Best Streetlamps Poems
I've somehow pondered about the
rush of air
of how I could be lulled on billows, and
yet,
its notes upon my flesh eludes me--
as if in midnight trailing, weeping in refrains
this cadence glides beyond
streetlamps
on to my litanies, my expectations, my
tears
until I'm drenched by a melody ambient
as the sound of breeze.
Like a rain-child born in January
with taps in my veins, I become
a listener of seasons' tingling tunes
which inhabit my thoughts : and to
know my heart's kept secrets are
cuddled through this rhythmic hisses,
arias of both my dark and lustrous hours.
Now I trace the reel of fleeting memories dating from youth to mid- adult...this old wind chime wrapped in chrome
and antique stones fondle
timeless music whipped by storms,
rhapsodies, deaths of my
life...a hanging rune delivering me
from all I must bear--
though owned by Mom's as a hoard or collection, it was my precious harbinger:
but it echoes no more
in spaces where I loved, and still
need to love back...
Gazing at this chime of four decades drifting gently on the room knob, it has
become mute, aged... but cared for like a most treasured keepsake.
Life, as a pseudonym,
Drags its shadow's shadow, which snarls
Itself around traffic cones and
Streetlamps, tearing at its skin
With deliberate intimacy
To alarm light witnessed
Only through strained peripheral vision.
A lace-stitched veil
Slips through sidewalk cracks,
Unisolated windows,
Cataract smooth eyes.
The flesh of the matter invades
Such as the Red Death
In living color--Vibrant
Cadavers speak the language of Love:
Mortality;
It slides over possessive nouns, sticky
As salivation,
Push and rattle and harbor themselves against
Warm, wet cavities eroded
In the backside of actualities
Sweet Tooth.
Authentic miasma, honest illness.
Any footprints discarded in covers of dust
In which Fear has been recognized
Yield into thoughts by persuasion
Of waves.
Peering out my bedroom window,
alarm clock's beeping time away.
although the hour's ticking on
time has stopped; forever gone...
a burning torch has lit the sky
field mice toil through cedar pine
a parrot tidies up her nest
hatchlings clamor at her breast.
In my mind, I've drifted off
to places where "old" time can't go.
I daydream here and stay a spell
however long, I could not tell...
enshrouded in a cloud of dust,
streetlamps warm sand flies.
rain clouds slip behind the moon.
tree frogs croak in tune.
I can't remember where I went
or how long I'd been gone.
but here, I'll linger knowing I'm
just fond of wasting time...
Some parts of this city I should not go
too few streetlamps dampened, wobbly wet walls.
These are those parts that one ought not to know
perfect settings where dark danger befalls.
My mind has morphed the city I knew
quickens my pace from sly shadows behind.
Now meeting people who I stare straight through
turning corners to streets I cannot find.
Not belonging here only feeds my fear
searching for a near nook, safe place to be.
Far from silent steps behind me I hear
striving eyes dart, hoping no one shall see.
Tell me why, did I, venture out this day
prime pulses pounding, one hastens away.
Colored Pencil Illustration by G. Gaul
8/26/21
From Harlem's pulse, a symphony untold,
Stories etched in a brownstone, dreams unfold.
Streetlamps pierce the twilight, jazz ignites,
Hope flickers, a flame against the nights.
Laughter rings on stoops where neighbors meet,
Gospel choirs rise, voices strong and sweet.
Stony sidewalks hold a million strides,
Asphalt dreams where destiny confides.
Stars peek through the rooftops, reaching high,
A silent promise whispered to the sky.
From Harlem's struggle, a spirit takes flight,
Soaring upwards, bathed in heavenly light.
2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 7 Poetry Contest// Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Contest Judged: 8/15/2025 5:31:00 PM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 10 , 2025
The morning fog low over the empty streets,
soft as a whispered promise.
My shoes slapped the pavement in steady rhythm--
each step a heartbeat counting the miles.
I had yet to run—and those I’d left behind.
Streetlamps stretched shadows across brick walls.
Long, crooked shapes that seemed to shiver.
A dog barked somewhere—
sharp, sudden—
and I remembered even echoes can run far.
I passed the river, silver in the first light,
leaves drifting like tiny paper boats
carrying laughter from summers I can’t hold anymore.
Each puddle mirrored my worn determination,
the uneven steps of a life I’m still figuring out.
At Mile Seven, my legs shake like a leaf
but my brain knocked around a long way—
to faces I love, faces I’ve lost,
half-light I trailed too heavily,
mornings I never perceived.
My hair was windblown.
Mixed with the scent of rain and earth
and the faint hope that keeps moving me further.
I ran—not for medals, not for applause,
but because every stride stitched the fragments
of life into something that felt whole.
When the horizon caught the light--
it wasn’t a line at all.
It was the journey itself—
miles abaft me, ingrained memories,
and the quiet truth.
I ran just find myself
and somehow--I did!
see
even the lights
they live
a bike skims the riverbank
fish leap, catch the sunlight
like bursts of laughter
above the morning water
noon. hot summer
children are learning to sing
golden shafts slip through
open church roofs
an empty stone bridge
people returning home, carrying
things. the ferries are lighting
up for the night tours
streetlamps oil lamps
along the paths and into homes
sky bursting, spilling stars
into every child’s dream
See
even the lights
They live.
2010.8.
-NOTICE-
I would love it if Soupers could give me some critical feedback. I don't even mind very very
strong critiques as long as they're constructive. I'm always encouraged by all the positive
comments you all give me, but I think it's time to upgrade my writing skills. ;) So come on
and take my poem to pieces, people! :D
Mighty rumble
epic shake
Fault lines cracking
it's a quake!
Swaying streetlamps
breaking glass
Sidewalks rolling
smell of gas
Bridges groaning
wires snap!
Cars are falling
in the gap
So many lives, now
down the river
Bodies floating
some still shiver
Buildings crushing
muffled cries
Mother's wailing
children die
Killer earthquake
terrifies...
Civic heroes
riding by
Doctors, nurses
wipe their brows
Broken femurs
fractured skulls
All the armor
put to test
Broken city
laid to rest
Heaps of rubble
laughter gone
Naught but trouble
Soldier on...
All our prayers
just a token
Mother Earth, has
boldly spoken!
Winter is on the tips of her fingers.
Winter is silver on her breath as she exhales,
oxygen stamped with her name, forgotten
as either one,
stiffening into smoke like her hair
against the twilight.
Her tears are winter on her face -
winter ice like her eyes when she can
force them open.
Winter is in her poinsettia smile,
wrinkles rising
while she remembers this scarf,
the first time she wore it,
that Christmas when he was there
to kiss her nose and give
her champaine-promise, stomach-flutter
feelings again and again
and see her eyelashes when they filled up
with snow
like pearls on a string.
Winter is turning,
a music-box key
in her throat as she feels her head
bowing of it's own accord from the sky
to the dirty grey slush of the sidewalk.
Winter stops her ears to people passing,
wondering at a very old woman in
a ratty old coat
and one
very red, frayed scrap of knitted cloth
bunched up in her claw fingers
like the blood in her veins,
becoming winter.
Winter hums christmas carols in her
heartbeat while she shudders
and sobs against the cold -
and silent night, the virgin birth
slowing into a winter evening
lit only by streetlamps.
She grasps blindly at the whisper
of pipe-smoke and familiar old
love when his ghost hits her
with a mistle-toe touch on her cheek.
She listens to the ice splinter,
cracking skin.
She wipes her face, trickling down
like the night to the street, hearing
the clock tick, all those
longing little chimes like winter
on her senses.
It's twelve-o-clock now.
She shuffles on.
What, No Butterflies?
Come walk with me in morning
When life is fresh and new,
When sunlight gilds the waking trees,
And grass brings forth the dew.
Accompany me at noontide
When the world is plainest seen,
And colors catch and hold the light
For ransom 'til the e'en.
Come and stroll in afternoon
When shadows stretch and creep,
And send the creatures of the day
Homeward for to sleep.
Be with me at eventide
When streetlamps flicker on,
When night and day walk hand in hand
And bells play evensong.
Come walk with me at midnight dark;
We'll brave the witching hour.
Together, we will not know fear,
Wrapt in love's sweet power.
03/Apr/2015
Darkness seems to grow so quickly
in the wooded garden of night.
Scattered breezes like fairy wings;
moonlight peeping towards the earth
dusting the trees in silhouette.
On the winds a few notes mingle
with far off laughter,delighted cries.
Sounds of happy dancing feet
can be heard in the distance,nearby too.
Lovers twirl under the streetlamps
while casting wishes upon the starry skies.
The night is tailor-made for passion.
Fears are forgotten,swept away.
Tribulations of the day merely embers now.
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - Parisienne Dream
and suddenly you've fallen through the seams
from very life, to stroll here by the Seine,
dropped from reality into my dreams
where you've loved me forever now and then.
You taste the fragrance of Parisienne night
and hear the distant singing all too clear,
it's just a dying nymph, in her delight,
one of the dead who knows her death is here.
Be as it may, your love tries not to speak,
as we enjoy the streetlamps' shadowings,
I press you to the stone and kiss your cheek,
and you can feel the sorrow midnight brings;
you echo words that concertina's say
only at night when love has lost her way.
My searching leads to parting of your hair,
as gentle hands reveal a neck too white,
and you can feel the pain, it lingers where;
I've set my teeth, and then you feel the bite,
and there I nurse, your suckling tiny child,
of blood and life, the nourishment I crave;
that keeps me seeking you, but drives me wild;
and makes me civilized, but mis-behave.
In your surprise, from seeking mortal sin,
expecting sex; this is no mere foreplay;
you go beyond the limits of the Seine,
to yet another dream that will not stay.
Your struggle to reality is brief,
and you succomb into my time of grief.
The draining of your love into my own
is secondary to the love you take,
you'll fall from here, back to the life you've known
and that's the choice you have, it's yours to make;
you'll waken in the night and you'll forget;
safe in your bed, your pensione's gloom,
but on your neck, the trace of blood and sweat
leads you to feel each shadow of your room.
Remembering the locking of our eyes,
that made you cross the line into the dead,
will make you cry, but never realize,
that where you've been lies hidden in your head.
Perhaps you'll meet a boy I cannot be,
but when he kisses you, you'll know it's me.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet aka Ron Wilson
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - Parisienne Dream
Quite suddenly you've fallen through the seams
from very life, to stroll here by the Seine,
dropped from reality into my dreams
where you've loved me forever now and then.
You taste the fragrance of Parisienne night
and hear the distant singing all too clear,
it's just a dying nymph, in her delight,
one of the dead who knows her death is here.
Be as it may, your love tries not to speak,
as we enjoy the streetlamps' shadowings,
I press you to the stone and kiss your cheek,
and you can feel the sorrow midnight brings;
you echo words that concertina's say
only at night when love has lost her way.
My searching leads to parting of your hair,
as gentle hands reveal a neck too white,
and you can feel the pain, it lingers where;
I've set my teeth, and then you feel the bite,
and there I nurse, your suckling tiny child,
of blood and life, the nourishment I crave;
that keeps me seeking you, but drives me wild;
and makes me civilized, but mis-behave.
In your surprise, your feigning now and then,,
expecting sex; this is no mere foreplay;
you go beyond the limits of the Seine,
to yet another dream that will not stay.
Your struggle to reality is brief,
and you succomb into my time of grief.
The draining of your love into my own
is secondary to the love you take,
you'll fall from here, back to the life you've known
and that's the choice you have, it's yours to make;
you'll waken in the night and you'll forget;
safe in your bed, your pensione's gloom,
but on your neck, the trace of blood and sweat
leads you to feel each shadow of your room.
Remembering the locking of our eyes,
that made you cross the line into the dead,
will make you cry, but never realize,
that where you've been lies hidden in your head.
One day, you'll meet a boy I cannot be,
but making love to him, you're making love to me.
© Ron Arbuthnot.
PARIS BLUES SINGER
Her voice is dreams, out through the fog and mist,
behind a concertina's mournful sound,
through halos made of light streetlamps have kissed
as Paris goes to sleep with dreams it's found.
She sounds as if her song will make her die,
there in the cabaret before she's done,
while patrons stare at her, and have to cry,
forgetting this, their night for having fun.
A man, in a pissoirre, out on the street,
has heard the song so many times before,
but still she makes him moan, and wet his feet,
that's why he must return, to hear some more.
There's lovers near the Seine, who've lived the songs,
and cannot ever shake them from their minds;
they keep each word of them where it belongs
hid deeply in a heart nobody finds.
A taxi driver, waiting for a fare,
finds little hope, but listens to each word,
he knows his life's not going anywhere,
just like the saddest song we've ever heard.
© Ron Arbuthnot
Seamless Breath
by Odin Roark
At sunrise,
Man-child of his heart,
Reaches past the years,
Washes little sleep down the drain,
Accepts the body once tight,
Combs the few strands still allegiant,
And uniforms the spirit
For today’s insistent strategy.
The street he walks
Presents new calendared thoughts
All in parade dress
Ready to forever advance
An abstract reality,
Where boots in lockstep
Accompany him beneath dim streetlamps
Of his insomnia.
Close by,
That place everyone calls infinity,
His aging self moves forward,
Fingering a few coins
In the playground-pockets of his youth,
Reminding him he can still pay his way,
He can remain part of…
Like so many other such days,
The breeze takes his hand,
Making lighter the books
He carries inside his head,
His secret Trojan Horse,
His means of entrance
To that place of voiceless teachers,
The forever windows without glass,
The blackboards erased clean
Of yesterday’s answers,
Anticipating today’s questions.
Such is the place he dreams each day with a smile,
Where eternity’s anima reveals the seamless breath of vision
Only visible with closed eyes.