Best Street Poems
Looking down my tree lined street
the setting sun casts her glow
upon the Chestnuts, Maples, and Oaks
dressed in worn out yellow ribbons
telling the story of friendship and loss
strength and courage.
How there was hope and there were dreams.
That life wouldn't pull us apart.
There was community and passion
and smiles each time you went through that revolving door.
We prayed, yes we prayed for us that we wouldn't lose you
that we wouldn't be missing someone so true.
I raise my head up to the skies
washing away a lingering tearful cry
and remember ....
Your amiable soul, dynamic, invincible and unique
Your stupendous dose of humor, indulging, infectious and unstoppable.
Your enthusiasm to give, to share, and your boundless care
Your friendship, a treasure trove of trust worth.
Wherever you were, there was harmony, and a breath of fresh air
You were a friend, who never postponed one minute of life
You used every minute to fill ours with joy
I raise my head high and remember
i remember the moment my laughter died
that moment when I asked why
Why are the good, the chosen ones, to suffer for others 'evil
Why do they go first, why do they die young
Why are they now far, so far ?
In that moment of helplessness and doubt
In that moment when faith was provoked
I cried like a child, I didn t need another hero,
I just wanted my friend back
I wanted him so bad to be near, to survive
Once again I raised my head,
I got lost in the sky,
And I swear I saw him with these eyes
And I swear, I heard him with these ears
He said, 'Death is not for the living, I am so much alive '
Then, it was night !
I raised up my head, and a luminous star lit
my once darkened sky with warm breezing light.
In silence, your friendship is a sun to me,
Your warmth a shower to erase pain.
In you pain exists, something I cannot solve,
But in my warmth you can stay a while.
Just know that I am here for you,
For friendship is no one way street.
***
Copyright © Darren White
March 31, 2017
The street seemed so much smaller now
The grime and the smell were still the same though
Engrained like the people who lived there
It was the only thing that never left him
She stayed at twenty-three
One tough girl
Christ, he still remembers the day she knocked him out
Slightly concussed, he proposed to her
Not bad for a twelve-year-old
She couldn’t stop laughing
She wasn’t marrying no wimp that day
In fact, her daily ritual was knocking him down
Mum, is love painful
If it’s true love, it can be
It was, his head was testament to that
He just kept going back for more
To give her, her due, she was happy to give it to him
One day he told her straight. I don’t care how many times you knock me down. I’m going to be your boyfriend. He waited for the punch
She kissed him
He fell down again
She starting laughing
It felt like the greatest feeling ever
They became inseparable after that
Young love had conquered
One day she told him she was going away
I’m going with you
It’s not that kind of going away
Is there another kind
It’s the dying kind of going away
Yes, but you won't die for a long time
A year the doctors said
That didn’t make sense to him
We’ll just have to make the most of it, she said
Make the most of it
The most precious year of his young life
She died the way she lived.
Demanding he did the best he could with his life
There were times when he really struggled
Times he thought of joining her
The pain in his head always changed that
Even in death, she got to him
The years passed by
He made good
She would be proud of him
The street seemed so much smaller now
The grime and the smell were still the same though
Engrained like the people who lived there
It was good to be home...
Plunked down in chaos
from a gentler time,
blinkered from the traffic
he pulls the coach along.
Patient, in his harness bond
he tugs at hearts, with pathos-
as to his love of duty we respond.
Amidst the screech of sirens
and the blasting horns,
he stands and dreams
of meadows in a nosebag.
Such rhythmic clicking of
metal shoes on concrete,
full rolling of the carriage
wheels and he, confined,
down through the centuries
he thought he'd left behind.
(On the state of American Poetry- A Non-Poem Poem )
I'm Poet Laureate Of Main Street.
They voted. I won.
' came down to me and the kid whose dog craps on everyone's lawns.
His poem was about a missing red crayon; mine: the stop-sign someone stole from the corner of Elm and Main (I think I know who did it too).
Is it coincident both poems are about loss?
Probably not. Poetry is at it's best when expressing loss.
He'll probably win the position back next year with a weepy poem about not having been chosen Poet Laureate Of Main Street.
That's fine with me, as long as he keeps that damn dog in his own yard.
One Texan day, a man close to his prime,
sat down on a curb beside a tree.
It was an empty street; there was no crime
nor danger anywhere that he could see.
But suddenly, the world he knew would cease to be.
He’d lived a goodly life and sacrificed
to leave his home and get a law degree.
If there were a man I knew with attributes of Christ,
he would be that man, for the epitome
of someone with great love and compassion was he.
I know this because he was my brother,
and within our somewhat crazy, blended family,
I would have to say there was no other
among us all who worked so tirelessly
to be a friend to all while meeting all his goals. Ah, life’s finality!
He was on the threshold of his dream to practice law.
Then out of nowhere, as he sat there on that empty street,
the headlights of a drunk kid’s car he saw
barreling down on him. My brother Dale, so sweet,
was – in an instant- gone, for life sometimes can so unfairly fleet.
Written Oct. 19, 2016
for Broken Wings' Words Drowned In Tears Poetry Contest
The dank petrichor of grainy night,
meters stand like gravestones,
the obsidian avenue slick as a sapphire,
windowed granite rising in sharp cut shadows,
wind gusting, tumbleweed clouds somersaulting
in a moonless ghost town.
I jingle keys with atonal sky
and listen to my footsteps on concrete
ticking like a clock.
There are places to be.
I hasten my step as rain drops resume,
one by one mounting into a riotous crowd.
Umbrella-less, I am soon sopping,
hair a wet carpet, suit a gray saturated tarp,
the briefcase and tote onyx boulders.
My car is still a block away,
but eventually I reach it
like a leaf washing down stream.
The tote slips off my shoulder
as I stoop to retrieve fallen keys
lying in a shallow puddle like a shattered talisman.
Suddenly I begin laughing,
dropping everything in the street,
my face skyward, arms splayed like a crucifix.
Now there is no tomorrow,
only the farce of my predicament,
standing like a drowned coyote howling
at the moon as though it would be there forever.
When the orange edge of the sun rises
above silver tint hues of an endless horizon
I sway with silent elegance in the meadow of your heart
You 'd pick up all scattered petals from dusty pages of the past.
And there you find my concealed love...
It is then when you recall untainted colours of the promise
forgotten truths and everlasting us.
It is there where you blow softly your Spring breezes
in gardens of fragrant nights
So that in a tomorrow,this unpretentious margarita
would waft its aromatic scent
once more in those amorous deep-set eyes.
Slowly It falls untamed,innocent,and pure, like a child's dream
in the tight-pull of your never-leaving arms.
shun the encroachment of the dark
focus intently at the task at hand
blinded to peripheral vision
wriggle free of your silhouette
present beyond the corner
circles encompass
captured by crescents
spinning in their circular hold
neither freedom nor imprisonment will ride
reality is just the ache of the dream
the muddled yell & yawn
every emotion a mere numbing agent
sometimes, I think I peeled away the relief
but the block forms are pattern upon pattern
and I'm a diminishing darkness
at the approach of dusk.
Lingering (in foggy haze)
Silhouettes of lost souls
(basket people muttering)
Lingering
(as they always do)
Culture of poverty
holding up signs
will work for food
the barefoot children
HIV and hunger
the powerless mothers...
Lingering
Cult of personalities speak
(the politicians)
eager for answers we listen
to false hope.
Lingering
Embers dancing in the wind
and the Spanish Moss
that hangs from magnificent
oaks
begin to fall like funeral
draperies
that echo meaningless sighs...
Lingering...
~ ~ ~
Hey there fella,
Listen up real fine
I'm gonna blast ya
With this slammin rhyme
You said I be trippin
Cuz i can't show my love
Well you still be creepin
With that itsy package you shove
Go back and give me
Something more than your haiku
For this big ol momma
I needs somethin to chew
Don't get all uppity
Or sig yer hoes on me
You mess with the wrong one
Can't your Silence see
You can make the others
Lick up all yo shoes
But head on off to boys town
For another that you choose
Shake bam rattle
I ain't showin you my stuff
Bye ya made up tyrant
This B has had enough
11-11-17
The middle class here can't be saved
When 0.001% act so depraved
Their wealth without end
These royals* still pretend
Did not come from us—their
enslaved**
*The Royals: CEOs, Banksters, Revolving Door Regulators, The FED, Congressmen for sale, Lobbyists, Board Members of Big Corporations, Major Shareholders who vote for these Board
Members, Corrupt Managers, Dishonest Used Car Salesmen, Presidential Candidates with more than two Residences, Elected Presidents (and their lackeys who pretend to regulate but look the other way)
**The Enslaved: Workers, Career Regulators who are trying to protect the public, Honest Hard Working Citizens, Students--some with oppressive loans, Immigrants, Soldiers, Police, Firemen and Firewomen, Parents, Children, Orphans, Disabled, The Sick, Small Business Owners (who don’t hire lobbyists), Volunteers, Health Care Workers, Welfare Recipients, Inventors, Investors, Entrepreneurs, Actors, Artists, Journalists who do in-depth investigation (not like those with FOX News, ABC Radio or many other of the outlets where they mouth the status quo), Non Profit Corporations, Charities, Teachers, Transportation Workers, Waiters and Waitresses, Dishwashers, Servants, Farmers, Managers, Ship Hands, Cooks, Unemployed
Author' s Note: Have been at Occupy Wall Street 8 days in the past two months--which is why I haven't been here--plus I have to work. Miss you all, but it's for a good cause. I am very briefly seen on Conan's feature: Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at Occupy Wall Street if you are looking for some humor with a little umph.
On many long, drawn out nights, his routine was to
shuffle aimlessly along dimly lit city streets.
Much of the time, his only companion was a
concealed remnant of cheap bottled wine. He
scavenged for food and money. He would walk
enveloped in deep, weighty shadows and
halo laden street lights. Solitary. Lonely.
Emptiness that few people feel or know.
The raw hollow of an alcoholics tightly
drawn stomach. A gnawing pain that craves
food but will only be quelled when he gets
enough cash for another pint of cheap wine or gin.
Where to spend the night? Maybe with
some of them under the 10th st. bridge.
They may have some money there, or a
blanket to share. Might rummage garbage
containers at the restaurants on the way.
Could walk the parking lot at the grocery store.
There's always change lying on the asphalt.
Could act like he passed out on a city
bench. The police take you to the Detox
Center then. He hated that. Have to stay
72 hours. Guts ache, skin crawls. They
feed you well, but there is always
that craving.
Just keep walking. Frail, vaguely awaren
of hissurroundings as he treks in shadow
andsepia. On 10th, the street lights are so
damned bright they hurt his eyes.
What's that at the bus stop bench
in a brown paper sack?
Two loaves of bread, two wrappers of
bologna, and a luxurious bottle of Gallo
wine tucked in the sack. My God.
Providence at a city bus stop.
Someone boarded the bus and left
their supper. Probably headed for the
homeless shelter overnight.
White bread and meat for one hunger.
Cheap wine for the other.
There might even be some food to share.
Miracle on 10th St.
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
The path was long and arduous
And night began to veer
O’er trees, and lanes and rusted gates
Its' shadows breeding fear
Unbridled Wind wisped ‘round
Tombstone crosses where
Hissing its’ frustration
Loudly in despair
It sought to nourish fears
The shadows did create
Searching everywhere to find
It’s soul-less night-time mate.
Moonbeam light kissed the Night
Claiming shadows as their child
Together then in lock-step
They bent on running wild
And there, where he awaited
Their cold inspiring touch
With doctrines of all Evils
Firmly in his clutch
The blackness in his heart,
Thumping ‘neath his frock
Soon it’s rancid maladies
The Wind would there unlock
Thoughts of what’s to come
Then twisted lips to smile
Revealing stained and yellowed teeth
Trapping breath so rank and vile
‘twas then The Prince of Avarice
Rose and stood erect
The world would soon be his
To ravage and infect
His eyes of snake, both bespake
Behind their reptile lids
The embrace of the doctrine
For no Evils it forbids
The Wind increased its’ howling
Icy fingers pushing fro
Arranging fallen hopes
Into a dead rouleau
And you and I so un-suspect
Of pending alchemy
Believing we were safe inside
Cocoons of normalcy.
Our naiveté so firmly grasped
Caused us to belie
The chaos we knew not …
‘twas there, and drawing nigh
As Wind fingers touched him
He yelled out his decree:
“ The Prince of Avarice shall reign
And destroy Democracy!”
His school of ghouls, dunce and fools
Clamored to his side
Greed having won the day
Was about to take It’s ride!
Greed, first blessed the banks
And Wall Street did rejoice
The Prince of Avarice then silenced
All protestor ‘s voice
With lies and propaganda
All fabricated well
Then all the bankers rang
The borrowers death knell
Morgan Stanley, AGI,
Then ‘twas Goldman-Sachs
Raking in what Greed gave out:
Billions in green-backs.
Glutted bankers,
Through laughter Greed had honed
Uncaringly showed the world
A prediction - their prodrome
Of broken dreams, foreclosure schemes
Insuring that which failed
But jobs the cost, as homes were lost
And not a banker jailed.