Best Kensington Poems
Years of silence I can't recall
Tears I pant on the scrawled wall
Clothes worn in an open cell
Souls torn, drowning in smitten well
Costumes worn by zombies
Moving as mannequins, not gnomes
Legumes not grown as beans or chickpeas
Roving pass skull watchers of spumes
My heart beating slow, recurring
My voice bleating low, murmuring...
Your soothing eyes I can't forget
Looking into my eyes of regret
Your hands you stretch I can't reach
To cleanse my body and bleach
Creeds of lore I can comprehend, not detest
Breeds and condescend at my weakest
Your soft hair I wanted to smell and comb
Your touch I can sense, I goad that aplomb
I will always remember you as always
On this avenue you watch over me sideways
Each day I walk barefooted without wellington
Your footprints you leave on Kensington...
Exhilaration runs thorough every pore.
With time’s wisdom, my doubts have vacated,
My eyes have opened like never before.
New discoveries keep me elated.
The Kensington rune stone I learned today
May have been carried by the Norse blood line,
Along with the Templars who came to stay
As they discovered the New World divine.
Welcomed by Natives who became their friends
They buried their treasure with-in the land.
An intricate puzzle stone to stone lends
Of several run carvings chiseled by hand.
The hooked X gives proof the Templars were here.
On American soil they staked their claim,
To later return without doubts or fear;
Safe from their hunters, escaping their fame.
To join with Freemasons, the great and bold,
Those who governed the New World from the start.
Their story continues from days of old
To present powers in which they take part.
They now control congress and all the banks.
We the people are their pawns it would seem.
We live in ignorance as we give thanks
For freedoms we don’t have, yet we esteem.
Still I like to believe what I learned in school
That our nation is great as we shout loud,
Ignoring the fact that we might be fools.
I love my country of which I’m still proud.
Most Americans are honest and true;
Standards of freedom will always remain.
We help others when disasters ensue,
Donating dollars and time without gain.
The few in greed that may govern our land
Will not remove from our people who care;
Those loving and kind who offer their hand,
Those who I’m hoping the world is aware.
http://www.committeefilms.com/#/documentaries/holy-grail-in-america/
http://www.hookedx.com/film.asp
Note:
The Kensington runestone inscriptions were made by explorers from Gotland, an
island off Sweden that had a military monastic order that was possibly the Knights
Templar. The above links better explain this poem.
what a potpourri
mopery and dopery
in Kensington town
Seattle to Kensington a short journey indeed
He became experienced through his guitar amp feed
He lived his life like a machine gun
Hey Joe plays little wing, on the third stone from the sun
Kensington
Children of frustration
when dreams rose from the heap
the darkest of locations
tell white lies as they speak
open to persuasion
when abilities are weak
waves of degradation
disturbs all those asleep
awake the dispensation
to turn the other cheek
the house that they were raised in
and company they keep
a blur of segregation
when summers burn with heat
sit back for meditation
and sow all that is reaped
peer deep into what’s stationed
the lost or stolen sheep
a core that rocks a nation
only on occasion weeps
passed down from generations
too scared to take a peak
the truth is out there somewhere
you can find it in the street.
One percent of people are the king Of Kensington.
The rest think that it's easy but they live in Leamington.
How could all be happy there for all they have to live
and think about the one percent who make it and who give?
I'm the King Of Kensington.
A man who lives as civil.
I'll ask you how your day was
and assure you nothing frivol.
I know the walk around the town
and carry you around.
And if I know your troubles
I'll listen more profound.
I walk this world with others
and keep my head held high.
There'll never be another
and you can count on I.
It’s sad when poverty
leads to the proliferation
of gangs and sales of drugs
which leads in turn to addiction.
No bigger open market for drugs exists
than one where great homelessness grew.
Gangs are thriving even to this day
there on Kensington Avenue.
Gangs of many ethnicities,
prostitutes and miserable folk
hang out there hooked on
heroin, fentanyl and coke.
A billion dollar market where I’m sure
drugs are bought as easily as soda pop.
Don’t worry that you even will get caught.
Over there one rarely sees a cop!
The factories long disappeared,
Silent structures still stay;
And more drugs than dreams have appeared,
In Kensington today.
The north of the Ave has its shine,
Less fine, southerly way;
Best Philly, and worst, intertwine,
In Kensington today.
Six miles, in a small corner curled,
“What matter?” you may say;
Well, the world is here, here’s the world,
In Kensington today.
The wheels of the chaotic times churn for them
the sands of crushed dreams in the desert of desiccated life,
settling frenzied on the unstratified fragile structure
of the disorganized dunes of desolate existence.
The sequestered moments of distressed awareness,
drift the dust of disarray to the foyer of failed being.
The truth of trustful conviction sinks under suffering
made with mirage on the ruffled ripples of disorder.
In homeless languished life’s impoverished landscape,
sorrow-paved avenue contours convoluted uncertainty,
winds to nowhere at the fading fringe of the time future,
beyond the befuddled perception of toiling time present.
With the faceless faces smeared by the shadows of scorn
they walk on slimy Kensington Avenue of cardinal crime.
Life trampled by insolent wavering footsteps in journey
under the stupor of opoids that never ends their pain.
They seek the benevolence of the society to help them
in their search for the lighted path away from squalid environs
for their suffering souls to discern the abode of empathy,
as they strive to find the way out of the dead end avenue.
“When it is obvious that the goals cannot be reached,
don't adjust the goals, adjust the action steps.”
- Quote by Confucius
-------------------------------------------------------------
Human errors
beyond measure
K and A avenue
intersection
smoking hurt
needling pain
losing love of live
living addicted
people mistreating
people mistreated
unconscious youth
forgetful leaders
ruptured vein
dying humanity
homeless theories
weighed hopes
failed lot
lots failed
Here they come with
an iPhone
Go Pro Zv Max
buddies in their ears
bopping to old tracks
dead cat on a mic
push it in yer face
what are you doing, girl?
Tryin’ to turn a trick
earn your Rhino tranq?
Sneakers burning
keeping warm
sleeping standing
got no dorm
Here they come in
their pink puffy
glittering long fat coats
frothy coffee, milk of oats.
Come see the zoo;
we got dead cats, dead rats,
xylazine zombies too
shootings, drive by’s
OD’s, all you need.
It’s killadelphia man
Sleeping in grime
in this here hood
that ain’t no crime
ain’t no good
Here they come with
Their TikTok
YouTube Instagram smirk
Here’s a Dixie buddy
tell me where to shoot.
My girls lost a foot
you wanna see that?
See him lie, see him die
what you gotta film
to get your likes?
influence me
influencer
nothing to see
make a stir
*This poem was written for "Kensington Avenue Poetry Contest, Anthony Biaanco, sponsor, July 20, 2025
KENSINGTON'S LAMENT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Her city streets are grey and worn, with a denim sky overhead. Birdsong trickles out in fractured waves, as if feathered friends cried while flying her way. Engines sputter; horns blare. People hurry by her in silence, eyes down, broken only by shouts or violence.
In the heart of the city, Kensington stands.
Her factories whisper of glory long past,
In shadows of brick, distant memories are recast.
Kensington once stood proud, her arms open wide.
She wore garments created from vibrant thread,
Her looms danced like children, with dreams in their heads.
But deindustrialization’s cruel hands silenced her workers.
The mills closed their doors, leaving Kensington barren and bare.
Homelessness, crime, and poverty crept in, like a thief unaware.
Now she wears rags of neglect, tattered and frayed,
Her children, once hopeful, now wander with fear,
As the specter of poverty hovers ever near.
Her streets, once alive, are overgrown with weeds.
The stories of families, of struggle and pride,
Now faded like echoes that time and ruin hides.
“Can you hear my history’s soft echoes?” she asks.
“I am more than the ruins and scars I wear,
More than the weight of past despair.”
“I yearn to reach for something more!” she shouts.
“You have so much to gain, it’s true.
In healing me, you’ll find you too.”
Revitalize me,” she desperately pleads.
“Through sidewalk cracks, the sunlight streams.
I beg you! Help awaken my forgotten dreams.”
Where is this? Are we on Mars?
America – just count the stores,
capitalist carnivores.
That so-familiar movie score,
the swish of passing cars.
The city built on Brotherly Love
(Wells Fargo, Fitch and Abercrombie)
at the mercy of Pam Bondi
- was that a person, or a zombie? –
What was Madison thinking of?
Car’s no use: no place to park it.
Arrested at a funeral home.
No gravel pits, no air, no loam
- eat your heart out, Kristi Noem
(Checks Cashed Here, Medina Market)
Can this be noon? It feels like night.
What are these groupings? Hangouts? Dives?
They’re ganglions? They’re human hives?
Squandered talent, wasted lives.
Subway line blocks out the light.
Sidewalk garbage. Mostly men.
That hokey old verbal agility,
“insure domestic tranquillity”
correctional facility
for the heirs of William Penn.
Human beings are detritus
(Lifetime Nails, Olympic Sports):
To clean it up, we use the courts
Perhaps we ought to build more forts
- and thus our id comes back to bite us.
Sit down, and let me tell you, son,
about the historic district, Kensington,
in the year eighteen-forty-four,
when the streets broke out in war.
The Irish-Catholic were new arrivals,
impoverished, fighting for survival.
The existing population was disquieted,
and so, Philadelphia nativists rioted.
It was then that false rumors were passed.
In a bad light, the Irish were cast,
Propaganda and lies, the devil's tools,
"They want to remove the Bible from schools".
But son, these things wouldn't happen today.
We are enlightened, though let me just say,
if there is an unpleasant circumstance,
just blame it on the immigrants.
Fourteen minutes from Independence Hall
You'll find Hell on Kensington Street
Its a zombie apocalypse, American fall
The worst decay you'll ever meet.
People inject each other with heroin and tranq.
You wonder how the survival instinct warps
Ben Shapiro went there, and his heart sank
He described each loser as a living corpse
He was aghast, he saw people without feet
Rotted away because of the tranq they ingest
Festering bodies, was this once a stately street?
Our founders pledged sacred honor, but did they fail this test?
Prostitutes fill the streets by kids walking to school
The kids walk by the dead, by addicts shooting a last vein
Anyone who advocated for this would be a fool
But we elected one as mayor, isn't that insane?
The DSA platform once said all drugs should legalize
I hope Mamdani gave this up now
But whores on your doorstep, he'll give that prize
Does he know what he's doing, what this will allow?
Plenty of people stoned in New York
But more chaos can be made, does anyone care?
Genie out of the bottle, can't find the cork
Remember Kensington Street, Philadelphia, and despair.