Best Storefronts Poems
Once upon a stranger,
a girl — a well-intentioned woman —
walked with an open soul,
her eyes silvered with withheld sighs.
Behind that quiet gaze,
a seraphic smile concealed its sorrow,
gleaming through daydreams,
as folk songs whispered of her tender defiance.
Once upon a moment,
I heard soft whispers fade —
inside a bus on a starry August night.
She rose to glimpse the world once more,
hope glimmering heavy in her eyes,
half in joy, half in fear.
Once upon what it seemed,
the empty streets turned mirrors —
cold storefronts, dim alleys.
By night she stumbled through silence,
by day she wore her wounds as armor,
wandering through the city’s dense forest
of unaccompanied paths.
An unchained soul, yet caged
by society’s ugly parodies —
cells built from shame and duty.
She pondered the dreams reality killed
as she passed through shanty streets,
escorted by echoes of laughter now gone.
Once again her hope returned:
to fill the void with beauty,
to rise above the dimmed faces of her class.
Her dreams, still burning,
to rekindle the lonely, to build what she was denied —
a quiet joy that glowed against despair.
Once upon a loop of forever after,
lamentations deepened.
Between forced vows and a fractured home,
she lived a life too succinct —
raped, abused, unseen.
Darkness grew familiar,
a slow descent into thoughts unspoken.
And her world took its turn —
the light grew distant,
and she folded into herself,
too late for prayers or wishing wells.
Once upon a stolen dream.
Once upon a neglected childhood.
Once upon a trembling womanhood.
Once upon time, and time again.
A bowed head,
seeking shelter from the tempest —
and as she lies on her five-foot mat,
deep in sleep where dreams unfold,
the queen rises once again,
seraphic and free
in her ultimate paradise.
In heat
the pulse of your streets.
I've heard the crack
of hard political whips
that pinch the air.
Cores of human topography,
your aging neighborhoods.
Your people kick cans
counting gravel like jewels,
while chiselers roast dogs
in the courthouse.
Swine flu kills
the papers.
And already the sky is
feverish.
In your train tunnels
a violinist plays pianissimo.
I've seen
railroad men search for him
along your tracks.*
But you are always
the sweltering sore
of the Atlantic.
A rusty mouth
for dark ships.
A blind brick town
of boarded storefronts
and ***** flicks,
you are buried.
Brown bag your way
to the last alley.
The tenants throw
rocks at your windows.
The rain has stopped
washing your sewers.
*From an old legend of
railroad workers on the east coast of the United States.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
The dust devils swirled with grit as their lacing,
and dark Sonnet storefronts boarded in despair.
The Senryu Saloon shut its cafe doors
and the Couplet Church-goers fled in pairs.
She thought he wouldn't live in all his Paeons.
She packed her Blank Verses in one simple case
and went to the station to board the Quatrain,
leave all the Haiku for a happier place.
The two poets stood there grim in their facing.
Only one would survive and one would lay down.
The fact that it happened left Lyrics racing:
Indeed, 'twas a dark day in Poetry Town.
Color, beautiful colors so fair.
Decorates life with beauty, gemstones.
Days without splendor could bring despair.
The human retina, its rods and cones,
Designed to paint man’s world with grand hues.
View majestic colors on earth’s throne.
Hues that paint nightlights with great amuse.
Storefronts, theaters and streets bedecked.
Beautiful colors: reds, greens, and blues.
Sometimes there is a spectral defect.
Pigment askew sees colors untrue.
Changing the vistas one might expect.
Colorblind people tell some jobs adieu.
Electricians, painters, and even cooks –
Let’s hope there will be a cure breakthrough.
On the good side, according to books,
Colorblindness detects camouflage.
A benefit, finds enemy nooks.
Corsage, collage, sabotage montage –
© March 6, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Color Blindness
Sponsored by: Olajide Adelana
Pastoral country
Where folks wave to passers by--
Farmers plowing
Exit 386
Wal-Mart, fast foods, and hotels--
Tourists stop
Modern businesses
Of every type one might need--
The short road to town
Refurbished storefronts
With arts antiques and barbers--
Downtown businesses
Houses big and small
Fill the local neighborhoods--
Quiet streets
State Parks, music fests
And neighborhood barbeques --
Entertainment
Outside of town
Beautiful farms and woodlands--
The rural folks
The river rises
Bringing water to my land --
Children in kayaks
The home of brave hearts
Who understand nature’s way --
King and rattlesnakes
The home of the free
Where people are seen smiling--
Live Oak, Florida
ã June 5, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member MY LAND IS MY HOME
Sponsored by: ~ SKAT ~
Bundled in a horse-drawn sleigh
warm and snug on Thanksgiving Day
the children restless, we went on our way
as the shedding forest began to sway
and the gusts of wind set astray
the vestiges of autumn's display
that unveiled the cabins along the bay
Past weathered barns fraught with snow
and over covered bridges would we go
through the misty river's chill
turning toward the cider mill
its churning paddles frozen still
past the farmsteads and withered fields
the ghosts of bounty that harvest yields
caught in a breeze of burning leaves
and all the reveries the season weaves
We arrived on main street after sundown
gliding through the charming town
toward the chiming white church steeple
past the storefronts curbed with people
in the wake of the gingerbread float
at the stern of the Pilgrim's boat
behind fairy tales and candy lands
as the revelers sang with clapping hands
to the music of the marching bands
From the celebration would we emerge
from the flowery, spangled surge
to behold a wondrous sight
as geese took flight into the night
over the sea where moonlight sought
to quell the hues that twilight wrought
Frosted lamp posts lit our course
and into a trot sprang our horse
his hooves and harness jingling bells
as if to the tunes of sweet noels
while from the shops whose cozy glow
projected windows on the snow
there flashed the goods someone will leave
under a tree late Christmas Eve
the toys and clothes wrapped in bows
and all the gifts that a stocking stows
Now past chimney smoke and picket fences
nostalgic aspects that stir the senses
where old Victorian silhouettes are found
and gestures of goodwill abound
toward the sound of waves we wound
as our lanterns flickered on the ground
the atmosphere around us festive
while within full and restive
or nestled by the fireplace
or with their heads bowed in grace
folks enjoyed a simple pace
while outside others strolled about
amid the maize and wreaths throughout
absorbed in a twinkling universe
of colors snow-clad and diverse
To our delight there soon arose
a savory ambience for the nose
adrift from tables set with care
with a redolence that met the air
as we hailed the last of passersby
and climbed the road into a sky
whose stars adorned the snowy limbs
to a house on the coast, flowing with hymns
All abroad! Amazing airplane aims above Asia ascending at an ample airline.
Bestowing big buildings, busy businesses, beautiful beaches...
Camera captures candid cascading countryside.
Dozen dandelions display delightful destinations.
Everyone easily escapes enjoyment.
Families follow festivals featuring favorite foods.
Guests grow generating grand group gatherings.
Happy hikers holler, "Hello", having heartfelt hospitality.
Itinerary illustrates interest.
Journalists jot joyful journeys.
Kindreds keep keepsakes.
Laziness lingers leaving luxury lounging.
Many mountains measure meaningful moments.
Neighbors noticing newfound nature.
Onlookers observe outstanding overviews.
People profile pretty picturesque plains.
Quaint quiet quests.
Rivers rage radiating rainbow rays.
Souvenirs stock storefronts signaling surging sales.
Tourists travel tracing town's treasures.
Upcoming unbelievable utopia.
Visitors vacation vast vicinities.
Wonderful walks were waiting world wonders.
XOXO's xeroxed.
Yesterday's yearly yacht yearnings.
Zooming zestfully.
The earth was void and without form…
And the voice of the Lord was upon the waters…
In the roll of a tsunami wave across the Pacific
Born of a collapsing mountain deep in the sea
And in the tidal surge bearing down on Mobile
Miles ahead of an approaching storm.
You sweep away people as if they were but a dream.
In the morning they are like the new grass.
It was no dream to those on board an oil platform in the Gulf
Torn from its moorings by a raging sea.
It was no dream to a family huddled in their attic
Watching the flood waters rise.
But the voice of the Lord was not in the whirlwind.
It was not in the flood waters from Lake Pontchartrain.
It was not in the crashing tidal waves or the leaking levees.
It was not in the spinning devastation of the hurricanes.
Or the incessant pounding of torrential rains.
God gave Noah the “rainbow sign”.
Never again will I destroy the world.
Already life returns, bit by bit, to New Orleans.
Trash-filled streets are cleared, tattered storefronts mended.
Flooded homes pumped clear and families reunited.
Alligators return to their normal homes
While the people rebuild theirs along the waterfront.
I will gather the exiles from the four corners of the Earth.
From the Astrodome and Air Force bases,
From Red Cross shelters and tent cities,
And from the homes of strangers.
And they shall rebuild the waste cities and inhabit them.
They shall plant vineyards and drink of their wine.
The tourist hotels on the beaches of Phuket,
Fishing villages on the shores of Indonesia,
And the bars on Bourbon Street.
The sound of music and rejoicing shall be heard once more in the land.
They will celebrate Mardi Gras again on the streets of New Orleans
With the sounds of sweet jazz drifting from the “French Quarter”.
Boats shall sail once more from the port of Jakarta
And sailors will look out upon a tranquil sea.
A white wash of striated clouds
stretch expansively
across the arid desert sky
where Joshua trees commune
lifting up crooked cactus-like arms
towards the searing sun.
Massive layers of brown boulders
jut, forming endless sculptures
hidden places where the ancients
made their penitence with words
swept away by unforgiving winds.
Shadows shift under the arc of the sun
where nervous roadrunners dart
startled lizards seek shade
great hawks circle with outstretched wings
and tortoises amble as the hours crawl by.
Two lane highways trail into the horizon
toward snow capped mountain peaks
lined by nameless telephone poles
and tumbleweeds that roll aimlessly
across storefronts and sleepy
rundown towns in disrepair.
Yet the mystique of the Mojave plains
still remains an inviting oasis
of refreshment and contemplation
where time stands still
beneath the stillness
of the midnight stars.
12/5/2022
I peer back through the mists of time to muse and ponder,
Christmases when a lad, giving my mind free rein to wander.
'Twas a simpler time when life moved at a slower pace.
Wonderful memories flood my soul that I cannot erase.
A canopy of lights arched over Main Street from curb to curb.
Holly wreaths were hung from light poles looking so superb!
Merchants festooned storefronts with delightful decorations.
Children's faces were all aglow with eager anticipations!
Kids pressed noses to windows as they went from store to store,
Oohing and aahing at the trains, dolls and games galore!
Later, they'd visit Santa at Woolworths Five and Dime;
They'd have their hopeful list in mind to save Santa's time!
There'd be a Yule Tree lighting and carols sung on the village square.
Santa arrived on Fire Engine Number One to end the evening's affair!
Mother Nature usually provided a couple of inches of snow.
Ah, the simple beauty of my hometown with the lights aglow!
The cops blocked High Street for kids to sled down its hill.
Flopping on their Flexible Flyers provided the village kids a thrill!
Nowadays, though lights and glitzy decorations adorn the mall,
They don't elicit that old time hometown feeling in me at all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
SEPTEMBER SUNSET OVER ST. PETERSBURG
Final fling of color and movement from the sun
Celebration of life before it’s done.
Bits and pieces of beauty criss-crossed
And all is higgledy, but still filled and tossed -
Like a rainbow salad mixed up in the sky’s bowl
With colored stripes of beauty - and spread over the oval
Nodding orange behind the Cathedral of St. Isaac,
Against the blue bowl looming black.
The leading edges of each higgle glow golder
As the trailing edges dim, darker, older :
And the orange juice spreads behind the museum
Then pours between the storefronts, turning them
To Gideon’s shields, momentarily flaring bright
To hide the departure of the citrus orb to the night.
The higgledy darkens, slowly bruising
Into purple streaks, westward flooding and oozing.
As the day dies unmourned,
The western sky is unadorned.
.............................................................
Written by Sydney Peck
2 August 2013
weathered fences broken slacks
covered the shores of tan grit
that stained the walk way
of uncharted territories
i frolliced about tainted steel
the hidden smell of poshed hair tonic
as i reached for the door handle
quickly comforted by thought
mingling about stirring about
cold tire rims spinning spokes
i'd remember the jaded hours
focused on the infamous
coming of the dawn
shattering balance and lure
dangling about crowded burroughs
empty canals and rows
of rail road tracks
nestled underneath rusty viddocks
lined with vacant storefronts
filled with the stench
of molded cartons rotten produce
and spoiled fish morbidly covering
thee abandoned market place
*Image of Mauna Kea Hilo Bay by Big Island Now.
*Hilo Town, Now and Then
Signs of
Store Closed
or Out of Business
with taped crossed doors
A passing peek
through unkept glassed storefronts
of hanging cords from ceilings
and holes in walls
Abundant parking stalls lay abandoned
near to empty sidewalks of the main street
a marooned Hilo town rest
lives now resigned behind closed home doors.
A father's lengthy search in a parking lot
following, a parked Studebaker remains unlocked
as an anxious boy does a 60's abrupt run
suddenly braked-stopped by a mother's hold
Kress Department Store gleamingly welcomes
naive ignores mannequins that adorn storefront
the scent fills inside of popcorn or packaged candied ones
mom's clothes patterns with dad about as comics filled eyes
Christmas lights droop up and down the main street
every store big or small adds to the brightness
a youngster's glee emanates feelings likewise
hoping that said feelings last forever.
*Hilo: pronounced (HEE-low)
2020 August 15
*1st Place*
Enter the 'STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (24) ,any form,any theme'
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2020 August 19
Upcountry thunder
turns the plain milled storefronts
to shades of muscat-grape
and citron, dusky rose.
Pavement ripples with reflections
never thought before,
as clouds pass
dark as bedrock, molten
at the core.
CENTRAL DARK
I used to walk those very same streets
Streets of sensuousness and sin
Those streets which once felt my feet
Those streets where my shoes once had been
The storefronts are new but the cement is the same
I saw pictures of it on my television screen
Those streets are in a city my heart used to claim
Those streets which both books and films often deem mean
I used to stroll those streets in the dark
Under moonlight I’d search for my next destination
One street led to a centrally located park
In a hamlet forged of fantasy and fascination
I used to walk those streets all alone
In search of someone with whom I could talk
My feet now stomp streets in a different state I bemoan
And only God knows how much I miss my New York
© 2012…..PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~