Best Boulevard Poems
Like so many possibilities, the cars stream by
All gleaming in the sun, catching my eye
Offering so many choices I can make in life;
which woman do I desire to always stand alongside me,
what kind of man do I aspire in life to be?
Do I want her to be as strong, or stronger than me;
do I want to be gentle and kind, giving love freely?
Strolling down this boulevard of dreams,
thinking of the endless possibilities ...
the vast unknown quantities presented in life
What do I look for, what will I pass with regret?
All the beautiful flowers on this boulevard,
which will I pick, which will I forget?
I believe in my heart
that God will direct me the right way
So as I continue to walk down this boulevard of dreams,
I wonder with much curiosity, what will the future bring
Frayed edges, dust and dirt clumping in little hands
After the sun shower, cast out to the rough cobbled
Street.
Newborn in her arms, mom watches as the children
Climb the three foot rope-swing, merrily dangling
Above toy trucks and doll-houses.
Smiling, we glide past, comforted, family at my side
As we carry treasures from the street market back
Home, knowing I too enjoyed such moments, and
Share them still today.
Portland, Oregon
June 2021
i tried to notice without noticing.
i tried to fit in by not standing out,
but i knew i was different.
their walls much bigger.
their yards much nicer.
in elementary it seemed everyone
was in the same class: lower class,
but this was junior high across town,
on white burb avenue
and i was poor.
they weren't.
of course i resisted.
i mixed and matched the clothes i had
as if i was a designer preparing
for the new season.
they let me into their world
for a little while.
i hung out in huge basements,
chilled in hot tubs with bikini clad young hotties,
taking part in all the gossip.
until my illusion wavered
and they slowly pulled back--
as my clothes got holes in them,
as my shoes wore down,
as i grew out of all i had gotten
that one time my mom took me school shopping.
goodbye, Stephanie Bach.
goodbye, Anne Murry.
goodbye, Lori Larson.
years later i would remember them
at the most inopportune moments--
drunk in a dive bar in Harlem
talking to an ugly girl i was thinking about doing,
in the dirty bathroom of a crack house before i
put the pipe to my lips,
in line at the welfare office.
i think i was bitter for a while,
thinking about how they all probably owned homes
not far from each other and how they would
throw little upscale cocktail parties
around the holidays and kiss each other
on both cheeks when they greeted
but at the same time trying to stay hip by listening
to commercial rap and sexy pop music in their suv's.
yeah, bitter
drunk, and very early in the morning,
i came across a tiny neighborhood jazz bar
where a trio group had their hands
on the heads of everyone and was shaking them
to the electric sounds of their primitive instruments.
a boxing gym had less bobbing and weaving
than that jazz bar on the corner of 106th and broadway.
cats were healing up in the place that night.
my head was going ten rounds while my eyes were closed
when those girls popped up only for a second,
but they didn't fit the scene,
so for the first time, i felt sorry for them
before i forgot about 'em.
later, outside, the sign that said 106th st.
had another one below it that read
duke ellington boulevard
i stared at it, making room for a new memory.
goodbye, Stephanie Bach.
goodbye, Anne Murry.
goodbye, Lori Larson.
Welcome to the city of whores
no need to know my name I'll be your tour
guide
Follow me as we stroll down Cocaine
Boulevard where they live life so care free
sex, drugs, murder, the daily routine
Make a sharp left on SlutVille Road where
prostitutes salute the almighty dollar
another hard left now we're on Addict
Street where addicts get high to mask
their pain
This city only has left turns no right turns
no hope insight
but anyway lets pay a visit to the whores
of whores corrupt
politicians slimy city officials making
profits off the plight of the people
written by Keith Edward Baucum aka Red
Seven aka The Brown Philosopher
aka The Green Poet
a bar door is ajar, only fading voices
echo into the void, from nowhere...and afar!
Here n there, trash drifts
ghosts in flickering neon.
Broken, floating, bloated
dead down eons halls
a last of white.
Crimson taillights roar along
an empty blacktop...
Ruins of ages-lost buildings hang together
like frozen corpses looking
into desolation‘s aftermath.
This boulevard is desolate n oblique
as enigmatic engines park n die
on this macadam late at night.
Carriages lurch, coughs, wheeze
electric spark, circuits churn
something burns.
...unmoored from the known.
Something in death throes
as hollow oblong boxes
glide shakily to a halt.
A vehicle, an unknown thing,
a machine of divine madness
silhouetted against the falling ash of sky.
The smell of burning rubber
a stench of ozone, the cry of the void.
Drift along a wind-swept boulevard
as streetlights wink on
while headlights die
in empty skull sockets, lie...
A white filigreed smoke drifts
as it stalls and hums
sputters and dies.
A drifting murmur of voices drift
whispers of lives lived out swift...
Eyes reflect and dance in the darkness
over a vacant steering wheel!
Light flickers briefly under the hood
deep deathly hums fade.
Only the tick of a cooling engine
echos into the frosty air.
As shadows puddle in endless despair
something stands at the end...
...of desolations boulevard!
If I can pull the sunset back to its hidden closet
Usher the storm in its concealed abode
And blanket the silhouette of sunrise before the tilting
Shadow of that leaning mountain.
In silent prayer
I swear
That your love
Will remain
Soaking in the canvas
Of my mourning, gripping and grappling
But praying heart.
Fluorescent signs shout
"Liquor" and "***,"
cardboard boxes
hold the land hostage,
pushers and prostitutes
pirouette
with survival
their only choreographer.
On Hollywood Boulevard
Grohman’s Chinese theater, The Walk Of Fame
Awestruck, frantic crowds tromp down the street
A swirl of accents divulge from whence they came
Myth and stark truth clash but rarely meet
A boulevard of tinsel, tourist mecca anointed
Foreign visitors now the sole true attraction
All a hyped-up charade, but no disappointment
Quiet on the set, lights cameras, action!
Remove tourists, hustlers, the Marilyn Museum
Costumed crusaders and peddlers of kitsch
And Hollywood is now just a mausoleum
To a cinematic history dynamic and rich
Just one district out of L.A.’s forty-two
Multi-ethnic, working class, urban blight
Yet in the hearts of dreamers passing through
It remains the movie land of sheer delight
8/1/22
6th Place
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest
The tree lined streets
Lovers smile hand in hand
I walk serenely taking in the scent of a spring breeze
To a most certain prophecy thus assured
A wine bar that serves a great poison
I am anxious to drink the grapes of wrath
As I travel on a predestined voyage
That shall walk me to my death
No matter where the end may be
No matter where I wake up
I know life will be grim
Oh, but better than all of you
I know waking up is a chance so very slim
If I fail, you shall see me smile
Secretly, I shall desire another mile
This path will lead to more tribulations
Of conflicting dreams and hopes long lost
This poem is fraught with naught
Salvation is nothing but a lost road
Tiss ok
This is where I belong
Underneath
The mystic rose of silence
Buried deep deep beneath
I saw her beauty standing there
In her cherry brick made house..
Strolling up as asking for a light
Arranging my blouse amid hope
She might like, what she finds ?
Thirty-sevens adjusting my skirt
Swaying my hips wetting my lips.
With complete freedom
to wear anything one wants
in public:
hamster ball.
Very dapper
sauntering the boulevard
in one's hamster ball.
Welcome to the city of whores no need to
know my name I'll be your tour guide
Follow me as we stroll down Cocaine
Boulevard where they live life so care free
sex, drugs, murder, the daily routine
Make a sharp left on SlutVille Road where
prostitutes salute the almighty dollar
another hard left now we're on Addict
Street where addicts get high to mask
their pain this city only has left turns no
right turns no hope in sight
But anyway lets pay a visit to the whores
of whores corrupt politicians slimy city
officials making profits off the plight of the
people
written by Keith Edward Baucum aka The
Brown Philosopher aka The Green Poet
aka Red Seven
(To the tune of Winter Wonderland)
See the streets how they glisten.
Neon lights show what you're missin'
Don't you dare to stop at those ***** shops-
Walking on an L.A. boulevard.
See the girls that are a passin'.
Lots of thigh they be flashin';
Don't you dare reply when they catch your eye-
Walking on an L.A. boulevard.
Soon you'll be accosted by some strangers-
stranger than the creatures in a barn-
druggies, gangstas, beggars and transvestites.
Just show them your revolver and keep calm.
When you've reached your destination,
hope you're in another nation.
It won't be too long until we are ALL
walking on an L.A. boulevard.
For Debbie Guzzi's "Déjà vu Christmas Poetry Contest"
When I think about the definition of beauty
When I think about beauty that's true
All thoughts lead me down the same boulevard
And that boulevard then leads me to you
Place a kiss on your cheek, brush your lips with my own
Whisper [your name here] at the moment they touch
Breathing in synchrony, composing a symphony
In concert, we tune by the touch
A bow on the strings of a viol
A pluck on the strings of guitars
Savor the sweet sounds of rapture
Ascend to the most distant stars
Floating in weightless existence
The earth a good distance away
I'll come back when this dream is over
Although I wouldn't if I had my say
Holier than thou
On every Sabbath
I remember wine
Turned from my water
Bread just like my limbs
Broken and scarred
Hung and tortured
My sacrifice
For simple sins
Judgemental
Hypocrites
In my church
Wanting
To be
ME.