Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

CreationEarth Nature Photos

Best Neighborhood Poems

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

Search for Neighborhood poems, articles about Neighborhood poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Neighborhood poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of Neighborhood Poems
Read Neighborhood Poems
New Neighborhood Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

New Neighborhood Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Neighborhood poems are below this new poems list.

Haiku: Neighborhood Watch by Johnston, Brian
A Different Neighborhood by bauer, ilene
Who Is Your Neighborhood by Y., Alexis
Neighborhood Watch by Stan, Remi
A Tale of a Neighborhood and its Nightly Ritual by Fergoda, Matt
Go Jo, Our Neighborhood Nun - Rhyme Schema by Poteet, Reason A.
Neighborhood Gift by Novi, Antonella
Encounter with the Neighborhood by Anish, Matthew
Neighborhood Flyer by theKidster, SillyBilly

View all new Neighborhood Poems

Poems are below this ad.

The Best Neighborhood Poems

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Broken People

I wish to be with the broken people
the get in your face challenge me people
The sometimes hidden
sitting in a dark corner kinda people
The don't you love me
I wish you seen me sorta people
People just being real people
not having to have it all together people
Them doing their best to figure it out people
dancing and singing without the smooth moves people

I don't care about the color of their skin
or what others think of as their sin
They don't need to be perfect to win
seeing and listening is where I'll begin
Beyond appearance of fat or thin
I only know what I know
I've never been where they've been.

We'll start 
with our broken smiles
It's the best we've got
It might seem like so little 
still I think it's a lot
Through life's struggles we've all fought
lessons needed learning
experienced not taught
real is real it couldn't be bought

So forget the fake people
the all about perfect hair and clothes people
The I live in the right neighborhood and drive the right car people
It's all about me, top of the hill people
They only hang out with the supremely cool people
those too important to talk to me people
thinking they're the best of the best kinda people
when all along they are merely Sheeple 
ba ba baaing, thinking they are strong instead of feeble

I love characters 
people who are unique
I look under exteriors to gain a peek
strength of lions disguised in meek
unconcearned with fab or being chic
Worth listening to if allowed to speak
the stories they tell will make your eyes leak

For in the end
we are all broken
stumbling and choking
Disguising hurt with our joking
victims of others and their poking
So look close maybe you'll see
eyes that aren't blank 
hearts that aren't empty
Who we think of as complicated
in the end might not be
They might push when others come close
yet they are affectionate times three
Each just a bit afraid and broken 
all the while wishing  
and wanting to be
A part of something
If only we choose to see
those on the fringes
are a part of the we
All we have to do 
is let them be!

Dedicated to our homeless population.
They teach us the unvarnished truth about ourselves.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux

More great poems below...

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

A Friendly Goodbye

Poem 1: A Boy And His Painted Piano

he used lively greens
tender blues,
touches of plain mauve 
and rainbow trout splatters
to paint music
on the gas fumes 
that inhabited the clean air
that once use to live there.

he made the ugly decaying
neighborhood i lived in
bearable on even the worse of days.

he was the soft harmless rays of a comforting sun
and responsible for the smiles that broke through
the usual dismay on the faces of seven to ten year olds
already sold on the idea their life expectancies  were
somewhere in the low twenties.

life isn't always about the new iPhone being released
he represented hope.
hope that someone could make it out of the sewers and return
to free the whole chain gang presently locked firmly to a large solid steel post.

even in the dingiest basements of the worst streets
somehow, a whiff of hope threads through the tar laden atmosphere 
and children rise above the manhole covers
that would otherwise maim their existence and keep them
buried below the impossible dream. 

luckily there is always a don quixote who sees beyond
the all too real windmill set to blow others away?

Poem 2: A Street Puddle

what story hides
in this street puddle
what do the reflections want to recite.

one broken flower lies on the wet tar.

the wall cracks from the very bottom to the top
sitting there are black boots quivering 
stalked by white boots with their bully badges yelling "comply"
blind to the co-operation to their commands. deaf to pleas of mercy
as black rubbers fall 
as the wall echoes their cries
three boots stand and you wonder where lies that fourth boot.

do the mass boots of all kind even care
black feet walk as their words float
to fill the air drawing on the sky "no justice no peace"!
time passes, deceptive winds clear the atmosphere and...
weeds grow through the concrete to climb the walls
you can see the shadows large against this impromptu screen
and nothing changes. white boots rule.

Poem 3: In The Beginning 

I have always been here.
I was here when you turned the Earth's Stomach.
When it regurgitated your acid tongue
              stripped the land of its roots and nothing grew.

When you thought you could just skate through 
but instead fell through the lake and froze the Planet
from one pole to the next.

When you cheated the Sun of its permanent spot.
Had it not been for romance who placed 
an infinite sparkler in the night sky
who orbited earth barely clad in her white night silk dress
you might of owned time.

I was here
when you flooded the land
but you hadn't counted on 
the amoeba
everything changed and you retreated 
to your original pit of fire.

maybe you could deal in souls
you knew what was coming
when the heavens opened
and released the winged guardians

so here we sit
the best i can hope for is
good and evil
I'll take my chances with those odds.

Poem 4: A Boy And His Wooden Dragon

a detailed wood carving of a dragons bust leads an ancient 
                                                     ship through an unforgiving storm.

if this replica could only breathe fire like the ones in children's tales

         his face is lifelike, ferocious!

one could swear trails of smoke escape from his nostrils,
  i am convinced his eyes are real emeralds.
                          the waves against the metal ship, 
                              the salt that dissolves the rust, 
                                 flows over the dragons neck,
giving one the impression the creature is bleeding.

old wood has no life flow...
                            ...does it?
    no pump to circulate sap
...i'm convinced this inanimate portrayal is leaking vital fluid.

the craftsman's hand has...,
a long shot to say the least...,
given his formation...

can the craftsman's artistic soul be so intense as to breathe 
a half life into his meticulously chiseled creation?
how much power does the real artist?...

on a more practical line of thought,
                                                         will we survive?

"who cares" i think "that decision rests not in my hands."
half cocked 
i foolishly climb the dragons neck.
i remove my shirt to use as a tourniquet.
i apply it to his gushing neck in an attempt to heal him.
the whole time stroking him in a calming manner 

suddenly he releases a breath 
he opens his jaw wide
and exhales fire equal to that of a volcanic eruption.

and just like that 
the storm stops.
the sky flashes his baby blues.

would we make it back to land?
is this just an ironic pause in the inevitable egregious battle yet to come?

time would tell. 
time always tells. 
never trust time with a secret.

                          time would tell
                                      after all
                      that is all we have 
                                  us humans 
                                               and then..

June 2015

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

This Buds For You

-This buds for you!-
-It takes one to know one!-
-I know you are, but what am I?-

A second hand, on my stopwatch, going nowhere!
You are a joker, a smoker, a midnight stroker  
<-------How, about that, Steve Miller song

I'm not here to talk about the way you comment a poem
That's not how I roll, now listen, and listen well, 

I don't care, about them words you speak
A whining sheep, every time you don't score
Crying behind close doors, 
Boo-Who, I did not place high in so-and-so's contest
Gosh&dammit, not everyone's on a quest
Blogging, about the day, your poem got demoted to nonsense
Trying to comment relentlessly, 
You can't top, a mountain that has no setup

I'd rather leave a copy paste comment, 
"than being fake as fake can be"
At least, my copy paste was a song, 
in which welcome the new poets on
Treating, everyone with love and security
Your invites, are cold and force, to you it's not about community
No motion, to your notion, simple, and disgusting

I don't know why you think, we are competing, 
Long ago, I left you bleeding, no reason to be defeating
Your paranoia, has you thinking, it's all about the points,
It's getting old and boring,
You cry babies are nothing more than jokes and hypocrites
Hey you, this ain't dominoes, we done pass every Jo-Jo
When, I have time I sit here for fun, my trigger finger on the gun

Reading, commenting, until my day is done
You think, because someone, left a copy paste 
That your poem was not read,
Perhaps, it was not understood, or enjoyed
Or, a welcome to the neighborhood
A nice smile, from me to you
Nice poem, You Rock!
So What! ---- WOW!

This Bud's for you
I think it's time for you to GET A LIFE!
Be glad someone took their time, in checking you out twice
Not, everyone on this site, is full of bull-shit
The smallest words, are more likely to be legit 
I don't need and expensive comment, 
I don't want to impress, when it comes to the best comment
Please do not make love to my poem!

A nice pat on my back will do, 
Now that my friend, puts a smile on my face
To know you care, to know you were there:)

Peace Out,


Copyright © SKAT A

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Time Machine

Ride with me on my time machine to a different time and place
Return with me and let me see if I can put a smile upon your face
To the days of AM radio and the TV was black and white
To lying in a grassy field and counting stars at night
Popcorn and soda in the balcony at a Saturday matinee
Parades led by the High School Band on Decoration Day
Dressing up and going door to door on the night of Halloween
Cigarettes rolled in your shirt, pretending to be James Dean
Pep rallies before the football games, everybody stand and cheer
Going in the woods with your friends at night, sharing a quart of beer
That feeling inside, turning red, when she smiled at you at the dance
Wanting to kiss her goodnight, but you were afraid to take a chance
Playing chase tag at night in the neighborhood, hiding behind a tree
Holding hands with your first steady, so all your friends could see
Medicine Show at the end of town in a giant canvas tent
Saving pennies for a rainy day, fasting on candy for Lent
Going for a Sunday ride with Mom and Dad in the family car
Playing in the yard at night, putting lightning bugs in a jar
Drag racing on that long stretch of road, Chevy was hard to beat
Stealing peaches from a neighbor’s tree, always seemed so sweet
Riding bikes all over town, never knowing the meaning of fear
Identifying cars by their tail lights, make and model and year
News and Stooges at the theatre before the movie starts
Valentine’s day I love you written on tiny candy hearts
Easter bonnets and picking flowers for Mom on Mother’s Day
Opening day at the community pool the last weekend in May
Sock hop in the auditorium, collar up, trying to play it cool
Meeting friends at the usual place, everyday after school
Six for a quarter on the juke box, music that would move your soul
Return with me now to those glory days and the birth of rock and roll.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr.

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

A Ray Of Sun On A Rainy Day

i stood looking outside listening to the rain  with its long slender fingers tap a tune against my window squeegees in hand i could see  the troops of drops clean the air for a clearer view while on their descent people some walking  holding their umbrellas others running attempting to escape the cruel barrage of knocks to their heads there are a few children  in their rainy day gear locked and loaded steady and ready attacking the puddles with a fierce offensive  crushing any and all puddles  dare question their authority  jumping and diminishing  the enemy ruthlessly the children's joy propels me to thoughts  of the gift ahead a rainbow large or maybe a double arc fully colored vibrant interrupted  my kettle  whistles me over meticulously  i proceed to prepare my rainy day cocoa in my neighborhood it's a law rain? hot cocoa cocoa in hand i return to my show the trees are soaked the rain unrelenting  the plants forced to bend under the weight of heavy rain all the tiny flyers  seek shelter while birds  bomb dive  for their landing worms however are in their full glory out for their unscheduled shower later aliens with lamps shinning from their foreheads will gather to pluck worms  from the earth poor worms my daughters will be glad never having  liked crawlies  of any kind i suppose  they would think poor aliens the rain now is descending violently  apparently in cahoots  with the wind but still no  thunder or lightning  this must be their week off a paid vacation  i gather my cocoa only warm and almost finished i decide to bid the rain  a good night i head upstairs for my  daily shower
Maurice Yvonne September 12 2014 Rainy Day Contest

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Super Fly Spy

On the wall of a house I might be
Owned by *Brangelina Jolie.
There’s no real reason why.
I’m just one nosy fly.
Not to mention, Brad nude I might see!

House to house in each fine neighborhood
I’ll spy like a super fly should.
An “enquiring” mind,
Lots of scandal I’ll find.
As I fly over all Hollywood.

When I tire of the “stars,” I’ll fly to
Any place juicy plots might ensue.
Just beware. Flies like me
Are as sly as can be.
Right now I am looking at you!

*Brangelina refers to the coupleship of Brad & Angelina
I'm assuming they are still together?

For the Contest by Michael J. Falotico:
"A Fly on the Wall"

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Lady Kathleen

She crossed a wide ocean, during war times, in danger
A life of adventure, of courage, of fear
Yet, nothing reveals the hint of the years
that have chiseled her wrinkles, but not dampened her cheer

She pours me some tea, we relax in the shade
Cool on the porch of a summertime day
Honeysuckle vines circle the posts, 
Spider-webs glisten, hosts offer a toast.
She chatters nonchalantly, so glib on the tongue, 
Of a war and the journey that left her alone
To her, all these stories, are quite ordinary,  
I cling to each word, but she's here to assure me
A true-life adventure.

Inside the house, the counter is a clutter, piled high with dishes
The old floor is sticky, and dog hair floats in prisms of light
One old hound sleeps in the middle of the worn kitchen rug.
Another lame Labrador laps water from a pie tin,
     dripping water from his sloppy face across the peeling checkered floor.

Throughout the house, a lingering musky smell of well loved pets,
       and a stale, smoky odor of burnt toast from her attempt at breakfast.
Servants, cooks, gardeners, part of a long ago past.
The house is filled with dust covered, belongings
History fills each corner to mingle, along with the dust motes that linger in air
 Junk mail, newspapers, dog treats, documents and clippings
 prized antiques and artifacts, ......just facts of life, from how she sees them

On every shelf, and on the walls, are sepia-hued photographs
Famous faces I have seen, on the news, and on the screen

A handsome young man, and she was his bride
A commander when the world took sides
She followed him to the ends of the earth.  
And soon will gladly follow him to the grave

I sit here now,...with this woman of many lives.
Like one of the flowers on her porch, she wears a tattered, splattered dress.
Today, she is a homespun, country widow.
An extraordinary woman, this grand Duchess,
          yet now who bears traits of Ma Kettle
She brought class, dignity, and a wealth of knowledge
       to our small country neighborhood,....... to my life.
Here we are, together, so far from the world she once knew.
We sit in the shade of her covered porch
A long haired, grey cat jumps into her lap.
Under the veil of a summer day
I pour her another cup of tea, and a little more for myself.
    Tea is served, flavored with lemon....I have much more to drink savor.

A True Character....dear /Friend/and Neighbor (Kathleen Maitland) now deceased
Whose husband was an aviation pioneer
The most amazing couple I have ever known
Revised 10/21/14   

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

- Love And Care -Collabration -

                             Its easy to become what you fear..
                 Could bring you down,or shift you into high gear

                          Embrace the hope you see in others..
               A neighborhood filled with loving sisters and brothers

                              Love and care for eachothers..
                      Always a helping hand and some leftovers

               Smiling faces in the streets,children playing in paradise
                     Come on over,check it out while we roll the dice..  

June 29th 2012

Anne Lise & Arild Andresen

* Collabration with my lovely hub
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Pink Tennis Shoes


I mother always pride galore
 until the words from daughter abhor.

Her gentle heart and loving embrace
smashing to pieces. She fell from grace.

Her untied tenny shoe, wrapped and tight
around her bike, could free no might.

Mommy checking faithful each half hour
found her daughter helpless, no power.

Down the hill mommy went
no time was wasting nor was spent.

The wind passed threw my long hair locks
when shock took over from what I got.

Not what I thought from bike I bought
but cruelest words, my life distraught.

From those lips kissed each night to bed
not once, nor twice, but thrice to head.

“Hurry up old lady” from my daughter
 how my heart bleed of tears and water.

For no words crueler ever sere spoke.
My shame, the horror on face neighborhood folk.

My tail between my legs indeed
got there, put there by my third bore seed.

And mothers day and birthday too
three days from now turn 45, BOO-HOO!

Never knew my aging beauty fade
would be this hard for the lies I’ve made.

Lies I’ve told to self each day
that children’s love fulfillment may.
So on this very special mothers day
this “old lady”  family f--- off  say.

Copyright © catherine Reinke

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Kresge's Five And Dime Stores

I was reminiscin' the other day about times that were more sublime,
And got to thinkin' about those old stores called Kresge's Five and Dime.
I recall browsin' through Kresge's Stores as a lad with Mom and Dad.
There ain't no more Kresge's Stores as far as I know and that is very sad.

There was a Kresge's in every sleepy town along Main Street.
Sittin' on a stool at the lunch counter was always a special treat.
Munchin' on a hotdog and tater chips and then a slab of cherry pie,
Or maybe a sundae concocted by the soda jerk would lighten up my eye!

Notions galore were displayed on tables, bins, racks and shelves.
Friendly clerks stood by to help but folks generally helped themselves.
The cashier put yer money in a tube that sailed off into space,
And in a trice returned yer change from some mysterious place!

I recall the squeaky wooden floors and visitin' the store at Christmas time,
When Santa Claus doled out bags of candy to kids at each Five and Dime.
Alas, those neighborhood stores have been replaced by huge national chains,
And only pleasant memories of Kresge's Five and Dime Stores remains.

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

His Old Pick-Up Truck

He begs me to come, but he's run out of luck You won't catch me dead in that beat-up old truck! It was painted the color is rust But you can't be too sure...since it's covered in dust!... The engine must idle, (about an hour is good) You can feel the vibration, around the whole neighborhood A life is at risk, if you go for a ride! The windshield is broken, and leaks rain inside It makes a weird noise, rides bumpy and rough The dashboard is littered and covered with "stuff" The seat cushion's torn, and it pokes at my rear The dog sits beside us and licks at my ear There's no place below us, for resting my feet There's a hole in the floor, O my God, there's the street!!! The windows don't close, so there's more than a breeze Wrappers from Twinkies, a Burger King box... One lonely old sneaker, and smelly old socks Half a stale donut smashed down on the floor Darn!! The dog beat me to it, and is looking for more!! The muffler is loose, you can see the sparks fly Dirty looks from the folks, who get smoke in their eyes When we drive by the neighbors, I duck my head and I hide I'm no Prima Donna....but I've still got some pride!! He loves that old truck, he calls her a gem! Make him choose between us??? ....I'd be out on a limb!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------- For Verlena Walker's Slamming Battle Contest

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

How, When and Why

According to my neighborhood, 
(All experts on the topic), 
Opinions vary, none too good, 
One called it "Catastrophic". 

Exterminators sigh, refrain 
Condolences, I'm sorry. 
At City Hall, they're shocked, exclaim
They have no such Department 

To know that squirrels are running wild, 
I hear them as they scamper. 
An attic is a sacred place, 
Secure, not meant to tamper. 

Their next move, chewing all the wire 
And gnawing through the rafters. 
I hear them squeak a vermin's choir 
And hear my own crazed laughter. 

That life dare heave this final ho, 
But agents know thier timelines. 
The hours when the house is shown,
Their outdoor play, the best time.

I also left the scheduled due
When freight train horns will pass through.

Gene Bourne


Copyright © Gene Bourne

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Who Are the Men

Who are these men who would leave
To storm the gates of hell’s domain?
Who are these who don't grieve
For their brother’s wounds and pain?
For the sound of a thousand feet
That march to the beat of a drum
With the bitter taste of defeat
Bringing lonely soldiers back home.
Where are the girls of the neighborhood
Whose loves were lost at sea?
Where are those who died in foreign lands
Who hung on a forsaken tree?
They come from long lines of soldiers
Whose solemn duty was fulfilled;
And their blood lay silent on the ground
When the enemy had killed.
Where are the boys dressed in blue
Who flew when their eyes were blind?
Did God bless this awful mess
That was created by mankind?
Who are the warriors destined to fail
Who rode with the cross to die?
Will they go down in history
Did their mother's cry?
Who are these who would fight us now
Has their purpose been concealed?
Only with the dark hands of time
Will the reason be revealed.

Copyright © elizabeth wesley

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

School's Out

Trying to recapture the joy of those winter days is difficult. School cancelled: sun shining through the sheer, white, curtains into an all too girlie room, the sound of a tea kettle's whistle,  the ice cold feeling of oak boards on bare feet, between scatter rugs; I ran to the kitchen. The transistor radio sounded, still calling out school closings. The snow sifted down.

bright sun
sparkles on snowflakes –
the plow roars

Quick phone calls, punctuated with giggles, roused a gaggle of neighborhood girls. White skates in hand, I burst out the door. I rushed toward the swampy area behind the neighbor’s house. My rubber boots crunching crust above the powdery fluff. At the edge of the watery wood, I stood staring. Boys, I see the boys in there. They have their skates on already. Tommy Maloney, my crush, skated toward me. 

his black waves
dusted with snow –
whoops of delight

A hummock of snow-topped grass served as a seat. I removed my boots from beneath the zip sides of snow pants and try to tie laces new white skates. Once done I stood wobbling, weak-ankled. Tommy laughs, as knock-kneed I attempt a glide toward him falling on my butt. Oh how his eyes sparkled, an Irish rogue at twelve. Kneeling, Tommy began to re-lace my skates. I remember wishing, so much, he would kiss me.

First Contemporary haibun online Fall 2013
Published in Winter Legends 2014

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Mrs Briggs' cat

Mrs Briggs' cat. There's plenty to do in our neighborhood, with games and places to explore. But you really should run, 'cause the trouble's begun, when you hear that "meow" at your door. A cute little tabby cat sits on the step, all fluffy and gentle as can be. Just try not to be dim, as you pet it, on a whim, It'll eat you alive for its tea! "Tiddles" belongs to old Mrs Briggs, who lives up the end of my street. She thinks it's a breeze, but there're no guarantees, that this pussy will ever be sweet. Our local vicar thinks the damn thing's possessed, and I'd say that he's right on the nail. Surprised I would be, If I wasn't to see, Satan's head poking out of its tail! So if you see that tabby cat coming your way, I beg you, don't stand there and wait, Don't stroke it, don't pet it, look, sunshine, FORGET IT, Or that moggy will seal your fate!

Copyright © Rick Eichelberg

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Unsung Hero - My Mom

Unsung Hero – My Mom

My Mom has always been unassuming, never flashy,
But her name deserves to be up in bright neon lights.
My magnificent Mom, Olegaria, is my hero!
In her eyes, no one is a zero,
And she is a blessing to all who crosses her path.
Successfully raising her own five children,
She also helped to raise all the stray children in her neighborhood.
Her guiding motto is “You can’t believe in God and
Not care about others - whether it is people, plants, or animals.”

An extraordinary human being, generous to a fault,
She would give her last slice of bread
To anyone who needed to be fed.
Nothing, including her time, is too good or too precious 
To share with family, friends, and even strangers.
Often she’d sacrifice her own happiness,
If it meant that others would be happy.

While Mamacita is very humble, forgiving, and non-judgmental,
She is nobody’s fool and can be a fierce lioness, 
Quick to defend her values and those she loves.
Caring mothers like her are especially rare today,
And should be declared national treasures.
Because of her powerful influence and the solid values she instilled,
I am a stronger, kinder, more conscientious, and better person.

My Mom helped me to see life in a more positive
And compassionate way – to treat people 
How I would like to be treated.
Even though she is not a regular church-goer,
She prays several times daily and her home is her altar.
I thank God every day for blessing me with this wonderful mother,
And for her continued presence in my life.
Mom, you will always be my hero!

Entered in “Unsung Hero Contest” sponsored by Carol Eastman (7-30-

Copyright © Pandita Sanchez

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

The Missionary And The Bum

There once was a bum. He was the neighborhood drunk. He had a unkempt
demeanor. His salt and pepper hair
had not been washed in years.The clothes he wore were  ragged.His shirt had giant holes in them.He looked twice his age. In his drunken state he cursed everyone that came his way.
His smell was so horrible you might as well say he showered in whiskey.
That didn't bother this young missionary who lived nearby.
Every day she would bring the old bum
food and clothing. She would offer him
shelter as well.
"Hi sir . How are you today?"
"Why don't you just leave me alone. Can't
you see I don't want to be bothered."
he stated with a slur.
"Sir I'm going to leave your food and your clothing right here". As she said those words she bent down and placed his things on the ground.
This was their routine for well over a year.
But on this in particular day the ole drunk
appeared to be coherent. He was sober.
As the young missionary approached him she said, "Hi Sir. How are you today?"
"I'm fine ma'am. How are you?"
"I'm well Sir. Are you hungry today?"
I brought you some food and water,and some clothes and shoes."
He shook his head no.
"Ma'am  I don't want anything.However I do appreciate it so. I'm going home today."
His statement took her by surprise.
"Sir I didn't even know you had a home."
"Ma'am I do indeed have a home. I'm homeless by choice. I want you to know your kindness will  not go unnoticed."
She knew it wasn't right to judge but she thought to herself he has gone insane.
" Miss I stopped believing in God along time ago but your loving kindness showed me God today."  "Okay Sir.I'm going to leave these things and I will see you later.
However the next day the ol' bum was not
in his usual spot. And sadness overwhelmed her spirit. That ole bum had become a big part of her life. She grew to love him very much. As the days went by she continued to look for him and he wasn't there. It was as though he dropped off the face of the earth.
Today was a beautiful day and she was at the corner  in the spot where the bum sat.Deep in her thoughts as she began to walk she nearly bumped into someone. As she was about to speak she saw this well groomed middle aged man with dashing good looks.?
" Hi Ma'am. How are you?" She recognized the handsome stranger's voice instantly.
"Sir is that you"? She asked just to make sure her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.
"Yes Ma'am it is I. I just came by to formally thank you for all of the kindness you showed to me. I was in
raggedy clothes and never once did you show disgust. You see I am a millionaire that had lost his way. You see my wife of nearly thirty years got ill and passed away. In that moment I lost my mind because my home didn't exist anymore."
As he finished telling his story little tears began to fall from her eyes.
Through small  sobs she said " I'm sorry for your loss. I will continue to pray to God on your behalf."
" Ma'am your prayers is why I stand here today.
If God had not sent you my way I would probably still be lost. Please don't cry for me I will be okay". He reached in his pocket and pulled out an old business card and handed it to her.
"Take my card. Feel free to call me anytime. All that  I have now belongs to you. Do you remember that day when I told you that your loving kindness would not go unnoticed?"
As he said those final words he turned and left,
leaving the young missionary dumbfounded.



Copyright © Alexis Y.

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

My Friend, My Angel, My Unsung Hero

My life was falling to pieces, the cracked shards I couldn't glue together.
I was about to crumble and wash away my life in stormy weather.
With a rumble in my belly, to the soup kitchen I went in need.
Looking for a hot meal for me and my baby, the church did feed.
Sitting there at the table, an older man came to sit next to me.
He said, "I recognize you from my neighborhood, I know you see,
Can I sit with you and join you" we shared a meal, a good talk.
I started noticing him when I took my daughter on her walk.
We started to get to know each other, he was a good man.
I learned a lot of good advice, and he became my biggest fan.
He drove us all around the cities, places I've never seen before.
And we talked and talked for hours, and then we'd talk some more.
He kept my sanity when I struggled, and gave me a needed break.
We had the perfect balance to our relationship, a happy give and take.
He plowed my driveway when I was unable, mowed my grass twice.
He did so much for the neighborhood, he sure was giving and nice.
It broke my heart one morning, when I heard the ambulance wail.
To his door, he was on the floor, with a stroke, his body did fail.
Now he is in rehab, and I miss my friend every single day.
I can't wait until he comes back home, so kindness I could repay.
For all those reading this now, just remember angels are here.
And treasure them with every ounce of thankfulness when they appear.

For Contest Unsung Hero

Copyright © Casarah Nance

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

An Abecedarian Spring

An Abecedarian Spring

Against the graying beard of winter
Buds push defiantly through the
Crush of weakening ice,
Daring to challenge the strength of,
Entertain the possibility of a
Failing winters frosted farewell.
Golden warmth seeps into the folds of
Hardened soil melting its resistance,
Inciting the seeds of a rebellion.
Jester Jonquils dance in the snow
Keeping time to the icicle drip,
Leaves, long fallen, are consumed
Manna dropped from heaven,
Needs met in Karmic peace.
Overhead, a shadow-less hawk
Preys on the hope of dawn,
Quietly riding its warmth.
Robins begin the search for a
Suitable neighborhood,
Turtles climb warily to feast
Upon the hatching swarms.
Visitors returning 
Warm themselves in the soft
Xanthic shades of sunrise
Yielding to the innate 
Zen of Spring.

submitted to – Abededarian – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Shadow Hamilton

Copyright © John lawless

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Turkey Chase

Turkey's on the table, both legs up
Everything was fine, 'til I made the first cut!

The turkey unleashed a "CACKLE!", then jumped onto the floor
All you could see was basted skin, bolting out the door!

"Catch that turkey!!", I screamed,..."That's our evening meal!!"
The neighborhood looked on in awe, while asking,..."What's the deal?!"

The turkey rounded the corner, boy, that sucker was quick
Dashing like a sprinter, pumpin' those massive drumsticks!

It darted down an alley, disturbed a hobo's nap
And there, seated in a corner, he jumped upon his lap!

"Thank you Lord!", the hobo cried..."Today I won't have to beg!"
"Maybe I'll start with a wing, or perhaps I'll have a leg!"

"Put the turkey down!!", I roared,..."That bird belongs to me!!"
All I could see was a tailwind, as the hobo decided to flee!

I chased him down the alley, perhaps a quarter mile
Acting a fool in public, was never quite my style!

We dashed across the freeway, dodging every car
All I want is my turkey, can't stop, I've come too far!

The chase led to a corner, right past a city cop
He stood there like a scarecrow, talk about a useless flop!

Suddenly, it ended, the bum tripped over his laces
He broke his leg quite viciously, in fact, several places!

I woke up the next morning, thank God it was just a dream
With a hangover and an achin' skull, "OUCH!!" is what I screamed!

I looked over at the table, what do you think I'd see?
That same ol' basted turkey, lying there peacefully!

I stumbled to the table, laid that bird in a box
Packed two sides with a bisquit, then staggered on down the block!

I came upon that alley, peeked behind a garbage can
And there, sleeping like a baby, was a ragged ol' homeless man!

I placed the box beside him, never did I say a word
I penned a note which kindly read,..."Hope you like the bird." 

Copyright © Milton Toran

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

A Different Game

Friends and trouble go hand in hand.
Legends of the  neighborhood.
Like statues  and vacant buildings  still stand.

A crime in plain view no one ever saw.
Held hostage in fear.
The mouse sturggles to escape from 
cats claw.

Blood on the bricks  that stains my mind.
Time takes me away.
Yet never leaves the memory far behind.

Summers in the city nights run into days.
We turn are backs to the truth.
But in this game everyone plays.

Heros are villians  depending 
on who you are.
Stories told bout the other night.
Hidden truths  like the bat under the bar.

The players are future tombstones
Men glorified beyond there name.
the citys children caught within her  confines.
Forced to play a different  game.


Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |


           I awoke to a memory that asked to be felt through the emotions of 
An early rising seeing boys playing in the park without wondering
                  about the meaning of life because at that time life had no 
 meaning only to be lived and enjoyed in the moment
                   And I wondered
Was it better then as a tear climbed downward on the lines carved deeply in a 
face that had
          Seen so much and loved so fervently
                                 Those days when a sandlot became an arena and the ringing 
of laughter echoed
Through a neighborhood
Where there were skinned knees and sprained ankles but hearts were left
        Unharmed and the gladiators had not seen 13 yet
While skirts were still a reason for giggling and it was more important to reach 
first base from the hot corner than it was
                To acknowledge her smile because 
We were warriors with a common bond

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr.

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Zolar the Inet God

(after Edgar Allan Poe's "The Angel of the Odd")

It was a tidy day and I sat, replete, under vellux blankets.
Sadly, my tea was weak, the bottle of cinnamon whiskey
tantalizingly low, and my feet swelling above my anklets.
So I was snippy one might say, zippy, flipping with zee...

from one screen to the next, oops, forgot! Poor Usain Bolt!
Yes, I took it out upon him. Dressed him first in bouncy hearts
cruel, I admit, and then purposefully fried him, let him float,
banged him, tripped him, let the sloth dine, and let out a fart.

Crude, I admit. Let's blame it on the tea, shall we? "I say not."
I sat up. Who had spoken to little old me, an old lady too weak
for any great villian with a booming voice. I blew out my snot,
found my glasses and good grief! The speaker made of teak.

Pseudo teak, my stereo a bit old. But leaning against the wall
fruity-kins wearing leotards when he should not, the belly
like a spiked watermelon. I admit I considered a sip at neck gall
but got turned off by papaya thighs, arms turned banana jelly.

Who are you, I squeaked, smushing low to hide like a flea.
"Zolar, the Inet God. Say, I wonder, are you  a high roller?"
No, no, said I. No bingo, no slots, no high stake poker, just see...
"See? I see far too well. You let my buddy Usain go polar."

Tee hee. Just, um, fun and games. How about a nice slushy?
Yes, I admit it. With such as he, I couldn't help but imagine
giving a blender whirr, a smash and splash, sort of plushy.
With glee whee, off went vellux and I set to the kitchen.

The rum was old and watery, the vodka scummy at collar
and all went crash. Imagine the horror if you will, foot rot
 in my fine spirits? My hoover sucked it without bother
and when I examined residue, found crumbs, hairs and a dot

of mushy raisins. So I googled on my phone  with askance
how purify spirits? Zolar suggested kindly, "Try a colander."
A genius of the mash, a nonpariel of the objective chance.
My mind turned to such grater things I made my first blunder.

Who'd believe a fresh market reject could move with alacrity
I swung a hammer, missed his head, slipped on the slick floor.
The recoil hit my head, and I bled red vintage, singing a ditty,
Oh me, oh my. I'm gonna cry, while Zolar went out the door.

Not leaving my just desserts to chance, I slipped and slithered
rubbed my foot rot, and hopped after him, butcher knife in hand.
A beep from my iPhone and away he dodged, while I dithered
leading me, up, up and out to where it rained to beat the band.

It hit me then, just get close enough to hug Zolar, then push
he must have read my mind because he darted and I flew
head over heels, but thankfully over a branch like a lush
who did okay on the acrobatic bars, hair tangling in dew

covered maple leaves and my dismount worthy of a ten.
I mucked toward my door,  my bare feet covered with mud
I opened the door, except it was locked, no window open.
I checked my pockets, found a lighter, snapped, a dud.

No phone, can you imagine? Even Usain Bolt wouldn't recover
such blasphemy as rain, muck, and maniac fruit without zen.
I now had an axe to grind and a green house to uncover.
My thirst now absurd, my mind stuck on might have been

I raged, thrashed through cabinets, seeking a bottle once stored
and found it. Amen. I uncapped it, took a deep swallow
Hot. Hot, hot! Immediately I upchucked, help me I implored
to the God of the Inet, Oh Zolar, call 911, don't let me wallow

It's cold, wet, dark and mucky, and here I'm all upchucky
I pounded on doors, they'd open, snap a flash then close
oh, woe, woe. I clutched my head, my throat, I'm ever so unlucky
to wish to slip into slushy and end up posted before repose.

A siren in the night grew and grew, then flashed beside me
a voice said, "Ma'am? Can you hold it right there, put your hands
overhead?" Sure, but bladder being bad I couldn't stop my wee wee
from dribbling down my leg, then my feet slipped unplanned.

That's how the news pictured me, along with neighborhood
postings, feet all asply, a phew of urine and of whiskey,
my hair filled with leaves, eyes black and blue, and would
you believe it? My hand rests on watermelon, me unable to flee.

I never go near the iNet, never search out or  bash Usain Bolt.
The night of Zolar in mind, I even gave up cinnamon whiskey.
Because a fruit in hand is better than an axe to grind or a volt
from lightning, with tush grounded and no vellux to cover me.

Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Pyramus-Thisbe - a selfless love-W

Pyramus was the handsome young man
Thisbe the fair maiden of Babylon.
The houses of their parents did adjoin 
Neighborhood brought the two in relation.
And the acquaintance ripened into love
And the fire within them burnt with bright glow.
Would have married, but their parents forbid
Ardor in hearts of both they couldn’t forbid
They did converse by signs, one can think of
The fire within them burnt like glow covered
But Venus doesn’t always befriend true love.

They found crack in wall that parted the houses
In spared passage for tender messages
Caused by fault in the wall of the mansion
What will not love find for satisfaction!
They passed the tender messages of love
As the night fell they said farewell with awe
Moving backward and forward through the gap
She on her side, he on his, kissed the gap.
One morn the sun put out the stars above
From the watchful eyes, they tried to slip up
But Venus doesn’t always befriend true love.

Then Thisbe stole forth as agreed upon
Unobserved, her head covered with a veil
Out of city’s bounds edifice well known
Waited for Pyramus near a fountain trail.
In the dim light she descried a lioness
Nearing the fountain with blood reeking jaws
With a recent slaughter to slake her thirst.
She fled dropping her veil out of fright.
After quenching thirst turned back for her cove
Renting the veil in bloody mouth on her retreat
But Venus won’t always befriend true love.

Having delayed Pyramus arrived there
Saw footsteps of the lioness in the sand
And found the veil all bloody over there
Crying picked up the rent veil in his hand.
Thought himself to be the cause of her death
Covering the veil with kiss and with tear
And said, come ye lioness tear with your teeth
Let my blood also shall stain your texture.
He plunged sword into his heart with a shove
Blood spurted, tingling the tree with red color
But Venus doesn’t always befriend true love.

Thisbe stepped out not to disappoint him
She noticed the change in the tree’s color
In the agonies of death she saw him.
A shudder ran as ripple in still water.
She saw her veil and his scabbard empty.
He has slain himself for her sake only.
She said, “I could be brave and follow thee
Death alone couldn’t prevent my joining thee
Love and death join us, one tomb be our grove”
She plunged the sword in her breast near the tree
But Venus doesn’t always befriend true love.

Such tale of the self-less love presented
The two bodies in one tomb were buried 
Pyramus-Thisbe tale our hearts do move
Berries serve memorials of their blood
But Venus doesn’t always befriend true love.

Dr. Ram Mehta
Second Place win
Contest: Your favourite poem by Giorgio Veneto

**Chant royal [shahn rwa-yal], 
A French verse form normally consisting of five stanzas of eleven 10-syllable lines 
rhyming ababccddede, followed by an envoi (or half-stanza) rhyming ddede. The last 
line of the first stanza is repeated as a refrain at the end of the succeeding stanzas and 
of the envoi. The pattern is similar to that of the ballade, but even more demanding. 88

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta

Details | Neighborhood Poem | |

Memories on Branches

How did a cherry kiss? Bitter flower petals with sweet pistils.
So laden they act as halos while we breathe the love
in a pink hollow, silence sounding like taste, acting like epistle
to hold this moment in a silvery image, like moon, or  dove
low, low, a bowl formed while sunshine flickers above.

Chains of yellow petals hang over our deck, the leaves hands--
offer welcome resting branch, our sheltered home.
Seeds follow close, fragile like beans, hard case to feed the land
crawl before God, they say, be grateful as we weed and stir loam.
Together seeds and flowers and hands make a life a poem.

Awaiting the sumac, the flame at summer's ending is fruitless
we've passed the feathering, the pimping of red underneath bristle
the deer horn softness crawling out in oddest places in a mess
lining the sand pond, above the purpled iris, the pestle
of stone and sun, no rain to bring down sumac's fiery trestle.

Vulturous crows squawk and fight the ring-billed sea gulls
waiting, one in the bared hollow hands of the cottonwood
the other fat-bellied and waddling after rain finally dulls
we're under hoodies,  under shivers, our neighborhood
waits the pinking and mossing, will it unfurl new wood?

Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper