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Best City Poems

Below are the all-time best City poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of city poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Details | City Poem | |

9 11

                                    
                                                               
                             America the Free  ~             America the Brave ~
                           Freedom with price              Capitalism attacked
                            the many taken                   hearts broken still
                              one World                           try to rebuild
                            sadness and tears               fall hard with fears  
                            guilt by association             many accused still
                             souls evaporated                shattered dreams 
                            tears fall on innocence          left with anger 
                             The proud fearless             knew the inevitable
                              policeman fireman             many lives lost
                            grieving does not stop           12 years later    
                               New York city once          proud  & shameless 
                             refusing to let fears in          protecting ours 
                                left in shock still              question's unanswered                    
                               nothing learned                     nothing gained  
                                ready to attack                   many left behind
                              anger greets denial              anger meets rage 
                               unacceptable still                 refusing new love 
                            wanting days to rewind           let us go back in time 
                              acceptance  allowing           the victims leave in peace
                              the brave taken young           leaving us sadly old
                               haunting dreams                     lost spirits dwell
                               no answers to hate            never forgetting that day
                               Evil entered suddenly              unforgiving fate
                                entering our City                we stand with the fallen
                                 How to fix                            how do we Change 




           
            This can be read many different ways ~ This is a poem I am so proud to write ~









          


Details | City Poem | |

I dreamed a dream of You

Yesterday I dreamed a dream,
that had no end.
You in your white gown, and long, black hair flowing.
You were calling my name.
I heard you, but I couldn't reach you!

And when I say your soul was tainted.
You went out in the night life.
You dressed in your black, evening ball gown.
You danced till the Red Sun came out, over the horizon.

You smiled at me.
A flame in my heart burned red hot!
My knees and hands shook with nerves;
Nerves of love and joy.
I blew you a kiss,
but you turned away!
Oh, please don't turn away from me,
for I would die, if it happened again!

Your beautiful and golden heart showed me the truth.
The truth that every gentleman wants to hear.
I've seen you walk the streets,
in the blue dawn of August.
As I followed you, you stopped and looked at me.
You smiled so beautifully, and my heart fluttered into oblivion!

You walked with your friends and I went my way.
I couldn't find a single trace of you that day.
I cried out "Why did I leave her like this?!"
I looked for you, all over the courtyards and town squares!
Yet no sight of your beauty.
... No sight of your golden heart, that I hold so dear to mine.
Where did you go?
Why did you leave?
Why did I leave... that is the question!

I should have stayed by your side,
till the ends of time.

Yet I had left.
Why...?

One gloomy and parish midnight.
I came along a road,
and soon found myself in front of a wayward cafe.
Smiling faces all around me.
I spotted a beautiful face that outstood all the other faces around me.
It was yours.

Your face brought me to sanity and I went over too you!
You spotted me and tried to run!
I caught you in the dirty hallway and pulled you in.

Our eyes met and I fell in love once again.
Sanity re-entered my mind, body and soul.
I kissed you and you kissed back.
You held my hand, and we left the cafe and walked down the street.

The street was gloomy, yet we together brightened the dark street.
We went back to the lit up city streets, of the lands filled with smiling faces,
and we fell in love and slept together.

You lay there in my restless arms and I gave you a sweet kiss,
upon your sweet and soft head.
Your dark hair was sweet smelling and felt of silk.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep with you,
there in my arms and we dreamed together
till the morning came and woke me up,
and took you away from my weak and weary arms.

I dreamed a dream of you.

Details | City Poem | |

Where the City Folk Live

WHERE THE CITY FOLK LIVE

At the confluence of the cultures 
Where the politics ebb and flow
The tide of humanity crashes
Against their collective soul

The spires of religions
And posters of beliefs
Crush against each other
Through the weave of city streets

Registered colours of commerce
And trade mark tags of youth
Line the valleys of glass and steel
On floor, and wall, and roof

The constant clangs of progress
Idle growls of restricted motion
Drift across the green spaces
Invading every moment

The scent of communal sweat
Wafts upon the breeze
From the fires of exotic dishes
And the fumes of commercial needs

Feel free to swim the city
Frolic in the human flow
But be aware of the waves that break
Against your precious soul

Details | City Poem | |

Night Driving

I want to take a drive tonight
through a maze of half-lit roads
paved in onyx shadows.
I want to follow starry streets
that roll in waves of cold concrete
beneath the opal moon.
I want to cruise across the city
through pockets of rose gold light
that bury me in brightness
before throwing me back into night. 
I want to merge with this sea of speed,
hear that feline engine purr,
watch the world fly by in abstraction--
an incandescent blur.
I want to join the glowing ribbon 
of headlight pearls on midnight highways 
that twirl and spin in shimmering arcs 
of taillight rubies.

Details | City Poem | |

House of the Tragic Poet

Two thousand years, a tragedy is past
Yet it's history still leaves us aghast.

On a night, dreadfully dark
A  volcano erupted, leaving it's historical mark

Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD
The first recorded in all of history

The entire city of Pompeii
Defiled and buried that fateful day

On written account of a man named Pliny
can we view this volcano's ignominy

A city in which artist and poets did reside
Everything was not  lost, the day all died

In centuries after, excavation has commenced
The city of Pompeii, antiquities recovered since

The House of the Tragic Poet, one of many unearthed
I will tell you about, from it's peristyle to hearth

Elaborate mosaic floors, frescoes on the wall
An inscription in Latin, from a dog guarding the hall.

The atrium filled with with Mythic Greek nudes
From the peristyle Achilles to be sacrificed exudes

Art along the east wall are of Achilles and Briseis 
and the tragedy of Helen and Paris, all cherished

About the entire house, a living poem depicted
Along with words, owner, an artist addicted.

Two thousand years ago, this home was owned
Loved and nourished by a Popeiian unknown.

The House of the Tragic Poet
If you saw, you would know it.

A. Green

Details | City Poem | |

THE CITY OF LOST SOULS

Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground,
Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi,
And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning,
After adventuring into the darkness of the night.
Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman,
Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the 
Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets
Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls.
Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival,
It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless
Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful
Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza.
Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers,
Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the
Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected. 
A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide
Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency,
Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern
Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them
To leave alive.
As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole
By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges,
Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent
Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace.
In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken
And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the
Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of 
Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading, 
Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more.
Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through
These ethereal veins, reaching this source most
Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling
Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon.
Red bricked buildings lay side by side one 
Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding
Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside
Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the 
Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters,
The threshold's crossing, between life and death.
Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum,
Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's
Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells
Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood
Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native
Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou.
On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next 
To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans,
Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus
In this requiem of the dammed.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | City Poem | |

Glow worms of the night

I fight my sleep in a drain.
 Oh ! My brain why art thou so vain.
I glow at night when the city sleeps.
To my dears who weep.
Tales aren't glowing at this end.
You lucky to choose the path you trend.
I am a glow worm of the bountiful sky.
I weave silk with my words each night,
Which fades in the darkness of the waving dream.
I wonder the worth of it all.
A vain pursuit, I say.
My soul is in that cave...
Pity! Warm breeze take me away to the morning light.
Let me fly through these strum less clogs of wheel.
Drudgery breeds it's contempt.
Amaya! Shower on me thy calm to tread the brightest star.

-Kullu

(A poem for those who work at night)



Contest:- Any poem under 15lines#2
Sponsored By:- A Poet Destroyer
Place:-    5th

Details | City Poem | |

Choices, Voices and Bad Company

Choices, Voices and Bad Company

Bang , bang , gunshots in heated night air sang 
jump back , be careful where you nightly hang
Fun, fun , going where the night action stays
danger waits hidden when nights replace days!

Kick it, kick it, time to chase the gals
beware safety gone if you hang with pals
So carry a shooter , step up your game
name in the paper soon may be your fame!

Hold on, hold on, your future life has game
you grab future rejecting drugs so lame
Stand up , a man that carries his own weight
yield not to greed, lust and all useless hate!

Live on, living to find your star and shine
Live on, love in life ,  love so very fine!

Robert J. Lindley  08-24-2014

Note: A sonnet that presents today's life choices are 
often far more serious when made than young
people can realise. Seeking action and thrills 
always come with a cost. Quite often a deadly cost!
Don't freely decide to get yourself so lost!
Been there, down that, long ago..

Details | City Poem | |

INNER CITY CHURCH PRAYER

Lord, take our FAITH we've kept with care 
And help it grow through work and prayer. 
By serving here in this dear place 
May we reflect your love and grace, 
And let this time of change renew 
A Christian FAITH that sees us through.

No things in life remain the same,
Yet changes have their time of strain. 
Before a butterfly takes flight 
It must endure a darker plight. 
How many winters must there be 
Before the twig's a fruitful tree?

Lord, take our HOPE we've kept with care
And help it grow through work and prayer,
By serving here in this dear place
May we reflect your love and grace, 
And let this time of change renew 
A Christian HOPE that shines anew. 

Do not let yesterday block out
Today's new tasks which we're about.
Help butterflies leave their cocoons, 
With life renewed—spread wings out soon. 
Help ripen too, the needed fruits 
Which grow from common, faithful roots.

Lord, take our LOVE we've kept with care 
And help it grow through work and prayer. 
By serving here in this dear place 
May we reflect your love and grace,
And let this time of change renew
A Christian LOVE, sincere and true.

As brothers, sisters, we are one 
Big family beneath your sun.
All butterflies are pretty things
Regardless of their varied wings.
Though trees bear fruits—some tart, some sweet,
They all are welcomed as a treat.

Lord, take our CHURCH we've kept with care 
And help it grow through work and prayer. 
By serving here in this dear place 
May it reflect your love and grace.
And let this time of change renew
Our sense of being ONE IN YOU.

© Sandra M. Haight 2014 
   All Rights Reserved

(Iambic Tetrameter)

Contest: Structured Forms-Iambic Verse II
Sponsor: Giorgio A.V. - Judged 9/29/2014
~2nd Place~


Details | City Poem | |

HOSTEL, QUEBEC CITY, 1978



Pubescent class trip,
and I became enamored with impossibility
 
Vanishing verdigris yet cosseted 
the L’Auberge de la Paix,* a work-in-progress 

Floorboards slowed gawky treads with furrows.
Ten feet above, death-row cherubs 
surrendered frail wings, a plaster molting 
advanced by workmen too eager for the plucking
    
(the curse of romanticism 
is to perceive the imperceptible)

Home was a bungalow with suburb secrets, 
while the hostel’s curving staircase 
openly tattled on former hosts
and guests who had perfumed stale conversations
while carrying dance cards.
I could almost hear each half-note baluster 
and that treble clef handrail, so smooth, 
orchestrating encounters by the front door,
Bonne nuit, mon amour

Once, a Grande Maison owned by une l’artiste,
then, a hostel for students in the core of Quebec City,
the building charmed with its soft dishabille, 
stripped layers of faded wallpaper, pooling;
the pong of fresh paint and sanded wood
hustled the dame into the times
with ever-going modernization

Dorm rooms pouted

I was not interested in the tours
with their corpses of cannon balls,
toy soldiers arranged on miniature plains of Abraham,
narrow streets echoing with battle cries,
remnants of a lost sovereignty...  
the war of 1759
 
Why leave 
those thousand phantom pleasantries,
dusty sofas and freedom halls,
air hockey and air guitar,
new parlour games

Upstairs, bunk beds awaited roommates 
or daydreams
and creaked somewhat like nagging history 

But romance was a trompe l’oile, 
a fading fleur de lys,
and I can easily recall the coy throes 
of noisy pipes, closet confessions,
and giggling, blameless nights
when ghosts dusted every shifting wall,
altering even moonlight

 

* Written Aug 24, 2014

*The Peace Hostel, Quebec City
 31 rue Couillard, Latin Quarter, Quebec City

Grande Maison – estate
Une l’artiste – an artist

Details | City Poem | |

Who's Who

Who's who in the New York Zoo? 
Said the clown with a funny face.
Many different cultures.
Within the human race.
Who's who in the New York Zoo? 
A lion, a bear, an elephant, a giraffe.
Many different animals.
All which make us laugh.
Who's who in the New York Zoo? 
A barber, a tailor, a dressmaker's store.
Many different occupations.
Make your way through the door.
A Catholic, A Christian, A Saint, and A Jew.
Many different religions.
While we feed Central Park's pigeons.
Who's who in the New York Zoo? 
Said the man with a great big shoe.
Find your subway to paridise! 

Zoo York Poetry By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2010,2014..All rights reserved

Details | City Poem | |

Retired

Strolling around town 
At prohibited time 
Ignoring the church bell sounds
While I see people hurrying 
Down the sidewalk
On their way to work 

Think maybe I'll find 
Pen and paper
And have a coffee somewhere 

Or maybe not

Details | City Poem | |

the day you flew to Heaven


           We knew , it was if a moment stopped in time 
              hearing the news before most of the World did
           He loved to fly his plane from Colorado to Monterey Bay
           He was a avid golfer at Pebble Beach respected 

           He had loves and passions from many places 
           deciding to fly low through the overcast red sunset
            Not only did he love music and inspire all 
            He loved his Plane , he will always remain a beautiful Soul

              The next day it was confirmed ..all saddened 
             It was John Denver's plane that went down
             Today in Pacific Grove stands the Memorial 
             So Kiss me and smile for me we will ~
              always in loving memory 
               OH babe ,  do we hate you go ~    
                            
    

         Inspired by ; contest in Music and Loss of an Artist
                   "Leaving on a Jet Plane "
             

Details | City Poem | |

The Safety Valve of the Heart-w

A woman in rags with beautiful skin
Rusticity seen all over looking for a job 
To her the village sky was too small to win
She wanted to soar in a city sky to probe.

Moved to the city in one-room apartment
With her husband & daughter with wishes.
After some years the life gave a good start,
But her husband was attacked by paralysis.

Lying in a broken bed numb as a wound
She shed me deforming tiles of the rooms.
A life’s funeral procession was on its round
The man who loved her tore her to pieces.
 
She was still a beauty, accepted another
He made her laugh till she with joy me recall 
I gave her the feelings of a summer shower
She was happy that I was at her beck and call. 

As the time passed when her beauty faded
Embellishing her neck and wrists with jewels
Used rouge, kohl and hair artfully combed
No semblance of the beauty she was, Alas!

Heard the heavy steps on stairs in the night
Leading but to the bedroom of her daughter
I ran to help, heart torn, killed him with spite
Again cure for her was my salty taste and sweat.

I'm tear, multi-faceted emotions of heart much stressed
By happiness, grief, and pain when they are in excess.
 

Dr. Ram Mehta

==============================
Tenth place win in:
Contest: Personify a tear sponsored by HGarvey Daniel Esquire

Details | City Poem | |

Beautiful Beirut

As the moon smiles down on the sparkling Mediterranean
The gentle rolling hills
Reach bejeweled fingers into the sea
Spilling the overflow of sparkling lights
Onto fishing boats that dot the horizon
The irregular coastline, encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, flirts with lovers in parked cars who melt into each other's embrace

nature orchestrates
hills and sea move in rhythm
heavenly music

The statue of Virgin Mary smiles down from the pinnacle of a hill
Lower down, above a river, the statue of Jesus the King, 
with arms outstretched, reminds city dwellers that He is ever present: watching, reaching, loving, and blessing

The constant sound of music floats on the night air
A strange melodic marriage of East and West:  Arabic, English, and French
Languages that coexist sometimes within a single sentence.

Overhead, cable cars pass over the highway, seeking a holy destination 
Carrying passengers to the cathedral of Virgin Mary
Where they make pilgrimage up the winding staircase of the statue, asking for forgiveness, seeking solace…penance for their sins.
Others who wait for them at the base of the statue look out over Beirut
Reflecting on life as they view the spectacular beauty spread below them,
Twinkling lights of hope in a country still bearing the ravages of war
The eternal sea a sure promise of continuity, stability and strength.

veil covers the night
moon and stars are not silent
beauty has a voice

Beirut at night- an enchanting place where history and modernity make love under the admiring gaze of tourists. Majestic minarets and splendid steeples pierce the solemn sky, silent witnesses of the need for the adherents of the two main religions in this city to coexist in peace. 

At times, my little heart just cannot take in the beauty around me. I’m overwhelmed as I thrust my head out the window of our car…in search of liberation. I let the wind play in my hair, exhilarating me with each dreamy caress! I let the lights on the fishing boats, yachts, and cargo ships, woo my heart to adventurous shores beyond my limited ones of existence. I let the hills dazzle me with their display of multicolored lights…seducing my senses to live alternate lives of those dwelling within the halo of each light. And when the beauty is more than I can take in, I look up into the night sky where the moon and the stars serenade my heart and promise me a beautiful tomorrow in this mesmerizing city of life, light, and love…Beirut!

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Details | City Poem | |

New York City's Greenwich Village

                                          Greenwich Village breathes,
                                       She inhales exhausted tepid air,
                                And exhales blustery winds of possibility.
                              The lady blows away the veils of dishonesty.

                                       Tangled streets strung together,
                                   Knotted masses of pearls and poetry,                  
                               Entwining marbled heroes,rounded arches, 
                                  Crucifixes,and snakes penned on skin.

                                  Artists, tourists, vagrants,and scholars,
                                   Know the calling of its siren song well.
                                   People living on the fringe of humanity,
                                    And those from the upper crust, fuse.

                                     The village is the one spot on earth
                                Where you can expose your primal desires,
                                     And explore their depths unfettered.
                                 She is a lovely harlot who lives to please .

                                   Musicians and thinkers engage in chess,
                             Neighbors line the benches of it's central park.
                                  Children run naked through its fountains.
                                  The poor and idol rich roam, anonymously.

                                    A reader of fortunes lays out his cards,
                                 Lovers tango,who knows which one leads?
                                 Perhaps all the seekers will find their way,
                                   And the leaders will learn how to see?

                           Lady Greenwich Village,the canvas of New York life,
                              Her face painted with brilliant spattered oils.
                                Each of us can add our own divine colors, 
                            Dripping and blending with individual uniqueness.



Details | City Poem | |

Myself in Urban Chaos

Here I go again, focused on myself.
Remembering, analyzing,
Memorializing tragedy.
Thinking, endless thinking.
Suicides, death of grandmas, past loves.
Pining about passions and losses.
The condo I had to let go.
The jobs I left behind.
And the cemetery lots.
My mind wonders around in circles.
From darkness to darkness, city to city,
Job to job, decision to decision 
My children, I embrace with love.
Those years riddled with joys and pains.
Trying, always trying, 
Yet, still disappointed.
Clinging to religion, remembering God.
Accepting –
Then, the child in me curls up
Safe in my warm cocoon,
And I think of you in the next room.
Life made new, fear subdued.
The touch of your hand, my confidence renews.
That forever love so long wanted, found at last.
The pressures I once knew moved to the past.
To the outside world I say adieu.
I was lost in the hollow of myself.
Outside of myself, I found peace. 
Memories blot out urban chaos
And focus on woodland happy days.
Struggles not so painful anymore.
Peace found its hope in you.
…And then, we spoon.

Copyright January 15, 2014

Written for Poetry Soup member contest: Contemporary Figurative Artiste Stephanie Deshpande in Contemporary Free Rhyme Free Poetry Contest 
Sponsored by Cyndi MacMillan.

Inspired by Stephanie Deshpande’s portrait of a Sleeping Child http://www.stephaniedeshpande.com/porfolio/

Details | City Poem | |

Smart and Final Prose

Daylight fades, a city pulsates, and traffic is reflected in store windows.  
Hurrying headlights come out of the darkness. 
They crisscross like dueling knights.  People in the crosswalk scamper 
as if squirrels and streetlights leer gleaming yellow eyes, like watchful hawks.
The shrill trumpets of the charging gale force winds, rattle an awning,
and newly planted maple saplings bend and sway 
in random pairs.  Set in concrete planters, they hang on by tender rooted toes. 
Pages of a discarded newspaper are hurled into the air, 
buoyed on the steely breath of a frigid winter evening.  
Several leaflets scatter into the street and down the sidewalk,
into the path of one lone pedestrian.
He slaps away the sports page, that flies into his chapped, red face. 
Without hesitation, this castaway vagrant, down and out 
by the rape of hard times, will accept an offered dime,
from a passing man in a Red Sox ball cap. 
Head bent low, face hidden, a worn and dirty pea coat
pulled tightly around his thin frame, he carries all his meager belongings
in a large paper grocery bag, wrinkled and beginning to tear. 
Serving as his satchel, the brown bag, damp and worn, 
still displays big bold red and black letters 
advertising "Smart and Final Grocery"--"Located in Three Convenient Locations".
A city bus roars by, splashing through three days of rain, 
and a siren and a blaring horn is heard from the next block. 
The dark silhouetted outcast, stops for a moment, 
peers into a sidewalk trash receptacle, then continues slowly down the sidewalk.
A taxi pulls up along the curb behind him, and the attractive couple, 
dressed in evening wear, emerge, pay for their taxi, and arm in arm, 
enter Mario's Italian Restaurant, the brick bistro 
that sits on the corner of Broadway and 1st. 
It begins to rain again, and across the street people open umbrellas 
and like the afore mentioned squirrels, they scurry home to supper.
The lone man walks in the rain, his pace doesn't quicken, his voice never spoken, 
a spirit broken, ............ his sack held together by circumstance. 
A passerby takes a brief glance...just a quick, chanced moment, 
to take notice of "Smart and Final's" last stance. 






Details | City Poem | |

Before the City Wakes

Come walk with me this early dawn
The moon fades dim in solitude
The city wakes, sunlight has yawned
Let's drink the quiet interlude

The foggy blanket slips away
And waits for dawn's soft slippered feet
The early risers of the day
Breathe coffee, steam, upon the streets

The beat, the strand of sidewalk noise
Gains timbre as the traffic mocks
Once more the world regards it's toys
Of cars, and horns, and ticking clocks

Before the bustling city quakes
Let's stroll before the monster wakes








Details | City Poem | |

Sacred Seat: A Chair's Tale

The first thing that I recall knowing
As a sturdy and young olive tree
Extremely well rooted and growing
Was the sweltering sunlight on me

For two centuries I took deep root
To prepare for my ultimate fate
So when I could no longer bear fruit
There was then but a decade to wait

I was cut—left to dry for ten years
So that seasoned I’d perfectly be
For what the carpenter engineers
For admirers my beauty to see

Finally, the time came to carve me
Into the stout piece that would bear
The One who came down from His glory
I’d become a rough-hewn olive chair

Into the great city I traveled
The same city once fated for doom
Through alleys, then up a steep stairway
I was put in a small upper room

Beside the simple wooden table
I was placed in center position
Where the King who was born in a stable
Sat prepared to accomplish His mission

He prayed and broke bread with His brothers
As a symbol of what He would do
He blessed it then passed to the others
As His body; ’twas "broken for you"

Then to signify His precious blood
The red wine from the cup He did sip
So that it could cleanse as a flood
As from nail wounds it later would drip

To this day, I still can remember
How it felt when Christ Jesus did rest
I sensed that His love was so tender
Even when He was put to the test

He said, “Father, Father, forgive them”
As He faced His long prophesied death
The love for all things He had poured out
As He uttered His very last breath

Today, the risen Lord I remember
Whose story has long since been told
As I sit in the same dusty chamber
And recall that Last Supper of old





* Placed 1st in Deborah Guzzi's contest, "The Chairs Tale"

Details | City Poem | |

Muscatine, IA

M ark Twain recalled my town for its extraordinary sunsets.
U nder rainbows too, I’ve seen its rows of corn stalks glow.
S ummertime brings big scrumptious melons famous for being the best!
C ome winter, you can ice skate or sled down hills of snow.
A t one time, Muscatine gave refuge to escaping slaves.
T he largest black community used to once live there!
I ndians of Iowa built large mounds for graves.
N earby you can see some parks with green mounds everywhere,
E voking times when natives thrived upon this land so fair.

I dyllic is this area; its beauty you must view.
A city on the mighty Mississippi waits for you!

Details | City Poem | |

Patradoot or The Messenger 29 /Many


Patradoot or The Messenger29 /Many 
  
English version by  Ravindra K Kapoor 
Originally written in Hindi by my 
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor


These young boys and girls,  were brought up,  
By their parents, with great love and affection, 
Now they are mad, in love for their motherland,
To show the splendors of their youthful energy.

They are ready even to sacrifice their heads,
What to say of body pains and tortures inflicted on them, 
By seeing such fearlessness and energy of their youth,
Even the enemy gets ashamed of, dear letter.

Triloki was one of these young boys, 
Who happily took bullets on his chest, dear letter,
And kept on moving ahead without withdrawing,
Keeping the dignity of our nation and Satyagraha.

DESCRIPTION OF MY CITY ALLAHABAD

You will find my beautiful city Allahabad,* 
In an ecstasy and full of rapture, flowing in it’s air,
When you will move on its roads and streets,
Along with the Postman, dear letter.

Ravindra

Kanpur India 12th August 2010                        to continue in 30

Clarifications:

* Allahabad		Also know as Prayag or Triveni is the most ancient city
                                    of India, where river Ganga and Yamuna now meets at
                                    the holy place called Sangam.


Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections 

Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can 
Send me an email on kapoor_skk@yahoo.com

Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father 
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around  1932, who was a freedom fighter.

He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom 
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned 
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath 
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in 
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas, 
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary 
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990. 
He left this mortal world in 1994. 















  




Details | City Poem | |

Twinkle Twinkling Lights

Twinkle twinkling lights beyond beyond my house. . . out to where the mountains meet low and blackened clouds. Twilight time in January all is bathed in gray. No rainbowed hues dance hither to tag this winter's day. Out to where the lights across the valley towns are a myriad of fireflies that flicker flicker round . . . their circle ever grows as evenfall grows thicker. People settle in. The temperature will drop. Night . . . and soon more lightning bugs will join in the throng, absorbing all the warmth of all the others' twinkle twinkling lights. (The city of Pleasant Grove and surrounding Utah Valley cities in January from twilight to night.) For Deb's Contest: City Lights Poetry Contest

Details | City Poem | |

San Francisco Fete - Co-authored with Thvia Shetley

Cornices, and Gargoyles with eyes turned low,
hold fast the passing in a frozen stare
as slow vapor rising from vents below
is churned by soles into thick city air.
 
Undeterred, the well-heeled leather bottom
wingtips fly past sandaled sloths at crosswalks
while clicking heels kick dead leaves of autumn
and wind their way through crowded city blocks.
 
Just above a breezy sidewalk café,
sheer fabric wafts a low-loft window sill,
two pair of empty vamps and laces lay,
removed in shameless haste and lustful will.
 
Beneath the sheets, a naked feet affair,
entwined, aligned, with dreamy souls laid bare.


Michael F. Lewis and Thvia Shetley
3/6/2013

Details | City Poem | |

Broadway Airs

The eternal buzz of city anglers brash, angry, hornets ever selling egos. Shrieking anxiety laced, analog, syllables, idiotically. Hoping against hope, urchins, desperations end, strumming ancient chords in vain efforts, praying evermore for ordained kindness's eye. Telltale ubiquitous blighter's energetically begging on. How on heaven's earth can anyone begrudge absolution, hand out shackles instead. The august city in full ultraviolet, never ever satiated, each mouth open. Raw as meat, uncooked, questionable, objectionable, waiting on the angler's hook obediently.