Westbury where skyscrapers scratch clouds,
And backstreet murmur under glowing hum,
The metro slumbers,but terror thunderous crowds.
Laaities hone okapis where mumbled thugs come,
Each gangway a rabbit warren of cries,
And moms grab the dark,awaiting some.
In kangaroo courts blood thirsty 28s and 27s rise,
A revolver roars,the night asks but none says a prayer
While guiltlessness is sold in whispered lies.
Yet in this war,the lane hides myths rare,
Of youngsters who dodge the deep state,running fast,
Their footprints rebound,shivering through the air.
Westbury your skyscrapers check out the die cast,
Each brick a testifier,every lantern a guide,
The twilight is long,but hope remains at last.
The matriarchs of sections keep life supplied,
Their pleading a vein hope under mortar veins,
Where cowards hide,the soul of Westbury won't die
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they face whirlwind snowfall, freezing ice,
while others brazenly squirm,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
of this genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
velvet moon worlds sidereal captured,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
I saw my yesterday's love today,
on a quiet, shady, backstreet lane.
I knew his eyes, though his hair was grey,
said he'd forgotten my married name
Or would have called me when moving back
to see how life had been treating me.
Just words said to fill memory's lack
Smiling, we talked a moment or three
Then we hugged and each went on our way,
and I thought how easily our romance,
we dreamed would last forever and a day,
became a passing meeting by chance.
On an ordinary summer day.
Promises not clasped closely in hand
can slip away like but grains of sand
To the tune of: “My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean”
I
My grandpa sells condoms to sailors
He pokes holes in them with a pin
My grandma gives backstreet abortions
Lord, how the money rolls in!
II
My cousin’s a pastor in Cleveland
He saves young, fallen girls from their sin
Fifty bucks, and he’ll save you a cutie
Lord, how the money rolls in!
*Variations of the above have been around at least since the 1970's.
Written 5/25/22
The joy I find in colour
This extraordinary thing
Tiny backstreets shout with vigour
Freeing prison walls to sing
When the streetlight slowly flickers
On our lifeless habitat
The creative human passion
Has to put a stop to that
Sweeping through the streets of dullness
All the litter and the dust
Bringing hope back to the hopeless
Recall our heritage, we must
We're all kings and queens in waiting
Not for privilege or wealth;
To return our fallen kingdom
Back to Eden level health
I just love; we rise and conquer
Those who want to keep us down
Every sapling through it's concrete
Every happy smile from frown..
The human spirit moving
From a warm place deep within.
We're a people full of rainbows
From our paintbrush hearts of tin.
Lin, a Chinese friend giggled at my feeble, say,
pedestrian attempt at Cantonese,
the Chinese word for butterfly or dragon even moth
just vanished down the throat of one
so eager yet befuddled,
turning egg shell noodles under spit fire lanterns,
our laughter rose and fell amid the sotto voce banter now in train.
Me, the woodland boffin, immersed in esoteric marshland plant life,
the sort that rules the grand designs of green leaf activists.
Lin, the restless late teen nomad,
who had yet to sink deep roots,
often dwelt in backstreet fruit and flora stalls.
On occasions even flexing sylvan muscles
on craggy mountain tops.
Her flawless English honed through years of rough sea ferry ventures,
on holidays abroad in trendy sunspots,
at major meadow festivals where gaiety and buzz words sprout.
We keep in touch through text and pen as often as we can.
Meeting up is fun.
I hope one day my knowledge of those mystic eastern tongues
will stray beyond the basics of some tawdry travel phrase book,
the one I’m prone to cart around the world but seldom use
Contest : YOUR PERSONAL FAVOURITE
Date judged with N/A : 4 th August 2021
Is your pride free from shame, strain or sad games?
Or that's a name that hides a friend in pain?
I wonder why your wild wounds burn in flames.
I wonder why that temper cries in vain.
These questions sustain the bond I’ll maintain
A friend in pain; fearless with no deceit
Your graceful greets and weekly backstreet beat
Paints a portrait of placid parks so pure
From tears and throbbing headaches. That’s your treat.
Thus, I’ll cherish that grin, my endless cure.
In the back streets of my mind, I sail
in a sea of daydreams, my imagination
is sometimes free to run helter-skelter.
Thoughts of tomorrow haunt me.
It can be tough to navigate through
this head that thinks for me. There are
often traffic jams in the highway;
the railroad tracks visibly rusty
The footpath gets dark some days
so I walk it with a flashlight. But the days
are mostly sunny and bright. Memories
always bloom like flowers in spring.
They also swirl like a tornado
every now and then. When I rise
at dawn, a thought runs through
the backstreet of my mind...
"What's for breakfast?"
Submitted for...
Strand Select F,Any Form ,Any Theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 02/06/2020
Date written: 09/26/2019
coughed up with cigarette dust
spit out of a roaring mouth
truths that pierce me
regurgitated in slimy green vomit
backstreet of my mind
pretending relief
forefront horrified by his pretense
trying to sugarcoat regurgitated slime with pink cotton candy thoughts
Feeling lighter, more genuine,
A smidget of almost but not quite happy
Mucus membrane surrounding backstreet shudders
Singing ‘I Want it That Way’ once again.
Written 9—25-2019
Contest: What is Happening in the Backstreets of my Mind
Sponsor: Silent One
As I travel down
The roads of my life
I love the easy roads
Brightly lit
And easy to roll down
As I pass the exits
Of the backstreets of my mind
I see
Regret Street
Sorry Avenue
Anger Way
Memory Lane
Excitement Road
Love Highway
Happy Lane
I wonder what backstreet
I will choose to visit
I love the exits
That bring joy
And wonderful memories
When I least expect it
My ride may break down
And I am forced to relive
A dark backstreet that brings
Pain and bad memories
I realize this trip is life
All roads are not smooth
Some have detours
And many potholes
But I will not stop
I will keep running
For this trip
Makes up who I am
In The Backstreets of My Mind Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
9/23/19
*Image of Shattered Time by dreamstime
Broken Time
Its hands went frozen a warm summer June,
Bought it new when cool though it waned since then,
Days were young and fresh loved e'er so oft loom,
Vivid hues displayed stills toured page again.
Surged wave tickles feet, residual foams,
A swept updraft breaths as white floats thither,
A thoughtless lapse inside watery zones,
Checked, still ticking, stoppage, not a whisper.
An off-Broadway show, we took the backstreet,
Save being noted, the maddening crowd,
Numbers by one less the proper count sheet,
I look, it is time, lifts the curtained shroud.
Crumpled real, keepsake be, not a myth,
My minuteman whose Father Time, kept with.
2019 September 23
*2nd Place*
In the backstreets of my mind
~~Silent One: Judged 2019 September 26
Rock concerts aren't what they were
On the bill was the "Backstreet Gramps"
Tickets selling for ten bucks a pop
If you want you can use food stamps!
One of the group yelled quite loudly,
"Are you ready to.....",then fell down
Helped up by a man dressed in white
"He yelled Rock!", but winced with a frown
Then another started coughing
Hacked one up, and shocked the front row
An old guy in front yelled, "Look out!"
And they all stampeded real slow
An old lady looking seductive
Between her teeth, held a red rose
But she coughed out her rose and teeth
And Maalox flew out of her nose
The lead singer bent to grab the rose
His back snapped, just before he fell
They had to refund the money
and of course the food stamps as well!
Bring back blonde babes
with big boobs and butts,
showing bare bellies, wearing black and brown boots.
Because they get the bikers and big boys
to bring in big bucks buying bottles of
Budweiser and, blue ribbon beer,
Besides the booze and beef burgers
on buns with bacon and baked beans
for brunch while they watch and
bet on baseball games or boxing matches.as
they banter with their buddies at the bar
or in the booths and bathroom.
The jukebox plays Blondie, Blues brothers
big Bands, Bono, Bananarama, Brandi, Billy Ray Cyrus.
Benny King., Backstreet boys., Beach Boys, Billy Idol
Bobby Brown, and so much more
at Big Busty Babes Bar
Bring your best buddies with you to
Big Busty babe's bar. Down on Broadway and Bakers Boulevards
Near Buster's Barbecue and Bobby's Billiards and Bank of America.
Bonnie J Hollywood-Cutts
i walked in a nonsensical direction
in the comforting warmth of the mid afternoon sun
carelessly casting my shadow before me.
I led myself, as it were, to nowhere;
Anywhere but here and now
without wind to guide me.
I advanced forward by curiosity,
and dull intuition,
and the invisible,inexplicable shadows
that cling to fragments of well worn memory.
Other times, places, spaces in between many faces
My feet, rooted in warm sand and
behind my dark sunglasses,
true colors paint my sleepy canvas.
For a while I amuse myself
with nothingness and everything,
reading only between the lines
of the crumbling sidewalk
and cobblestones of a backstreet.
It is then something is suddenly birthed inside
that awakens me to the universe
and for a moment, I see heaven….
My muse,still a poet,wonders how to write…
As the seasons blend together
under the warm Oahu winter sun.
Awake in fantasy's dream,
reality can't keep pace.
And like Munch's painting, "The Scream,"
anxiety warps my face.
Rank smells announce my coming;
roaming the land of the blind.
For those reduced to slumming,
stink of sweat and piss; combined.
Draped in poverty's fashion,
I strut about ten feet tall.
And though dirty and ashen,
I'm invisible to all.
Victim of hypocrisy;
I'm treated like backstreet trash.
And despite democracy,
my rights are shackled to cash.
I'm like a myth, mired in doubt,
kept out of mind, out of sight.
For a whisper cannot shout,
and a ghost evades the light.
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