You kept up with the fluids
Changed the tires when had to.
Give up my wonderful Chevrolet?
Dude, I’d be absolutely mad to.

I love my fifty six Chevy
Never a bit of car trouble.
It’s so much like driving in
A mid-century auto bubble.

It doesn’t have the modern stuff
Like air bags and cruise control
But, still it comes fully equipped
With clout and a whole lot of soul.
Punch it on the straight-away
And watch the other cars go by.
It runs better after half a century
Than most modern cars I can buy.

I love my fifty six Chevy
Much more fun than all the rest.
Back then they made the cars
With stamina and a lot of zest!
It’s a beauty from another day.
Don’t try to take my car away.
It’s bigger, and a bit more heavy,
But I still love my fifty six Chevy!