Best Nyc Poems
Two teens shoveling snow that February day,
wanting to hurry up so they could play,
quickly shoveling heaping piles of snow,
into an open 1935 NYC manhole,
Seeing something move down in the hole,
both teens thought "holy mole!"
yelling theres a gator down in there,
wanting to help it out they showed little fear,
Getting a clothesline they helped drag it out,
an 8 foot alligator with a toothy snout,
loosening the line the gator snapped,
while the teens were busy watching their backs,
But both boys were taken aback by the attack,
and decided to give the gator some whacks,
both killing it with their work snow shovels,
whereupon the gator didn't give them anymore trouble,
Now in NYC every February 10th,
the people are reminded of how that day was spent,
with a bronze gator pulling a man down in the manhole,
a quirky subway commemoration reminder for one and all.
4-6-17
is New York City
the heart of America?
it certainly is
I am reminded of songs by the Beach Boys
who sang of idyllic summers
The city beaches are with
lifeguards to protect those in danger
The asphalt homeland
is filled with tourists
and I also note that there are youth
playing handball in the parks
Light from the sky beats down on the homeland
The masses of people in the city
are experiencing a heat wave
The water stations are open
So the people can drink deep
Everyone possible should drink deep
of the joys of summer in
what O.Henry called
"Baghdad on the Hudson"
a lost boy asked a
stranger for help; was kidnapped,
killed and dismembered
an innocent life
snatched by evil hands ; let this
child be remembered
*** At Age Seventeen ***
At 17, the wooden heels of my boots echoed
My audacious immaturity along my entire way
exploring
Manhattan’s south-end area. Its long blocks, I routed
For the reason of simply seeing.
In the route I took through that then unknown section,
My young lack of any preparation was foolishly profound,
Although during all that afternoon, I passed only huge,
Blackened windows; met only vacant streets, endless concrete.
Except for the resounding echoes of my clop-clopping
Heels going on, on, so starkly conspicuous; my pacing
Possibly — dangerous — sourrounded by mal-intents;
hearing no sirens, no horns…Just the ominous sounds
Of my own very isolating heels strikind the ground
in an otherwise quiet, misplaced in any city’s midst.
My mother had often told me, “There’s safety in numbers.”
I heard myself grumbling, “Nothing! So empty
here in a city of millions!”
In the face of that strange, puzzling reality,
I felt lost and uneasy, so that those few hours yet remain
— more than fifty years later — vividly
In memory, often repeating, leaping up to recount for me
some lessons of faith and humility.
The loss of all sense of place in the face
Of the echoes and the fear, and, too, the hidden,
extraordinary city’s separated, absent populace…so used
In the long-lasting lesson my conscience speaks patiently,
“Poor girl. Give thanks! You went so far only
Due to God’s always interceeding way embracing you.”
-—————————————————————————————————————————
(c) 1/30/23 sally young eslinger
Thanks be to God…
Cars, pedestrians stores
The air is not so clean here
But there are some great people here
People who call it "Zoo York"
are wrong
Once my life was saved by a stranger here
Yes, the place still exists
Yes, it has a heart
As I sit here in in Dunkin Doughnuts
writing
I see a grandmother with her infant
I see people drinking caffeinated beverages
Just another day in the Big apple
Along with 8 million others
Some of who write poetry
songs of a pretty bird, the city heard, songs of, a city's hurts, songs of, a pretty's worth, a pretty's worth, but Penny's worth, mere pennies worth, the city's hurt, the city birds heard the city's hurt, the city's worth, the pity - burns, the pretty city bird..
The steel birches shone
So tall in the global wood,
And then clear-cut rent.
Frigid temperatures drop
Wind chill in low digits
Park benches become co-ops
Under newspaper blankets a man fidgets
Trying to make the best of the hand he was dealt
Man, he’s felt so many lows
Now he’s just looking to sew any clothes
that he can get his hands on
into another layer
Just to help him answer a prayer
Don’t look at him like he has cancer & stare
He’s weathered the storm
many a time
Trying to keep warm
Begging for change
A nickel
A penny
A dime
He’s begging for change
and he don’t even know it
We show it doesn’t matter
when we look at him
Creeped out
Stoic faces weave doubt
into his old tattered coat
Twice removed
Shivering
Giving up on life
Defused
How hard he tries
or how hard he cries
Strangers despise him
Is it Darwin’s theory or Marx’
that deprive him?
It’s a pitiful scene
without words to describe him
Defeat in his eyes
with no Phoenix to arise him
He smiles grim
Not cuz he thinks something’s funny
The trials trim away pounds from his face
He’s got no money
Can’t get a job
Who would ever hire a slob?
He’s got no address
Doesn’t even sleep on a mattress
He needs a shower, new clothes, and groomin’
Before anyone even considers him
somewhat close to being human
Harry Truman walkin through Manhattan projects
Looking at people as objects
We need to stop this
Who’s got this?
And who’s got next?
NYC nior in black and white
NYC nior in black and white
Dark landscapes 1957 NYC
of automats radio city and hotdog stands
memories of things past
Take us back to lucid dreams of light and shadows cast
set the stage late night dark wet NY detectives on the beat
slow moving like grit and steel they stride down the great white way
steam and clouds shoot to the sky from sewer covers
smoke rings blast out from bill boards of urban midnight cowboys
from route 66
On the street hipsters glide down in pinstriped suits
cool sleek long with straddled watch chains dragging
smoking stogies from drooping lips
wing tipped shoes rested on black boxes at shoe shiners row at 53rd and lex
wanting fem defal’s dark diva’s in fish nets tight red skin dresses with sleek spike heels long cigarettes with long brim hats and netted veils as they walk the line swinging their Purses leaning against posts on the foggy corners
Dharma bums gaze at city lights dreaming of old bards songs
through garment push carts and rushing feet
in the machinery of the steamy night
the boxcars moving past open doors
The cities glare in shadows bare
neon signs striptease flashing in the backdrop of honking horns and traffic
night clubs casinos and one night stands in greasy motels
pool hall hustler’s poker players loan sharker's and scheamers
whisky bars dockyard and widowed screams
tenement houses windows open curtains drawn
sweat and muscle tee shirts yelling out to others
saxophone city of butchers boozers bribers and brown baggers
Bright yellow checkers and taxis on Times Square
down the smoke hazed dark lanes against the hard walls
slim Jim zoot suiter’s lazy dazed side leaning
roll loaded dice with steaming cheap Tricks
Newspaper stands and barbers shops with marbled checker floors
white steaming towels with waiting hot lather
man with straight edge and black leather strap leans over
with Sinatra playing in the back
Neon city balanced in chaotic disorder of abstract lines
of municipal signs
city where monk lady day and Coltrane play Improve
in old coffee houses of smoke filled cafes for pennies a day
as street poets whisper and drink their troubles away
dreaming of Brando bogie smoking Joe's and blondes
of slip hips and jive
the humid thick air of a July 10 evening
streets of new york city in july
heat that invites two wretched souls
into the beatnik hall
coffee pouring- smell of tobacco burning
a squares mistake of showing up and thinking he is in paris because the men with their
old ladies berets are donned and wearing the personality of that such cat
sunglasses omitting the last of the natural light through that lone large pane of glass that outlooks the street ad the lamps illuminate
the death of the smoke will not kill them tonight
there bodies are still young and lean
they think their destiny is darkened as misplaced tweeners
movement of the fan of iron and tin blowing across the floor of tables and mugs
its cooling methods of no use and remorse it just keeps turning those fans no grateful
no on caring.
black girl sitting alone at a table in the corner trying to blend into the corner that gives dark not to be seen by her last lover as he runs his hand through the golden hair of latest old lady
white guy standing at the rear not more of two feet from the girl in the corner his eyes seething with his lost love sitting with the mature black fellow with the eyeglasses and sharp goatee running his hand through that golden hair.
the tow of them strangers since her time here, depart different doors broken hearts.
evening of walking for them both one walking one way the other another.
but that cool wind of the river is a non-conforming consoler of the two he leads them down to dark waters illuminated before the blue clear water. Suddenly one pair of eyes meets with the other.
attraction of the two as no other that have both felt.
one walks over to introduce to the other
which one it never mattered
their eyes meeting souls touching
wounds of the heart healing
doors to the homes of separate houses reopened with new vista of a greater American journey
my beatnik attempt
Killer Diller 1 2 3
Johnny Pump spraying on your feet
Skelly,s game played up and down the street
Lifting the Johny Pump water with an aluminum can
Oh So Sweet!
All these things were such a treat
Make growing up on 20th Street
in Astoria
Seem so complete
All topped off with a Mr. Softees treat
They say I inflated
It's they that conflated
Political lies with their version of facts.
The mess they created
Will long be debated
Another attempt to silence and styme.
As often I've stated
Which leaves them frustrated
I'm worth every cent of the Billions I claim.
The reason I'm fated
And by some surely hated
Is my obvious success and the money I make.
Letitia's now grated
Quite a bit aggravated
That her bark is so hollow with clearly no bite.
Not one to be intimidated
My strength celebrated
Let them throw what they will and watch it dissolve.
My lawyers are rated
This case armor plated
Watch these bogus new charges soon dissipate.
In the meantime I've slated
For the fans I've created
More rallies to drive my winning points home.
I'm buoyed and elated
Evermore motivated
For the White house to bask in my presence once more.
that man
that cried
on the corner
tears
made him
invisible
I too
let him
wash away
in front of us
I saw
him
sail
by
in
his
own
liquid form
and we
were
a thousand
pairs
of shoes
crossing
the street
so
our
feet
wouldn't
get wet.
© Gry W Christensen
We were connected by chaos and by name
I,the amateur sophisticate, approached the city
to contribute to business in concrete.
You, the accomplished composer,came crashing in
to record the commerce of life.
I was ordinary,usual.on the verge
of obsolescence.
You were radical.progressive,
butting the threshold of avant-garde.
You boldly broke forth into yourself.
I was needful of a future to prevail.
I returned to common and coal skies.
You escaped to art and sandy skies.
Your celebration of New York erupted
in every "this and that."
I loved your city love
but my tribute was tempered.
I knew the rest of your life
would kill you.
I preferred longevity.