Best City Poems | Poetry
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New City Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best City poems are below this new poems list.
by Goss, Christopher
Atlantic City Summer
by Schumacker, Earl
50 Years Ago, City On Fire
by johnson, curtis
It's Twilight Time in the City
by Wanter, Sunlite
City on a hill
by Ochwo-Oburu, Solomon
FROM THE CITY TO THE FARM I LOVE YOU
by Lee Sr., James Edward
Civility in Sylvia's City
by sensele, john
Bath City and Proud The Anthem
by Trim, Nick
A City with No Foundation
by Jarvis, Felicia
by Dillenbeck, Gerald
View all new City Poems
The Best City Poems
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 ~
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
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.
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.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Amy Green | Year Posted 2010
Of the Gods own country
of this paradise
where green and blue
merge as one
in the north is a city
that encompass the beauty
where the dream lands meet
lined by kaasaraka trees
where seven tongues are spoken
and a unique lingo was woken
lined by shores and calm beaches
which meets with forts of ancient elegance
who can pass by with no notice
the mountains high and hillocks of beauty
forests green and tranquil rivers
places of worship, unique structures
renowned for coir and handloom
and for its customs varied
The people here, with a smile of warmth
welcoming with open arms
known for their variety dishes
which does prick ones tastebuds
of the sense of fashion
who can beat their passion
and their thirst for knowledge
is to be acknowledged
fame it has know from times of yore
of the arts and culture it beholds
this is the city of budding talents
feel the vibe and do relent
© Nadiya(14 May '15)
*Chosen poem of the day on 16 May 2015
Copyright © poesy relish | Year Posted 2015
Prayer for the City
How heavy are my thoughts tonight!
I feel the ills of the city, pressing, pressing.
For all the young people being arrested, right now.
Lord, hear my prayer.
For a hand lifting in anger toward another
For the body that prostitutes to feed the need
For all those in captivity of any kind
Lord, hear my prayers.
For the protecting of a child in danger
For the sacred souls in all children
Lord, hear my prayers
For those who sit under bridges, doorways and plastic bags
Lord, hear my prayer
For every siren wail and 911 call
For every doctor waging war with a bullet or knife hole
Lord, hear my prayers
For every noisy, cramped, dysfunctional, roach infested house where
a flower blooms,
Lord, hear my prayer.
social justice free verse
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Copyright © Sian St. John | Year Posted 2017
Once long ago there was a clear blue sky
Where roamed free bird and butterfly
That’s when came the idea to super citify
And to pollution creators deify
All put their brain power to diversify
Silenced anyone who dared go awry
Soon mile high skyscrapers did gratify
And every square inch did occupy
Way too many to quantify
So it was nature they did damnify
Now skies are filled with traffic jams that horrify
Greenish rain waters that relentlessly acidify
Mountain-high billboard ads that do electrify
An extravagance of gadgets enough to stupefy
Implanted technology meant to dehumanify
In light of superfluity, let me just plainly oversimplify
Scientists need to eat a big piece of humble pie
There’s just no way to justify
Why colourful sunsets went by the by
And why no one remembers the aroma of apple pie
Submitted on March 4, 2018, for contest SCIENCE FICTION sponsored by DEBORAH GUENTHER BEACHBOARD - HONORABLE MENTION
Copyright © Line Gauthier | Year Posted 2018
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
Copyright © Steinar Gismeroy Olafsen | Year Posted 2014
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
Copyright © Kim Robin Edwards | Year Posted 2014
I was bored in Manhattan that day
So decided to pay for a lay
He was handsome and young
And was VERY well hung
I walked like John Wayne all of the day
Thanks to James Fraser's Bored In Manhattan poem for the inspiration!
Just make me laugh contest
Sponsored by Christine Lehman
27th December 2015
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
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 "
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
Here I go again, focused on myself.
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.
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/
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2014
City streets spew fire on sunburnt July day.
Dabbing sweat from brow, I meld into paved sea.
Mick cries out "Angie" from quaint corner café;
slowing steps, I search his stripped-bare poignancy.
Strangers strut in sync with street’s allegro beat.
Pigeons peck concrete, hungry coos offbeat.
Sullen faces fall, diverting weary eyes.
Souls emit loneliness lost in sad goodbyes.
Exhaust squeezes my chest with each poisoned breath;
choking on my tears, I smell acrid deceit.
Amid spinning wheels, a stranger till my death.
On wide city streets, crowds rush by in defeat.
A restless, hazy sun sinks to moonless night.
Senses become keen with city’s fading light.
Midnight hour comes to call, taunting my dark heart.
Angel wings span streets as nameless child departs.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
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
hills and sea move in rhythm
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
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
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.
Kanpur India 12th August 2010 to continue in 30
* 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
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on email@example.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.
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2010
Come, walk with me in this early dawn
while the darkness fades in solitude
As first light appears, and moon drifts on
we will drink in the quiet interlude
Wet blankets of fog will lift away
wearing soft slippers of slow retreat
We'll greet early risers starting the day
drink fresh brewed coffee, and stroll 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
For Contest: Sounds of the Day
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2016
The mark of a world elite not seen in Casablanca
but gives a serene-feel for any stone to become a lover.
Sweet Paris- Europe’s geographic butterfly
so captivating and orgasmic, better than any screensaver.
Land and water, city mates in wonderful and nice Venice
prosperity and suitors flocking in like an angry river.
Standard of living, magnified with rare lenses in silent Geneva
proves that if you cannot be the heart, be the liver.
America crossing borders, settling in Sidney
exploits of the human mind, nowhere near over.
Oh Africa! Buckle up and don’t say never
Asia is your excellent teacher, learn and wait not forever.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2016
Twinkle twinkling lights
beyond my house. . .
out to where
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
flicker round . . .
their circle ever grows
as evenfall grows thicker.
People settle in.
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
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
If throughout the city you are a roamer,
you will see the word "civilization" is a misnomer.
It looks like a city, but it's a jungle out there.
When walking down the streets, one must take extra care.
There are liars, cheats, and crooks galore.
Nothing has changed. It's the same as before.
What does it take to make a right from a wrong?
Citizens must be street smart and strong.
inspired by another member's poem
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2014
Broken windows give no reflection
graffiti for those who can read
concrete streets are polluted rivers
passing shoes leave bodies in need
disillusion is a crumbled sidewalk
stretching to an intersection of who cares
empty eyes follow shadows that wander
stolen clothes from the morgue to wear
hope is a night's survival passing
when sounds of gunfire are heard
silence comes from gang handshakes
pigeons and crows the only bird
A bell that rings in the distance
the church the preacher will rob
players and pimps with tin cups
approach the stampeding mob
a moat of suburbs surround
gates to the castle are locked
guards at ramparts bleed blue
guns are always cocked
a cry only heard by those crying
in a dirty world of make believe
tomorrow finds another broken window
a rock by a child that can't leave
Copyright © Frederic Parker | Year Posted 2017
I would like to ponder wisdom
loving relationships and things
A life lived beyond good intentions
What it means to have strong wings
To know that life has a purpose
When it is lived beyond myself
I don't need to fill all my cupboards
It's better that I share the wealth
All those things I think I'm needing
are trapping me within the want
I see heartache written in graffiti
Why am I blinded by colourful font
If my more means that I'm taking
Is any of it truly gain
Others find food in dumpsters
and I am ignorant to their pain
In this world of want and plenty
I know I have more than my share
By remembering where it came from
I should know I have plenty to spare
God implores me to be giving
To have faith He won't let me down
These hands have a special purpose
If I'm willing to venture down town!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016
Mark Twain recalled my town for its extraordinary sunsets.
Under rainbows too, I’ve seen its rows of corn stalks glow.
Summertime brings big scrumptious melons famous for being the best!
Come winter, you can ice skate or sled down hills of snow.
At one time, Muscatine gave refuge to escaping slaves.
The largest black community used to once live there!
Indians of Iowa built large mounds for graves.
Nearby you can see some parks with green mounds everywhere,
Evoking times when natives thrived upon this land so fair.
Idyllic is this area; its beauty you must view.
A city on the mighty Mississippi waits for you!
For the Where are You From Contest of Joseph Soper
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014
Oh, Manchester, you are such a majestic city
bathed in your bright blazing lights in the night.
Everyone has been to your cityscape,
if they work there or go to see such honoured shops
like Vinyl Exchange to get their favourite record.
Such calamities in the past have struck so suddenly
like German bombers of the blitz to the IRA only recently,
you survive all this like a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.
So many different people are there on a Saturday afternoon
all coming and going, it amazes you
just to see them all become one with the city.
Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2014
Using Jared Picketts form Monotetra
Dreamt I was a giant last night
running through Lego City height.
Smashing it to pieces with might.
Such a good fight, such a good fight!
At some point city became real.
And the buildings' pain I could feel.
Big giants standing on the hill.
Punching to kill, punching to kill!
Cleaving off huge chunks of red brick.
Asphalt flying but could not stick!
Smashing through walls with a swift kick.
Wanting this lick, wanting this lick.
It was as real or though it seems
smashing through the walls of my dreams,
trying to break free with loud screams.
No justice deems, no justice deems!
My prison walls are very real.
Wish it would help me to appeal.
My soul grows stagnant with no zeal.
To God I kneel, to God I kneel!
Though we live in different worlds
on a Merry-go-round that twirls.
See diff'rent views as life unfurls.
Tears cold as pearls, tears cold as pearls....
Inspired by Jonathan Taylor and Jared Pickett...
Copyright © Marty Owens | Year Posted 2012